Soarer's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Trying to hold the shields, he Talent-reached for the ley node and the green Talent force that it held. Then, he could feel a well of Talent, and he focused it into a narrow line, directly at the light-rifle.

  The corridor exploded into light, so bright that Dainyl could see nothing. His eyes burned, then watered. Flashing points of light filled his field of vision. He blotted his eyes with the back of his hand, but that didn’t help much. The air around him was stifling, and there was an odor of ash and molten metal.

  After several moments, he still could not see, but his Talent-sense gave him a feel of the corridor. He was the only one in it. He took one careful step forward, and then another. By the time he neared the archway to the staircase, his eyes were providing a blurry picture. One side of the stone archway had been melted to the point that thin rivulets of stone had run down the wall and then cooled and hardened.

  Dainyl did not see or sense anyone on the stone stairs or on the landing at the top of the stairs. He started up, warily, but no one approached. The landing was empty, as was the corridor beyond.

  His eyesight had begun to improve, and he could also sense a greater concentration of Talent farther beyond, in the direction of the RA’s study. He stood for several moments, then moved down the corridor, unholstering both lightcutters and holding them ready. As easy as he tried to make his steps, he still felt his boots sounded like thunder on the redstone tiled floor.

  An alector guard peered out of a doorway ten yards ahead.

  Dainyl fired, and the alector dropped.

  The concentration of Talent ahead remained constant, and Dainyl sent out a Talent probe.

  “It’s an ancient!”

  Smiling mirthlessly at the exclamation that showed how little the speaker knew about the ancients, Dainyl continued his approach to the RA’s study. He could detect two sources of Talent within the outer foyer to the RA’s study. One was that of an alector, somehow partly shielded, and the other source was a lightcannon—but one without storage crystals. Dainyl stopped. He really would have preferred to sprint away from the lightcannon—really more like a roadcutter—that would suck lifeforce from the entire area. The shielded alector had to be an alector, possibly even an engineer—in one of the insulated suits.

  Dainyl stopped dead, carefully extending a Talent probe to the lightcannon. It would be hard for the alector in the suit to detect because Talent and lifeforce insulation worked both ways.

  The energy already stored for discharge was massive.

  Dainyl eased back a step, then another. There was no sense in trying to face something that obliterated rock walls scores of yards high and deep.

  “There he is!”

  With the words, a bolt of greenish blue slammed into his shields from behind.

  He concentrated, trying to hold his shields and at the same time attempting to use Talent to discharge energy from the lightcannon in a fashion that would destroy it while inflicting damage on everyone and anything but himself. The energy patterns had more than a few locks within the mechanism, and he was trying to manipulate them from more than ten yards away, strictly applying Talent.

  Another light-rifle bolt battered him, and the alector controlling the overpowered lightcannon began to wheel it forward to where it could fire at Dainyl.

  Dainyl realized he wasn’t going to have time to manipulate the lightcannon’s controls. He slammed a Talent blast into the control crystal, then dropped to the floor and contracted his shields, hoping he could protect himself—remembering to close his eyes.

  The entire stone structure shuddered. Light flared through his closed eyelids, and his body skidded across the redstone tiles back toward the stairs. Stones and other heavy objects slammed into his shields, and kept striking.

  For a moment, Dainyl lay stunned on the hard redstone tiles. Then he rolled over and staggered to his feet. The north end of the upper level of the RA’s building was gone, as was the entire roof. The south end was heaped with rubble.

  Dainyl could sense, through shields that were but a fraction of what they had been moments before, that a small circular area around where the lightcannon had been was lifeforce-dead. After a moment, he turned and made his way, half climbing over stone and wood rubble, toward the staircase that would get him lower and closer to the ley node below.

  Twice, on the way down the stairs, he nearly lost his balance on the stone chunks that half filled the staircase and nearly tumbled down. Beyond the bottom landing, the corridor leading back to the Table area was clear of rubble, but the walls were riddled with cracks, wide enough in several places to admit lines of sunlight.

