Soarer's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Or was it a Reillie with Talents like his own?

  He didn’t want to move until he had some idea what he was facing, yet he knew that remaining where he was left him somewhat exposed, and he didn’t like either possibility.

  The faintest of sounds brought his head around, and he tried to strengthen his shields, but two shots hammered at them, throwing him back, and then something slammed through them, aided by the greenish feel of Talent. The missile—a crossbow quarrel—had struck his left shoulder, practically yanking him out of the saddle.

  The Reillie stepped from behind a fir less than ten yards away and deliberately lifted a rifle. Mykel managed to grab his rifle with his left hand and fire first, awkwardly and one-armed, willing the bullet straight into the tree directly behind the Reillie, since he had doubts about using Talent successfully directly on the Reillie.

  The insurgent pitched forward, a look of astonishment frozen on his face. Mykel fumbled his rifle back into the case and turned the roan back toward second squad. He could feel blood oozing out around the quarrel, and a dull throbbing.

  The thirty yards of riding felt like three hundred.

  “It’s the majer…”

  “Something got him.”

  “It’s a frigging iron quarrel.”

  Mykel was feeling light-headed by the time he reached the vanguard of the battalion. He was looking for Rhystan when he could feel himself lurching in the saddle. He tried to grasp the roan’s mane…

  45

  Dainyl slept well for the first part of the night, restlessly for the early morning glasses, and rose well before dawn. Even after taking his time to wash up, dress, and walk through the chill morning to the Hall of Justice, carrying a small amount of gear in a kit bag, it was still well before sunrise when he stepped onto the Table and dropped through its mirrored surface into the purpleness of the translation tube.

  As he Talent-linked with the blue locator that was Tempre, he was aware that he no longer even felt the chill of the tube and that he sensed fewer of the purplish streaks and flashes than he had the evening before.

  In the distance that might be immediately outside the tube or a continent away, he could still feel the amber-green that he had once thought to be a chain of massive Talent links.

  Then, he was through the silvered blue of the barrier at Tempre and…

  …standing on the Table in Tempre. He stepped down onto the polished floor stones.

  A young-looking recorder in green appeared from the hidden chamber, bowing. “Marshal Dainyl, sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re honored to see you here in Tempre. How might we help you?” The recorder’s eyes only met Dainyl’s for an instant.

  The recorder was not being evasive. Rather Dainyl could sense fear and great apprehension. Great apprehension? Who had told the recorder about him, and what had they said?

  He smiled. “I’m here to see Captain Lyzetta of the Myrmidons. If there is any transportation—I’d prefer not to walk.”

  “Sir, I am most certain that the regional alector’s coach will be ready for you. He has already arrived this morning. He left word soon after he came to Tempre that you were to be accorded every courtesy.”

  The recorder meant what he said. That bothered Dainyl more than the alector’s fear. “That is kind of him. I have to confess I don’t know the new RA.”

  “Senior Alector Byrnat. He was appointed two weeks ago by Duarch Samist.”

  Dainyl thought he had heard the name, and that Byrnat had been some sort of special assistant to Samist, but he didn’t fully trust his memory. “He has served the Duarches well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With a last smile at the nervous recorder, Dainyl stepped through the doorway and into the outer corridor. He could not help but note the new oak door, reinforced with iron, and the freshly mortared stonework that replaced what had been destroyed in the fight over the Tempre Table weeks earlier.

  The two guards outside stiffened. “Sir.”

  “Carry on.” Dainyl made his way to the end of the corridor and up the stairs to the main level. From the southwest corner of the building he had come to know too well, he walked quickly along the wide west corridor toward the front and then around to the main entry hall.

  The few individual alectors and alectresses in the corridor all nodded respectfully—and gave him a wide berth.

  “…he the one?”

  “He’s the new marshal…you know…”

  Whatever they “knew,” Dainyl didn’t hear, but as the recorder had said, there was a coach waiting, and he was at the stone-walled compound—completed less than a year earlier for the now-disbanded and disavowed Alector’s Guard—in less than a quarter glass.

  The coach stopped outside the gates, where Dainyl stepped out. The sun was just rising over the top of the hills, and its long orangish white rays angled through the bare branches of the trees to the east of the compound.

  “Will you need me to wait, sir?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Dainyl walked through the open gates and into the courtyard, glancing around, and seeing two duty pteridons at the east end.

  “Marshal!”

  Dainyl turned to see Captain Lyzetta striding across the courtyard toward him. As she neared and then halted before him, Dainyl could clearly see the resemblance to her father. Although she did not have Khelaryt’s extreme height and breadth, she was almost as tall as Dainyl and broad-shouldered, with the strong features of the Duarch. Unlike her father, she moved with a fluid grace that disguised her size, rather than a muscularity that emphasized it.

  “Marshal, sir. You’re here early, even before muster.” Her eyes dropped to the gear he carried.

  “Matters compel it, Captain. How are you finding Tempre?”

  “Now that we’ve managed proper length beds for everyone, it’s quite comfortable. There’s far more space than we need.”

  “I’ve spent more time with your father, recently,” Dainyl began.

  “How is he?” Lyzetta’s words were guarded.

