Brilliant, stunning light flashed across the conference table in a solid bar of lightning. The lightning spell was almost silent, compared to the thunderclap a fireball spell would have produced, but it hammered into Traygan with brutal force, and the Voice flew backward, outlined in a dazzling corona of energy, until he slammed into the trunk of a tree ten feet behind him. He hit with bone-shattering force, but it scarcely mattered; he was dead before he smashed into it.
Two more of Arthag's troopers were caught in the fringes of the spell, and both of them were just as dead as Traygan before they hit the ground. Chan Baskay was just far enough away to be unharmed, but the near-silent concussion of arcane energy sweeping out from the spell's impact point was like being hit with a club.
Rithmar Skirvon was almost as stunned as chan Baskay. Unlike the Ternathian, he'd known what was coming, but the actual moment had managed to surprise him, as well. He jerked back from the conference table as the spell's violence hit him in the face like fist. Although the plan had been at least partly his own, it was the first time he'd ever even seen a combat spell used, far less been this close to its point of impact. He'd tried to prepare himself ahead of time for what it would be like, but he'd failed.
Had his brain been up to the task, he would have been astounded by how quiet it was. Surely nothing that violent, that powerful, could make so little noise! "Quiet" wasn't the same thing as "gentle," however
– not by a long shot-and his ears rang, his eyes watered, and he felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. Yet even so, he knew the most critical part of the mission had succeeded perfectly. They'd managed to identify Simrath's "Voice," and Neshok's eavesdropping recon crystals had overheard enough conversations at the swamp portal to know that the dark-skinned Traygan was the only Voice Simrath and chan Tesh had between them. Which meant there was no way now for chan Tesh-or Simrath-to warn anyone else of what was about to happen.
Tharian Narshu felt an intense satisfaction as his target went down. Later, he knew, it might be different.
The only difference between this and an act of murder, after all, was that he'd been ordered to do it by his superiors. But any regrets were going to have to wait unti-
Hulmok Arthag's right hand had started to move one thin fraction of a second after Narshu's. The H amp;W
single-action revolver came out of its holster while the daggerstone was rising into position. The hammer came back as the muzzle rose, and the pistol's bellow was the thunderclap of the daggerstone's lightning.
Tharian Narshu's head exploded under the sledgehammer impact of the hollow-nosed .46 caliber bullet, and pulverized bone, blood, and tissue sprayed over Rithmar Skirvon as a stunning cascade of violence swept the clearing.
Narshu's Special Operations troopers had been fully briefed. They were primed, waiting only for their commander's attack on the Sharonians' Voice as the signal for their own attacks. Like Narshu himself, they had recognized the tough professionalism of their Sharonian counterparts. But, also like Narshu, they'd known the Sharonians had no way of detecting a daggerstone, no way of guessing what was coming.
Unfortunately, they'd had no way of recognizing Hulmok Arthag's Talent.
Sword Laresk and his men had been focused on Narshu, watching him, waiting for his attack, but Hulmok Arthag's men had been watching him. The instant his gunhand began to move, theirs did the same.
Skirvon was just beginning to realize Narshu had succeeded in his primary mission when the entire world went mad about him. The sibilant hiss of daggerstone bolts was abruptly punctuated by the thunder of Sharonian revolvers. Men shouted in terrified surprise, others screamed in sudden agony, and Skirvon's head snapped around just in time to see the undischarged daggerstone fly from Sword Seltym Laresk's hand as Chief-Armsman Rayl chan Hathas' revolver bullet struck him just below the left armpit from a range of fifty-two inches. The heavy lead projectile, as big around as chan Hathas' little finger even before expansion, disintegrated a two-inch section of rib, drove straight through the Arcanan sword's heart and lungs, and blew a fist-sized hole out of his right side.
Three of Narshu's twelve Special Operations troopers managed to activate their daggerstones, but none of them got off more than a single spell. They'd ordered themselves to take their time, to avoid rushing those first, critical shots in order to make sure of their initial targets, because they'd expected to be the ones with the advantage of surprise, only to discover that their intended victims had been waiting for them all along. Thanks to Arthag's warning, his men were actually quicker off the mark, and the sudden, stunning reversal of advantage knocked even the highly trained and motivated SpecOp troopers back on their heels. Thirteen more Sharonians died in the short, cataclysmic exchange, but then every man of Laresk's squad was down and dead … along with nine of the other twelve Arcanan troopers who'd never had a hint of what was coming.
Skirvon started to lurch up from the conference table as he realized just how terribly wrong the plan had gone. He didn't know where he thought he was going to go, and it didn't matter. Even as he gripped the edge of the table to lever himself out of his chair, a pistol materialized in "Viscount Simrath's" hand from the shoulder holster Skirvon had never suspected was hidden under his civilian jacket. It was a much smaller weapon than the ones every single one of Hulmok Arthag's men had drawn, but the hollow eye of its muzzle gaped like a cavern as Skirvon abruptly found himself staring straight down it.
The Arcanan froze, mouth gaping open, and the gray eyes watching him over the revolver's sights were colder than sea ice.
"Sit back down."
Dorzon chan Baskay's voice was even icier than his eyes, and the .35 caliber Polshana in his hand was rock-steady. Skirvon stared at him for just an instant, then half-fell back into his seat.
The senior Arcanan diplomat's face was the color of cold, congealed gravy. His eyes were sick, stunned
– not by the carnage, but by who the victims had turned out to be. At that, he looked better than Uthik Dastiri. The younger diplomat simply sat there, jaw hanging, as if his brain flatly refused to accept what his eyes were reporting to him.
