Alector's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Close to a hundred yards farther south, the scouts turned westward, heading up the long and gently sloping field alongside a fence whose weathered rails lay on the ground in as many places as they sagged between posts. Just before the hillcrest, the scouts rode across a downed section of the fence, through the low second growth bordering the field, and toward the older forest a quarter of a vingt away.

  Mykel kept listening, but the only sounds were those of mounts breathing, the swishing of branches pushed aside, and the intermittent cracking of broken branches under hoofs. When they reached the edge of the older growth, the scouts fell back closer to the main body, and the squads followed the more recent tracks toward the older campsite.

  He and the two squads were still a good hundred yards away from the clearing when a woman’s scream pierced the comparative stillness.

  “After me!” Mykel urged the chestnut forward as fast as he dared through irregular second-growth forest. “Rifles ready!”

  The screams and yells seemed to go on and on, and a handful of rifle shots echoed through the gray morning.

  When Mykel rode through the last low trees and reined up, he found riders in gray, some in shapeless rags, all facing toward the lane from the sawmill, around two handcarts.

  Among the yells, and shouts, he could hear several clearly.

  “… Cadmians are coming!”

  “Flee! Ride away!”

  Mykel glanced around him. Out of the ragtag array of riders, only a handful had even seen Mykel’s two squads. “Firing line! Ready!”

  Mykel never had a chance to offer surrender. The riders broke into two groups, clearly bent on escape.

  Crack! One of the troopers in the second squad slumped in his saddle.

  “Fire!” Mykel snapped, bringing his own weapon up and firing as he did.

  Crack! Crack! Crack! Fifteenth Company fired the first volley almost simultaneously.

  Something flew by Mykel’s head, but he sighted and fired again, watching but momentarily as an angular man in brown toppled from his saddle.

  Three of the riders, two of them with long spears, or makeshift lances, turned their mounts and charged toward Mykel, and the slight gap between the two squads. The captain kept firing, and one of those with a lance went down as his mount collapsed under him.

  Mykel finished the magazine. There was no time to reload as the second lancer bore down on him. Urging the chestnut forward, Mykel rode toward the rebel.

  At the last moment, he ducked under the lance, then swung the rifle across the man’s neck and jaw. There was a sickening crunch, and the rider swayed in the saddle, his eyes rolling back. The third rider had gone down as several of the rankers in squad two had concentrated their fire on the group.

  Mykel reined up and glanced down at his rifle. The barrel assembly was bent away from the stock behind the bolt. Rifles weren’t meant for use as swords or lances.

  He swung the mount back toward his squads, as much as to get out of the line of fire as to see if he could pick up a rifle.

  By the time he turned the chestnut and reined up, the skirmish was effectively over. There were two rebels still in the saddle. One was slumped over, holding the mane of the swaybacked mare he rode, and the other was trying to hold a shattered right arm in place with his left.

  Somewhere, he could hear a woman sobbing, and another cursing.

  “Cease fire!” The order was unnecessary, since there was no one left to fire at.

  “Reload!” he ordered as he rode toward the mount of the downed trooper. Vyschyl’s right eye was wide-open. A crossbow quarrel had gone through his left. Mykel’s lips tightened, as he eased the rifle from where it was wedged. “Re-form by squad!” He wiped the rifle clean and reloaded, ¦ although the magazine needed but two cartridges.

  “Gendsyr!”

  “One man injured, sir.”

  “Alendyr?”

  “One and one.”

  “Squad one, check for wounded, but be careful. Squad two, hold and stand ready.”

  Mykel rode slowly forward across the former campsite, letting the chestnut pick his way around the fallen raiders or rebels. His eyes surveyed those who had fallen. He saw two iron-tipped wooden lances, several old swords and sabres—and only a single rifle, Cadmian, of course. Mykel’s quick estimate of the dead raiders was around thirty.

  Bhoral waited for him on the lane side of the clearing.

