“How would you suggest we handle the sandwolves?”
“If you have to patrol, with lots of men throwing lead.”
“What else should I know?” Mykel asked. “Besides the fact that my predecessor was stupid, didn’t listen, and didn’t have the right equipment and tactics?”
Croyalt grinned once more, then stood. “That’s about it, Majer. Except that you still ought to leave well enough alone.”
Mykel stood as well. “The Marshal of Myrmidons ordered us here directly. That means I can’t very well leave, but I do appreciate your coming in.”
Croyalt nodded brusquely. “Don’t envy you, Majer. Not at all. Could be a long cold winter. Good day.” He stepped out of the study.
After Croyalt left, Mykel began to search through the file cases. It took him half a glass, but he finally found the record of the court-martial of Undercaptain Emolart, such as it was. Emolart had been charged with three counts of failure to carry out the orders of a superior officer, disrespect to a superior, and striking a senior officer. He’d been shot by a firing squad the night of the court-martial.
There was no transcript, and only a brief summary of the alleged events. After having known Majer Hersiod and almost suffering the same fate as Emolart, except at the hands of Majer Vaclyn, Mykel had no doubts that Croyalt had been basically accurate in his assessments.
Mykel replaced the files and closed the box. He just stood there and looked at the wall.
Why had the previous marshal wanted both Hersiod and Vaclyn to do stupid things? It was as if he’d wanted to destroy the effectiveness of the Cadmians. But for what reason? If Rachyla were right, that the Cadmians were the alectors’ sheep dogs, what purpose was served by destroying them?
Then, too, there were the outholders. They were breaking the Code with their heavier rifles. But Croyalt had been telling the truth about the sandwolves, and that meant that the outholders had been using heavy rifles against the sandwolves for generations—despite Hersiod’s report that the sandwolves were a “new” predator.
Had the alectors ignored the Code-breaking? Or had the outholders kept it secret? Had there been some sort of tacit agreement? Had the alectors decided to break that agreement, or had they only just discovered what the outholders had been doing? Given the Talent skills of the alectors and their Tables, Mykel doubted that the heavy rifles had been unknown to all alectors.
Then, there were the questions surrounding the miners. From what Mykel had discovered so far, over the past two years, the miners—mainly malcontents sentenced to terms in the iron and coal mines—had been forced to work longer and harder for reasons that no one had spelled out anywhere. More had died, so many that the survivors had risked death to try to change matters, except…if Croyalt happened to be correct, Hersiod had decided on his own to teach them a lesson. That didn’t make sense, either, because dead miners didn’t mine anything.
Uneasy as he had been before, Mykel was feeling even more so with every glass he spent in Iron Stem.
25
Midmorning on Londi found Dainyl in the Hall of Justice, sitting across the small table from the High Alector.
“I must say, Dainyl, that your handling of the Third Cadmian Battalion is masterful,” Zelyert observed with a broad smile. “You did not let them return to Elcien, but immediately dispatched them to Iron Stem. That way, there is far less chance of contamination once matters are resolved.”
“That seemed to make the most sense.” How much did Zelyert know? “I did worry about them realizing their effectiveness in dealing with the rebels in Tempre.”
“Shastylt would never have considered that. He had a tendency to underestimate all those below him—as you well know.”
“I’ve discovered that some of the Cadmian officers are quite resourceful,” Dainyl temporized. “That can resolve immediate difficulties, but…” He shrugged.
“Exactly. There is a balance involved. We need resourceful monitors to control the steers, but monitors who understand and accept that they are indeed our monitors, working under our guidance.” The High Alector of Justice smiled coolly. “What do you intend to do with Majer Mykel?”
“Nothing—not until I find out what really is happening in the Iron Valleys. He is most resourceful. Everything I have seen suggests that the ancients are planning something there. It is in his self-interest to oppose whatever they have in mind. I would prefer using him rather than hazarding Myrmidons, or removing them from Elcien, especially since there are indications of growing…mutual interest between Ruvryn, Brekylt, and the Duarch Samist.”
“Do you think Submarshal Noryan will follow you and Submarshal Alcyna, or High Alector Brekylt—in a case of divided loyalties, shall we say?”
“That will depend on the circumstances. Noryan is a very direct officer.”
“You know he is not who everyone thinks he is, yet you think he will oppose Brekylt?”
Not only had Dainyl never mentioned Majer Mykel’s abilities to Zelyert, but he had also never revealed Noryan’s false identity to anyone besides Lystrana except to Shastylt and Captain Sevasya. As Khelaryt’s daughter, Sevasya was highly unlikely to have told Zelyert, and Shastylt was dead. Although Dainyl couldn’t have verified it in any way, he doubted that Shastylt would have told Zelyert about Noryan. “I don’t know. Under certain circumstances, it might be possible.” Dainyl offered an ironic smile. “I’m not counting on such. That is one reason why Seventh Company has been relocated to Tempre.”
“That was another good move. It limits the scope of Brekylt’s possible influence.” Zelyert steepled his long fingers. “Still…I think you should give a full account of the latest developments to the Duarch directly. I’ve made arrangements for you to see him tomorrow morning, at the third glass of morning.”