  “You can communicate with him now.”

  “Sir?”

  “He’s no longer shadowmatched.”

  Lyzetta paled. “Then it’s been decided?”

  “Decided, but not implemented. The Master Scepter will go to Efra. We don’t know when.”

  “He’s still…Duarch?”

  “Khelaryt is still far more Talented than any of the other High Alectors.”

  “More important, sir, so are you, and you stand behind him.”

  The words took Dainyl by surprise. “I do stand behind him, Captain, but you give me far too much credit, and too much Talent.”

  “I think not, sir.”

  “Be that as it may,” Dainyl went on quickly, seeing that his protests would avail him little in changing her mind, “we have a difficult situation. You knew about Blackstear?”

  “Only that First Company was dispatched there, and that was why Asyrk took squads to Elcien.”

  “A company of foot Myrmidons from Ifryn chanced the long translation. Two-thirds of them perished, but the remainder stormed the Table in Blackstear. The recorder killed several and escaped. We took the Table back. While we were doing that, another company took Soupat.” Dainyl paused and studied Lyzetta. While she seemed concerned, she was not shocked. “You anticipated this?”

  “Not exactly, sir. I did question the idea that Ifryn would die quietly, and that there would be an orderly series of translations to Efra and Acorus. Given the nature of alectors, even of steers, that seemed unlikely.” She shrugged. “What puzzled me was why so many waited so long. It seemed obvious that attempting the long translation before anyone truly worried about excess lifeforce use on Efra or Acorus would offer a better chance of survival.”

  Dainyl laughed, sharply and harshly. “The majority of people, especially those who are privileged, even in minor aspects of their lives, do not believe that the worst will befall them. When they learn that
the most successful possibility is perhaps one chance in two of surviving the long translation, they have a tendency to wait until it is clear that they have no other choices. Then…they have almost no chance unless they are among the chosen few.”

  “My father made that choice early. I think you would have, sir.”

  “I have not been faced with such a choice, and until one is, it’s difficult to judge how I or anyone might react. Remember, too, that such choices affect all the ones you love. Will your husband or wife survive? Will the children? How will you react if told that one of you will die immediately on a long translation?”

  “You’ve thought much about this.”

  Not so much as I should have. “Enough to know that it’s not simple.” He cleared his throat. “About the mission…so long as these insurgents hold the Table, they will accept unlimited numbers of refugees, too many, even within weeks. We cannot shut down the Table without taking the Table building. With the numbers they already have, we could suffer prohibitively high casualties attempting to storm the structure. Oh…there’s also a Cadmian battalion there, and I don’t want them close to what’s happening.”

  “I can see that, sir.”

  Many Myrmidons wouldn’t have, Dainyl knew. “Our strategy is simple enough. It has two facets. First, use enough blasting powder and heavy boulders to bring the Table building down on the Soupat Table. Second, destroy any rebel or refugee alectors we find.”

  “Sir? Our strategy?”

  “I’m coming with you. Submarshal Alcyna will be bringing three squads from First Company and will join us within a day or so, but they’re still in Blackstear. I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”

  “Won’t we destroy the Table as well?”

  “According to the recorders, there’s a good chance we won’t, but if we do, we do. We’ll need the Myrmidons more and more in the weeks ahead. How soon will you be ready?”

  “We should be able to manage in a glass, sir. Do you want the duty dispatch flier to fly with us or do the run to Salcer, Ludar, and then to Elcien?”

  “This takes precedence over routine dispatches.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The other aspect of this mission is that no one else besides yourself in Seventh Company should learn that the invaders are Ifryn Myrmidons. Only tell them that they are invaders from Ifryn who will threaten the very existence of Acorus if they are not stopped. Should anything occur to me, you are not to discuss it with anyone else except Submarshal Alcyna, the High Alector of Justice, or the Duarch of Elcien.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dainyl forced a smile. “I will need to fly with someone.”

  “We can manage that, sir.”

  Dainyl had no doubts that Lyzetta could manage a great deal more—and that she would have to in the days ahead.

  46

  Mykel could hear the faint squeaking of the wagon wheels. The noise was almost welcome as a distraction from the burning in his shoulder. His eyes did not seem to want to open, but he persisted in trying until he could see—hazily—that he was lying on a pallet looking up at the canvas of one of the supply wagons. As smooth as the high road was, the slightest of jolts sent waves of agony through him.

  As he dropped into darkness again, his eyes closing against his will, his fading thought was that even a crossbow bolt shouldn’t have been that bad.

  The heat and agony came and went. At times, he dropped into darkness where he felt nothing, only to find himself back in fire and pain.

  Finally, he managed to succeed in opening his eyes once more. From what he saw—the grayish walls, and the narrow window—Mykel thought he was on the bed in the senior officers’ quarters in Iron Stem.

  “What day…?”

  “He’s awake…Get the captain…”

  Mykel closed his eyes for a moment. At least, he thought it was a moment before he opened them.

  Rhystan was sitting on a stool beside him. “Majer…”

  “I know,” Mykel replied, aware of the raspiness in his voice. “I…shouldn’t have been leading from the front. I shouldn’t be doing scouting…”

  “No…you shouldn’t, and you won’t be for a while. You shouldn’t even be alive, let alone talking. The healer had to cut the frigging quarrel out of you.”