  “There must have been women hiding here, sir. They were the ones who gave the alarm.”

  “I don’t know that it did them that much good.”

  “I did a quick count. I think we lost three on my squads, sir.”

  “One dead, two wounded, on mine,” replied Mykel.

  Four troopers dead. With only a handful of rifles among the rebels, there shouldn’t have been that many casualties, but he hadn’t thought that they wouldn’t even consider surrender.

  He took a deep breath. Nothing was going as anyone had planned or thought.

  “Let’s check their weapons and anything we can. Take care of our wounded. Let their women take any of their wounded.”

  “Sir?”

  “They got away while we were checking weapons,” Mykel said evenly. There wasn’t any way that the poor ragtag fugitives were part of an organized rebellion, not the way the retainers of Seltyr Ubarjyr had been. What was he going to do? Drag them back to Dramuria for flogging and death—for being poor? He’d already done enough.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bhoral didn’t approve. He and Majer Vaclyn would have agreed. Mykel turned his mount back toward first and second squads. He’d need to have the men gather enough in the way of useless weapons to support his decision, although he had his doubts that such evidence would count for much.

  Midmorning came and went before Fifteenth Company had gathered its own dead and wounded and searched the rebels’ bodies—discovering but a few coppers, no silvers, and nothing of value. There were four rifles among the weapons used by the dead men. Two were older models of Cadmian rifles, dating back at least twenty years, if not longer, and two were more recent. All were numbered. There were only half a score of cartridges. The remainder of the armaments were bows, ancient blades, and two crossbows with cables so frayed that Mykel would have been unwilling to wind and use them. The handful of raider rifles had taken three other troopers and wounded four more. Mykel doubted that one of the wounded Cadmians would live through the morning, not with the sucking wound in his chest.

  The tracks around the site suggested that perhaps two or three men had escaped on horseback, and possibly one or two on foot. The women who had brought provisions had left as silently as they had come, with their handcarts—and with the three survivors of what had been a massacre. Mykel had seen no reason to stop them. He hadn’t wanted to kill their husbands, brothers, and fathers—except that between his orders and their reactions, he and Fifteenth Company had been left with little choice.

  Bhoral rode up to where Mykel surveyed the skirmish site a last time. “We’re ready to go, sir. Chyndylt got a wagon for our wounded.”

  “We’ll go back the way you came, not through the town.”

  “Better that way,” the senior squad leader said.

  Neither way was better. One wasn’t as bad.

  36

  Mykel rode alone as Fifteenth Company started back to the makeshift base. He’d ordered the slaughter of men and boys—some hadn’t been as old as Viencet— because the majer had ordered him to capture them or kill them, and because none of them had wanted to be taken— probably to the mines. He wondered more about the conditions there, if no one would surrender.

  More important, what was he supposed to do now? He smiled wryly. According to his orders from the majer, he’d accomplished the job. He’d killed the poor rebels, almost every one. Of course, he didn’t see any of Third Battalion being used to search every seltyr’s and large grower’s estate, and that was where the largest number of rebels and weapons
had been found so far. But then, doing that would definitely have provoked a rebellion—if it were even feasible, given only five companies and more than a score of possible estates.

  He glanced to the north. The dawn haze had turned into thin clouds, with darker gray massing behind them. After another quarter glass of solitary riding, he turned in the saddle. “Bhoral? I’m going to take second squad into Jyoha when we reach the north end of the lane.”

  The senior squad leader’s brows wrinkled. “If you think so, sir.”

  “I’m worried, too,” Mykel said. “That’s why we’ll go there now. The longer we wait, the more likely someone will try more things like stakes in the road.”

  “Why do you want to go in at all, sir?”

  “So that I can report to Majer Vaclyn that we destroyed the rebels and that everything was quiet when we departed.”

  “Departed, sir?”

  “That’s right. You get the men ready. We’re riding out as soon as we can, back to Dramuria.”