  Then he heard voices ahead.

  “He’s still alive, just ahead…”

  “Should have killed him…”

  “Where’s the other lightcannon? Get it here!” The voice was unfamiliar, certainly not Brekylt’s. Might it be Quivaryt?

  “Hurry! We’ve almost got him.”

  “We can’t let him escape.”

  Why was there such urgency about that? Dainyl set that question aside and Talent-groped for the ley node below him. He hoped he could link because what shields he did have left wouldn’t stand against a lightcannon—or even one of the light-rifles.

  His Talent felt weak, limited.

  What about letting the green attract the green?

  As he tried to meld and create that necessary diffuse link, he added a sense of similarity…

  …and he dropped through the stone toward the blackish green of the ley node below.

  The ley web was cool, welcoming.

  Yet Dainyl couldn’t seem to locate the ley node that matched the crimson-gold of the locator for Dereka, and his entire body felt as though it were turning to ice.

  In desperation, he jabbed a Talent link at the Dereka locator…and slowly, glacially, it neared him. He toppled through the silvered barrier…

  …going to his knees on the Table. For a moment, he remained there on his knees.

  “Don’t fire! It’s the Highest! He’s hurt.”

  Dainyl eased himself to the side of the Table, getting his legs out from under himself. He sat on the edge, trying to recover some strength.

  Whelyne walked around the end of the Table. As she studied him more closely, her eyes widened, and her mouth opened. “Highest…what…?”

  “…Jonyst…around?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Tell him…that Brekylt has left Alustre…There are lightcannon and light-rifles in Dulka…and the ancients are massing some kind of green Talent force.” He forced a smile. “Do you think Guersa could take me to the RA’s quarters? I need some rest.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m certain she could.” Whelyne added, “Do you need help?”

  “Let’s see.” Dainyl stood, slowly. His knees felt wobbly, and his calves were weak, but he walked slowly to the archway out of the Table chamber and up the stairs into the spacious library. The afternoon sun poured into the room, giving it a sense of warmth.

  “I’ll walk down with you,” Whelyne said.

  “You don’t need to…”

  “If Jonyst found out I hadn’t, sir…”

  Dainyl understood that. He was also grateful for her presence.

  When he stepped out of the recorder’s building on the lower level where the coach waited, Dainyl could tell he wasn’t going to walk that much farther, not the way his legs alternated between feeling like jelly and as though they would seize up in cramps any moment.

  “Guersa…you’ll need to take the Highest to the RA’s quarters. He’s been in some sort of…battle.”

  Dainyl could sense that Whelyne had almost said a “Talent battle.”

  “I can do that.”

  Dainyl did take Whelyne’s arm and assistance to climb into the coach. “Thank you. You’ll tell Jonyst?”

  “I will, Highest. You need to get well.”

  For several moments after the coach pulled away and headed south on the main boulevard, Dainyl just sat on the hard bench seat o
f the coach. For the first time in his life, or at least in a long time, he realized, he’d faced an array of weapons that could kill him—regardless of the Talent of the alector who held them. What was worse was that Ruvryn and Brekylt—and Samist—seemed intent on manufacturing and distributing them widely. Didn’t they understand the implications? Or were a few years of power more important to them than the future of both indigens and alectors?

  He had recovered slightly—just slightly—by the time Guersa eased the coach to a halt outside Lystrana’s official quarters.

  He opened the door and stepped down as carefully as if he were an older alector close to losing all his lifeforce—and maybe he had come that close—then made his way to the doors.

  Fortunately, the house girl opened the door quickly.

  “Oh, Highest…she’s still at work.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve had a hard day, and I need some rest.”

  “Oh…yes, sir.” Jylena fumbled the ironwork door open.

  “Thank you.” Dainyl forced himself to smile politely as he entered. Then he walked along the inside hallway that seemed endless, slowly making his way to the bedchamber.