  “That’s why it hurts…”

  “She said she tried not to cut too much muscle, but it’s going to be a long time before you use a sabre. There was also something on the bolt.”

  With all the fever and pain he’d felt, Mykel didn’t need to hear more about that. “The Reillies?”

  “They took off, didn’t even look back.”

  “Good. You must have handled…the battalion well…”

  Rhystan snorted. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. When you rode out of the trees with that thing sticking out of you…someone yelled, and they hightailed it off.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They headed west. They’re camped ten vingts beyond Wesrigg.”

  “…doesn’t make sense…”

  “It didn’t seem to. Not until I sent out some of the scouts to talk to people—and I had one take the golds to that innkeeper. I thought he might say something.”

  “Did he?”

  “Not much.” Rhystan grinned. “He asked if you were still alive. When Meurgelt said that you were, and that you would recover, he got real quiet.”

  “I’m glad you’re…confident.”

  “Someone has to be.” Rhystan’s smile dropped away. “It seems that you killed the Reillie who shot you, and that he was the local commander or battleleader or whatever, and now they have to go through some sort of ritual to select another. It’s likely to take a few weeks. That’s the good news.”

  “And?” Mykel was still feeling light-headed, but he knew Rhystan well enough to know that there was more.

  “The first duty of the new leader is to avenge the death of the old one.”

  “That’s not so bad,” suggested Mykel. “We won’t have to chase them.”

  “You haven’t heard it all, Majer. The man you killed was a Reillie. The Squawts and Reillies may sometimes fight among themselves, but they like outsiders less, and there’s a good chance all the Squawts will join the Reillies in attacking us. So far, only a handful have been with the Reillies.”

  “…have to take more time,” murmured Mykel.

  “Another few weeks, at most, enough to gather another thousand men, women, and youths.”

  Mykel had to wonder why, but he didn’t feel like asking.

  Rhystan went on inexorably. “It seems that by attacking their battleleader, man-to-man, you threatened something. No one wants to say what it might be, and maybe they don’t know, but you’ve apparently gotten them to agree on something for the first time in centuries.”

  “…problem is,” said Mykel, forcing himself to articulate as clearly as he could, “what they’re agreeing on is getting rid of the Cadmians.”

  “And you, Majer.”

  “I’d better heal quickly, then,” Mykel said with a cheerfulness he scarcely felt.

  47

  Less than ten vingts north of Soupat, the air a thousand yards above the rolling desert hills was warm, verging on hot and uncomfortable—even in early winter. From the second harness behind Alynt, one of the younger rankers in Seventh Company, Dainyl studied the valley ahead.

  The eternastone of the high road glistened like silvered water in the late afternoon sunlight, a shimmering markerstick running due south toward an irregular oval of green—the oasis that sustained Soupat and made possible the tin and copper mines, as well as the goldenstone quarries. In addition, Soupat provided a central gathering and distribution point for the desert nuts, so highly valued by the landers and indigens. Dainyl found the nuts filling, but not that delectable, but if landers wanted to pay exorbitant amounts for them, that was their business.

  As the two squads of Seventh Company flew closer to Soupat, he saw that the solid green he’d seen ea
rlier was but an illusion created by the spreading foliage of the iliaki trees that lined every street and lane clustered around the central spring, now walled and contained in goldenstone marble. Despite their lush appearance from the air, Dainyl could remember the one time he had touched one of the triangular leaves and come away with a slash across his fingers. The leaves were more like razor-edged flexible glass than the leaves of trees of oaks or apricots—or even the dried needles of pines or firs. Tough as the trees were, they still required some minimal water, and there was not even that more than a vingt away from the natural springs in the center of the oasis. Grass was sparse, tan most of the year, and tough.

  “That must be Soupat, sir,” Alynt called back.

  “That it is,” returned Dainyl. “The alector’s complex is on the northwest edge.” He looked for the three buildings that sat on a low flat rise less than a half vingt from where the iliaki trees ended. “We’ll be avoiding that for now.”

  Lyzetta began to lose altitude, angling down and eastward, well away from the three alectors’ buildings and toward the small local patroller station on the southeast side of Soupat, beyond the fringe of the tree line.

  “Lances ready!” came her order.

  Alynt’s lance was out with the others. Without a lance, Dainyl concentrated on raising and holding Talent shields around them.

  The patroller station consisted of two small buildings, one a barrackslike structure and the other a stable, separated by twenty yards, with a flat expanse of reddish sandstone to the east, intermittently covered with knee-high dunes of fine sand, and a low hill to the northwest, barely more than ten yards high, just enough so that the alector’s complex was most likely out of sight for anyone at the patroller station. Dainyl couldn’t help but wonder if the location had been a subtle statement of lander defiance.

  As the pteridons began to descend, a single patroller rushed out of the barracks, rifle in hand. When he caught sight of the pteridons—and the Myrmidons with their lances—he lowered his rifle and watched as the pteridons began to land on the sand-strewn flat. Two remained circling, acting as scouts and surveying the area.