  Bhoral cocked his head to the side, then nodded slowly. “Might be better that way, sir. For the men.”

  What the senior squad leader wasn’t saying directly, Mykel knew, was that it might not be better for one Captain Mykel. “I’m thinking about them, senior squad leader.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you.” Mykel raised his voice. “Second squad! Forward, along the left! Form on me!” He urged the chestnut forward, to open up distance between himself and first squad. Before long, Alendyr rode forward, at the head of his squad, and eased his mount up beside Mykel’s.

  “Sir?”

  “We’ll need to take a quick ride through Jyoha. Rifles ready the whole time. I may make a stop or two.”

  Unlike Bhoral, Alendyr nodded immediately. “Yes, sir. I can see that, sir.”

  No one spoke on the ride north to the turn, and the loudest sounds were those of hoofs on the road and the creaking of the wheels of the wagon carrying the wounded troopers.

  As Mykel had suspected, once they headed westward for Jyoha, all the dwellings bordering the road were shuttered, long before Alendyr ordered, “Rifles ready!”

  Not a soul was in sight. Even the main street of the village was empty.

  Mykel reined up in front of the chandlery. Instead of tying the chestnut, he handed the reins to the ranker in formation behind Alendyr. Then, rifle in hand, he crossed the porch, eyes searching, ears alert. He opened the door. From the counter at the rear of the shop, Harnyck looked up at the captain, then turned and walked out the door in the rear.

  Mykel nodded to himself. He could take anything, but fernyck would not sell it. He slowly surveyed the chan-llery, then turned and left—without touching anything. Dutside, he remounted the chestnut silently and turned his nount to continue farther into the village.

  His next stop was at the cooperage, not because he needed my barrels, but because it was the nearest shop that was not ;losed and shuttered. Once again, he handed the reins to a anker and made his way to the doorway, his rifle ready. 3ven before he stepped inside, he heard the rear door open. Fhe cooper’s shave lay on the bench, rocking back and forth.

  Mykel turned and remounted. Then he nodded to Al-aidyr. “Back to camp.”

  Usually, when there were unseen eyes on him, particularly in unfriendly places, Mykel was aware that he was being watched. On the ride back to the temporary base east of Fyoha, he did not sense anyone looking at him and second squad, and the lack of that feeling bothered him more than if he had felt hatred poured out at him, as had so often been the case with the Reillies in the north, when Third Battalion had driven them out of the Vales of Prosperity because of their raids on more productive holders.

  Bhoral was waiting, still mounted, in the open ground north of the barracks sheds. He held something.

  “You didn’t ride into any trouble?” asked Mykel.

  “No. Too quiet, if anything. What about you?”

  “No one in Jyoha will have anything to do with us. Chandler walked out of his shop when I came in. So did the cooper.”

  “We could take what we need,” pointed out the senior squad leader.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Mykel. “It’s better to return to Dramuria. What do you have there?”

  “Boy ran up and handed this to me,” Bhoral said. “Then he ran off.” He leaned forward in the saddle and extended the folded paper to the captain.

  Mykel took it and opened it. He read slowly.

  Captain—

  You can do whatever you wish in Jyoha. No one will lift a hand to stop you and your men. No one will talk to you. You can take goods, but no one will sell them. You may remain as long as you wish. I cannot accept golds or silvers or coppers. Nor can anyone so long as you and your company remain…

  Mykel snorted. He could have slaughtered the entire town for rebellion, he supposed, and Vaclyn might well have executed the leading crafters, but what good would that have done?

  He folded the missive and slipped it into his tunic. “Our landowner thinks our job is done and that we might best be chasing rebels elsewhere.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bhoral’s tone was level, with the lack of emotion that revealed great doubt about the veracity of his captain’s summary.

  “Let’s get on the road, Bhoral.” Mykel did his best to keep the resignation out of his voice. The majer wouldn’t understand, and Mykel wasn’t sure he could explain, but Jyoha needed to be left alone—for a long time, he thought.