  He could only manage to remove his boots before the walls began to strobe and swirl around him. With the last of his strength he took two steps from the chair to the bed, half climbing, half falling onto it as his eyes closed and a blackish green swept over him.

  84

  In the orangish light preceding twilight, Mykel reined up outside the small shedlike barn, taking in the other outbuildings and the larger barn that would hold many of the men. He turned to Rhystan, who had ridden in beside him. “It’s not much, but it’s better than bivouacking in the open or in woods. After you get your companies set, we’ll meet here. By then, the last of the scouts should be back. If you’d pass the word to the other officers?”

  “We’ll do that.” Rhystan turned his mount, and he and Culeyt rode toward the barn.

  Rather than dismount immediately, Mykel made another tour of the area, looking and saying little. The main house was shuttered tight, and he couldn’t say he blamed the family.

  He rode past the provisions wagons, lined up on one side of the barn. The ammunition wagons were farther away, next to a shed, but a five-man guard was already on duty. Beyond the barn, the stock pond had ice around the edges, and a guard to keep Cadmians from using or defiling it. To the northeast of the stock pond, another hundred yards away, was the southwestern base of a low hill that rose a good fifteen yards above the rest of the holding. The upper section was bare black rock, almost polished-looking. Mykel studied it for a moment, thinking that it reminded him of something, but what it was he couldn’t say.

  He took his time with his survey, then rode back to the shed barn. After dismounting carefully, he tied the roan to a fence post. Although he could now use his right hand, he still could not lift his forearm, and the sling remained a necessity. By the time he had carried his saddle-bags and bedroll into the shed—one-handed—and found a corner that looked dry and less drafty, he heard voices. He walked back outside.

  Jasakyt and Coroden had dismounted and tied their mounts.

  “Afternoon, Majer,” offered Jasakyt, the Fifteenth Company scout.

  “Majer, sir.” Coroden inclined his head.

  Mykel could see others approaching—Rhystan and Loryalt on foot, Culeyt and the other two undercaptains riding, followed by three more scouts. He moved back in front of the shed and waited. Once they all were present, he cleared his throat. “Let’s have the scouts’ reports.”

  The first was Coroden from Fourteenth Company. He swallowed and began. “Most of the tracks lead down that lane that circles around the hill….”

  By the time all five scouts had reported, the sun had dropped below the tree-lined western horizon, and the northeast wind had picked up. Mykel fumbled his jacket closed. It appeared likely that the Reillies and Squawts were preparing to move first to the southwest and then intercept the Borlan road another ten vingts to the south. Their strategy looked to be direct and simple. Keep threatening Borlan and force Mykel to try to stop them so that they could attempt to kill him and destroy Third Battalion.

  As a Cadmian commander, Mykel couldn’t risk letting the hill barbarians loose on Borlan. “We’ll leave at dawn. We should be able to reach the hills to the north of the flats across the river from Borlan.”

  “Yes, sir.” That came from the three undercaptains. Rhystan and Culeyt only nodded.

  “That’s all for now,” Mykel went on. “I’m going to walk through the camp.”

  The scouts and undercaptains and Culeyt departed immediately.

  Rhystan waited, then turned to Mykel. “Do you think you can get them to fight us?”

  “Sooner or later. I’d prefer sooner, and we’ll have to make it costly for them.”

  “You already have, sir, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping them.”

  Mykel was well aware of that. From the latest reports, the Reillies had left close to four hundred on the field in three encounters, yet they were regrouping. From the two Cadmian battalions, thirty men had been killed outright in the second skirmish, with another ten dying later of wounds, and fifty wounded. “Some people can only accept things their way. They’d almost rather die than change.”

  “Almost?”

  Rhystan’s tone was wry, but Mykel could sense the deeper feelings behind it.

  “I know. I’m going to walk through the camp for a bit. Do you want to join me?”

  “It might be best if I didn’t, sir.”