Dainyl almost protested. Not that much had happened since he had last briefed the Duarch. “What else would you like me to convey?”
The High Alector offered a deep, warm, and rumbling chuckle. “Any reaction the Duarch might have, especially to the…positioning of Seventh Company.”
“If he has one, sir.”
“That will be a reaction as well. You might also mention that the number of attempted long translations from Ifryn is continuing to increase.”
Although Zelyert’s words suggested Dainyl had an option, it was clear that the High Alector wanted Dainyl to deliver the general news about the long translations before Zelyert provided actual numbers. That meant the increased numbers were very bad. “Should I know actual figures?”
“You continually amaze me, Dainyl. I don’t know whether that’s always good. No. You shouldn’t, and I won’t tell you. Khelaryt could read any deception on your part.”
With the amount of Talent the Duarch possessed, Dainyl knew that was certainly true.
“One other thing,” said Zelyert. “How long before the ancients act?”
Dainyl hadn’t the faintest idea, although it would not be that long, and would depend on the timing of the transfer of the Master Scepter. “I have no indication. You might have a better idea than I do.”
“They cannot know when the Scepter will be transferred. So…it is likely to be sometime after that.”
Dainyl nodded. “What will happen to the translation tubes to Ifryn?”
“The one linking the Master Scepter to the dual scepters will shift from Ifryn to Efra. The one between Efra and Ifryn will vanish.”
That made an unfortunate kind of sense.
“And…what will happen on Ifryn?”
“With the higher lifeforce dwindling, most alectors remaining there will soon die. The few that survive will wish they had not. The less intelligent indigens will revert to their sources. Other life on the world will survive, but it will not be fit for intelligence for eons, if ever.”
The thought of all the glorious cities on Ifryn standing as lifeless monuments, slowly decaying as even the lifeforce in the eternastone bled away, chilled Dainyl.
“We cannot dwel
l upon the past, Marshal. We can only build the future.”
But what kind of a future, and who was really building it?
“Yes, sir.” Dainyl smiled politely.
26
Under a cool noonday sun that filtered down through a hazy fall sky, Mykel rode westward along the narrow stock trail that arced gradually toward the southeast through the low rolling hills that held spiky bushes and intermittent clumps of irongrass. Undercaptain Loryalt rode beside him and Seventeenth Company behind them, with four scouts half a vingt ahead. For the past four days, he’d gone on patrols with various Third Battalion companies, without even a glimpse of the fearsome sandwolves. All he’d seen besides the livestock of the local inholders were the smaller local animals like the grayjays and the rodentlike scrats.
Mykel wondered if he should have spent more time at the garrison. But then, despite what Croyalt had said about there being no real problem outside of Iron Stem, Mykel had definite concerns about predators that had wiped out half a battalion.
As he rode, he was all too conscious of the massive ramparts of the Aerlal Plateau rising to the east, even more impressive when he considered that they were some thirty vingts away. A wall against the sunrise, he reflected, or perhaps one to hold back night. He’d heard how the stone cliffs rose some six thousand yards near-vertically, but hearing and seeing were two different things.
“Hate to try to climb those,” offered Loryalt, gesturing eastward.
“I don’t think you could, not if all the sides are that sheer.” Mykel stiffened in the saddle. He sensed something—a grayish violet and then a reddish violet that seemed to come and go—but what he felt came from behind the column. Were the sandwolves stalking the last squad?
“Rifles ready,” Mykel ordered, turning to Loryalt and adding in a lower voice, “You’re in command here. I’m heading to the rear of the column.”
“Rifles ready!” echoed the undercaptain. “Pass it back.” After a moment, he asked, “Do you know what kind of trouble?”
“Not yet.” Mykel turned the roan out to the right, avoiding the prickly-looking bushes whose lower shoots could rip through flesh and leather, and then began to ride back west, paralleling the column. He eased his rifle from the holder.
“Trouble…Majer’s got that look…”
“Rifle out, too.”
“Don’t see anything…”
Mykel was only halfway back along the column, passing third squad, when a dark form charged from what seemed open ground, yet Mykel had not seen it a moment before. His rifle was up, and he fired immediately, willing the shot toward the creature.
The sandwolf shuddered, and slowed, but only for a moment.
“Column halt! Fire at will!” Mykel followed his own orders with another shot, as did several of the rankers in fifth squad.
The creature collapsed less than a handful of yards from the last rider, but more than a score of the sandwolves appeared on both sides of the column, converging on fifth squad. Not only could he see them, but he could sense their gray-violet auras as clearly as he could the auras of either alectors or the rankers around him.
Even as Mykel aimed, and fired, aimed and fired, taking down one sandwolf, and then another, he could sense something else, the reddish violet auras, but those were coming from the front of the column. He could only hope that Loryalt could handle whatever menace had appeared there.
The short and continuous barrage of fire that had flowed from fourth and fifth squad died away as the remaining sandwolves broke off their attacks and then seemingly vanished. Mykel thought he had sensed one death, but for all he knew that could have been one of the sandwolves. He could see one trooper having an arm bound.
“Reload and keep a sharp eye out!” Mykel turned the roan and reloaded once more while he rode forward, back toward the head of the column.