  And they needed to get as far from Jyoha as they could before the rain started to fall.

  37

  Yet another two weeks had passed in Dra-muria, and Dainyl knew little more than he had earlier. His shoulder had healed, and a week before, he had sent off a dispatch to the marshal noting Fifteenth Company’s successful destruction of one rebel force and the capture of smuggled Cadmian rifles, as well as reporting that he and

  Falyna had been fired on and that the attackers had been destroyed. He had sent a copy to the High Alector of Justice, and kept one for his own personal records. He had not mentioned the ancient tunnel, since that would only have confused matters even more.

  From what Dainyl had seen, there was no real revolt in progress, just the normal dissatisfactions of landers and in-digens who thought that they should have more than the land and their labors had produced. According to the two Cadmian majers, there had been scant progress in rounding up rebels. The captain in Jyoha had earlier reported finding traces of raiders, but had not yet been successful in running them down—unless he had done so in the last few days. Yet neither majer had blundered enough for Dainyl to step in. He couldn’t very well overrule them and take over because he thought they were in the process of creating a mess.

  That the marshal and the Highest were involved hi some sort of machination was all too clear, but Dainyl had yet to figure out why and for what purpose, because neither would have hazarded their positions for anything trivial, and it made no sense for either to scheme to become Duarch, because the Duarch had to be loyalty-imprinted, and neither the marshal nor the Highest would want to lose that much personal freedom. It almost argued that they were acting on behalf of the Duarch, but Dainyl certainly couldn’t assume that. Nor could he assume otherwise.

  Then there was Lystrana. Alectors were not supposed to hold the romantic notions of the landers, but Dainyl had to admit he missed her, and not just for her intellect and judgment.

  He couldn’t do much about the plots in Elcien, but perhaps he could do better with the ancients. Although he’d sensed them—or one of them, the one with the feel of golden green Talent—almost daily for a time, on the three occasions he had flown out there they had vanished, with no traces, before he had arrived.

  On Quinti morning, well before dawn on a day that would be cold and clear—at least in the morning—Dainyl dressed carefully, with skintight undergarments he had not worn in years, designed for the times when he had flown dispatches to Blackstear and Northport, a
nd with heavier gloves and a cold weather flying cap. He fastened a waist pouch to his belt and an empty water bottle. He also checked the crystal storage of his sidearm. It was full.

  After an early and hearty breakfast in the officers’ mess, where he filled the bottle with ale, he made his way out to the courtyard to meet Quelyt. Falyna had yet to return from delivering Dainyl’s dispatch to the marshal in Elcien.

  “Good morning,” Dainyl said cheerfully. “Good time and weather for flying.”

  “This early… does that mean that you want to go back to that tunnel up on the peak?”

  “More than that,” replied Dainyl, with a rueful smile. “I want you to drop me off there and come back and get me up just before sunset. The air should be still by then, shouldn’t it?”

  “Usually, sir. But you can never tell.”

  “If it’s not, you’ll have to come back first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Hope we can get back this evening. Otherwise, it’ll be a long and cold night up there.” Quelyt laughed.

  “I’ve seen colder, but you’re right.”

  Quelyt adjusted the second saddle, then turned to the colonel. “Anytime, sir.”

  The pteridon lowered its shoulders and neck. The ranker eased into his harness and saddle, and Dainyl followed. There was almost no wind, and Dainyl could sense the extra Talent-draw it took the pteridon to get airborne. Still, before long, Dramuria lay beneath and behind them. In the chill gray air, with the glow of the sun barely touching the eastern horizon—the waters of the gulf between Dramur and Corus—the flight was smooth.

  Less than ten vingts from their destination, the sun burst into the morning sky, and the Murian Mountains stood etched against the darker silver-green sky to the west. Despite the chill on his face, Dainyl couldn’t help but smile at the beauty of the vista before him.