  “Then I’ll see you later.” Mykel smiled and turned to his left. Less than ten yards toward the barn, he dodged a half-frozen hole that contained water and worse, heading for the closest company—Thirteenth Company.

  “Sir!” Dyarth stiffened as he saw Mykel.

  “I’m just looking around, Undercaptain. How are your wounded doing?”

  “We lost one, sir. The others look to make it.”

  “Good. Just keep up the good work.” Mykel offered a smile he hoped was encouraging and sympathetic, then moved on.

  As he neared the cookfires to the south of the main barn, the odor of wood smoke grew stronger. From the edge of Fourteenth Company, he could hear voices from a group of rankers.

  “…puts on his pants like everyone else, bleeds like us, too…”

  “…rode out of that forest with an iron bar through his chest…”

  “…dagger of the ancients…”

  Mykel managed not to wince. When he stepped away from the cookfires, in the growing darkness he looked toward the lone hill, a hill that seemed cloaked in a black and amber-green.

  …Learn what you must know…

  Were the soarers calling him?

  They always had a reason. He turned toward the hill, following an old and overgrown path. He glanced toward the holder’s dwelling, where the shutters remained tight, although a healthy line of smoke issued from the main chimney.

  The upper part of the hill was surrounded by a wooden plank fence, old enough that several of the planks had fallen and not been replaced. Likewise, the gate half hung from a single iron hinge. Mykel stepped around the gate and continued up the gentle slope of the path.

  The soarer hovered over bare black stone short of the highest point of the low hill, clearly waiting for Mykel.

  You have become more perceptive.

  “You summoned me.”

  Invited.

  Mykel received the impression of humor. He waited.

  What do you intend to do about the invaders?

  “What do you intend? It’s clear that you planned the attacks to destroy Fourth Battalion. Why? You said that we weren’t the problem, but the…the Ifrits were.”

  That is not quite true. They are the greater danger. They will destroy the world for all life, all but the lowest forms. But a herding dog who follows such an invader is also a danger.

  “So I’m a danger, now?”

  Not you. Not so far
. The one bound by the Talent of the Ifrits. We had him destroyed.

  That had to be Hersiod. “So why didn’t you just kill him and not all the innocent rankers and miners?”

  Not all of them were innocent. A single death would not have brought you here.

  Him? In some fashion, they’d created the carnage so that he would be sent? “How did you know they would send me?”

  They know you have Talent. Before they kill you, they wish to use you against us. If we kill you, then they risk nothing. If you weaken us, it costs them nothing. That is obvious. The soarer radiated bitter humor. They do not understand the choices they have forced.

  “Why are the Reillies so intent on destroying me?” Mykel thought he might as well ask.

  You have Talent. Only their high priest and his assistants may have Talent. You also support the Ifrits, and they have Talent. For the hill peoples, that is wrong. It is an affront to their god. It matters little that such a god does not exist.

  “What do you want of me?” And my Talent?

  ?????

  “You would not have invited me if you didn’t have some reason.”

  We have our reasons. We wish you to survive and return to the one to whom you are tied. That will benefit all the world. Avoid the Ifrits until you know that matters have changed greatly enough that they will no longer attempt to kill you.

  “That’s easy enough for you to say. You can soar and disappear into rock.”

  Have you ever tried?

  Mykel blinked. The soarer had vanished.

  After trying to locate the soarer with his Talent-aided senses, Mykel finally turned and began to walk down the path. The Reillies and the Squawts were out to kill him. The alectors were out to kill him, as Rachyla had said, once his usefulness was over. He had Talent. That he knew, but how to use it effectively was something he still had not mastered. And now the soarers were suggesting that he could soar and disappear into the rock.

  He stopped and concentrated on the ground beneath the hill, using his Talent.

  Somewhere beneath him lay a blackness, of the same sort he had sensed in Hyalt. That suggested the soarers used it, or drew on it, as a form of transport. He tried to reach it…somehow. For a moment, the sky seemed to swirl around him. He stumbled, then caught himself.