Ahead of him, scattered shots continued for several moments before becoming intermittent and then ceasing.
Loryalt and first squad had ridden forward toward where the scouts had been. As he neared the undercaptain, Mykel saw two mounted scouts and two riderless horses ahead of Loryalt. When he had ridden within thirty yards of the scouts and Loryalt, he could make out two Cadmians sprawled on the sandy soil, one on each side of the trail. They were dead. Neither had an aura.
Mykel reined up beside Loryalt. “What happened?”
“I…I never saw anything like it, sir.” The undercaptain gestured to the unmoving forms. “Two creatures like stocky little men appeared out of the ground. Each of them dragged a trooper right off his mount. They held them for a moment, and then they vanished. I think the men are dead.”
“You’re right.” Mykel managed not to swallow. He’d seen the creatures before—in Dramur. He just hadn’t equated them with the sanders that Croyalt had mentioned.
“What were…those things, sir?”
“They’re called sanders. Outholder Croyalt warned me about them. They killed a lot of troopers in Fourth Battalion. He said they were best avoided. We didn’t seem to have that option today.” He paused. “Strap them over their saddles.”
“Yes, sir.” Loryalt turned. “Mysaelt, Sedryk…get them over their saddles.” He looked to Mykel.
“Once we deal with the casualties, we’ll follow the trail around to the northeast road back to Iron Stem,” Mykel said. “That’s quicker than retracing the way we came.”
“Sir? In the rear?”
“Oh…sandwolves. More than a score. I didn’t wait to learn casualties, but I got the impression that there were more wounds than fatalities.”
“There aren’t even any livestock near here.” Loryalt sounded almost aggrieved. “We didn’t attack anyone.”
“We’re interlopers,” Mykel pointed out. Both to the sandwolves and the outholders, he thought. “Get a report on casualties, and let’s get riding.”
“Yes, sir.” Loryalt turned his mount. “Company, order! Squad leaders, report!”
Mykel glanced out over the low rolling hills toward the plateau, then to the southeast along the stock trail.
Had the sanders set the sandwolves on the rear of the column to draw Mykel away? Or was that a coincidence? How smart were the manlike creatures? Or had both been directed by the soarers? But why? The soarer had as much as told him that the alectors were the enemy of landers and indigens and especially of the soarers. Cadmians weren’t an enemy of the soarers. So why had the soarers let the sanders attack the Cadmians? Or were there tame sanders and wild sanders?
27
Power as wielded by an alector comes in many different forms. There is the power of a weapon, a skylance or a lightcutter. There is the power of law, as enforced by the High Alectors of Justice. There is the power of structure, as demonstrated by the cities created and ruled by the Archon. There is the power of example, and the power of tradition.
Whatever the form of power, it can be used only in two fashions, either as a tool for creation or preservation or as a means of destruction. The forms of power can be employed constructively in a myriad of fashions, as all intelligent alectors should know, but the most dangerous and self-deceptive use of power consists of those instances where an alector employs power for the sole sake of demonstrating that power.
If a demonstration of power is required, then the alector who conducts or orders such a demonstration has already failed in the constructive use of power, or he is attempting to create an image of greater power to the end of instilling fear or greater respect from others. Those who are weaker will indeed bow to that demonstration of power—but only so long as they are weaker—and those who are more powerful will act to reduce the power of one who undertakes such a course.
Demonstrations of power are useless. A demonstration that does nothing constructive and is undertaken for display wastes lifeforce, energy, time, and resources. Better to plan a constructive use of resources that will herald power and accomplishment.
If destruction of an enemy is necessary, do so without warning. If such
is impossible, an alector should not posture, but bide his time until he can act. Posturing can only reveal weakness and invite contempt and attack….
Views of the Highest
Illustra
W.T. 1513
28
Sharua slowed the Myrmidon duty coach well before the team reached the entrance to the portico at the Duarch’s Palace, then brought the coach to a gentle halt opposite the passenger mounting blocks.
“Very smooth,” observed Dainyl as he stepped out.
“Thank you, sir. You’ll need me to wait for you?” asked Sharua, looking down from the driver’s seat.
“If you would, please. It shouldn’t be that long.” Dainyl hoped it wouldn’t, but he had no idea how many questions the Duarch might ask or where they might lead. He hoped that Khelaryt didn’t press him on the green shading to part of his aura.
“I’ll be waiting, sir.”
Dainyl strode past the columns of the portico and through the archway, past the two armed guards. Once more, the slender Bharyt stood waiting.
“Marshal, it’s good to see you.”
Dainyl thought the feeling behind the words was genuine, but in the Palace of the Duarch, who could tell? “You’re looking good, Bharyt.” He smiled. “You always are pleasant. Don’t you ever get tired of escorting alectors to see him?”
“Some days are longer than others, sir, but serving the Duarch is a pleasure.”
Bharyt meant that, also, and Dainyl hadn’t sensed any Talent restraints.
“We’d best go, sir.” Bharyt started down the hallway between the goldenstone marble columns.
Close to the end of the east wing corridor, Bharyt halted and knocked on the study door.
Soarer's Choice Page 15