"If you move so much as an eyelash without my permission," chan Baskay continued in that same icicle of a voice, "I will shoot you squarely in the head. Is that understood?"
Skirvon only stared at him, and chan Baskay's thumb cocked the revolver's hammer. It wasn't necessary
– the Polshana was a double-action weapon-but it had the desired punctuating effect.
"I asked if that was understood," he said in a very soft voice that sounded bizarrely quiet and calm even to him in the wake of the unexpected thunder. He had no idea where that self-control-if that was what it was-was coming from, but whatever his voice sounded like, something in his expression had Skirvon nodding with sudden, spastic speed.
Chan Baskay gave him one more glance, then looked up as Chief-Armsman chan Hathas stepped up beside him.
"I've got these bastards, Platoon-Captain," the chief-armsman grated, covering the Arcanans with his heavier, longer-barreled H amp;W.
"Thank you, Chief."
Chan Baskay slid his pistol back into its holster and stood. He turned his back on the two Arcanan diplomats … and on the almost overwhelming temptation to simply shoot them out of hand. Everything around him was absolutely crystal-clear, yet all of it also seemed to be much further away than he knew it actually was. He glanced down at his hands and discovered that they were completely steady, despite the quivering tingles running through them. Then he drew a deep, cleansing breath before he looked at Arthag.
"How bad?" he asked.
"About as bad as it could have been," Arthag replied, sounding preposterously matter-of-fact to chan Baskay. Then the Arpathian gave his head a little twitch. "Actually, that's not really true. We could all be dead. Short of that, however, I don't see how it could be much worse."
Chan Baskay looked past him to Rokam Traygan's contorted, broken body. The dead Voice's face was twisted in
a final grimace of agony, and chan Baskay swallowed the foulest curse he could think of as he saw Chief-Armsman chan Treskin's body ten yards from Traygan's.
"How did they know?" the Ternathian officer demanded in a crushed-gravel voice. "How could they know to kill both of them?"
"I don't know. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure they did know," Arthag said.
"They must have. They went for Rokam first. That means he was their primary target all along. And that means they must have realized not only that he was a Voice, but what a Voice could do, in the first place."
"Maybe. No," Arthag shook his head, "not 'maybe.' You're right about him, at least. But chan Treskin wasn't even the intended target of the … whatever the hells it was they used. He just caught the very fringe of one of those blasts, and the bastard who killed him was already going down when he fired. I think it was simply a wild shot that just happened to take him out."
Chan Baskay gazed at the Arpathian for a moment, then shook his own head. Not in disagreement, but to clear it. They still didn't know how long Shaylar had lived after she was wounded, but obviously it had been long enough for the Arcanans to have learned at least a little about Talents and how they worked. It was the only way they could have realized just how vital the Voices were, and they obviously had. On the other hand, if Arthag was right about what had happened to chan Treskin, then the Arcanans hadn't realized how important the Flicker was. It was only sheer, incredibly bad luck that they'd gotten him, too.
Not that it mattered.
"We can't tell Company-Captain chan Tesh or Company-Captain Halifu about this." Chan Baskay knew he was stating the obvious. "So, the question is, what do we do?"
"They didn't just do this on the spur of the moment," Arthag replied. "And you're right, they obviously hit us first because we were the communications link between Company-Captain chan Tesh and New Uromath. I'm guessing they were pretty confident they could get us all, but I doubt they would have bet everything they had on that, however confident they felt."
"Which means they're going to be hitting chan Tesh anytime now, assuming they haven't already," chan Baskay agreed harshly. He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead as if to clear away the last lingering cobwebs of shock while he thought furiously. Then he looked at Arthag once more.
"If they've planned this as carefully as I think they have, they probably allowed for the possibility that at least some of us might get away. From where I stand, that means they probably figure they can get here before any of us could reach Halifu."
"How?" Arthag's question was genuine, not a challenge, and chan Baskay shrugged.
"I don't have the least damned idea," he admitted. "Given what we've seen of their boats, and what they just did here, though," he waved one arm at the carnage sprawled about them, "I'm not going to assume they can't do it. Gods, man! If they can make conference tables float, maybe they can conjure up flying carpets for their people, too! Until I know different, I'm certainly not going to say they can't, at any rate."
"Me neither." Arthag tapped two fingers on his chin for a moment. Then it was his turn to shrug.
"I'll get the troops saddled up," he said.
"Good. And while you're doing that," chan Baskay's smile was razor-thin and cruel, "I'll just have a little chat with our guests."
Skirvon wrenched his eyes away from the revolver in Chief-Armsman chan Hathas' hand as Viscount Simrath waded back across the clearing through the deep leaves. The Ternathian's expression was no more comforting than the gaping bore of Hathas' revolver.
"So, Master Skirvon," he said in a voice fit to freeze the very air about him, "this is Arcana's idea of talking instead of shooting."
Skirvon kept his mouth shut. His belly was a frozen knot, and he swallowed convulsively, again and again. Somehow, despite everything, he'd never imagined anything like this. He'd been far too focused on what was going to happen to the Sharonians to consider what would happen if the carefully orchestrated plan failed.
"Not so talkative now, I see," Viscount Simrath observed. "I think, however, that you might want to reconsider that, Master Skirvon. In fact, I think what you really want to do is tell me exactly what's happening."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Skirvon managed to get out. "I had no idea Narshu was going to do anything like this!"
"Trekar?" Simrath glanced at the other apparent civilian standing beside him, and Trekar chan Rothag shook his head.
"That was a lie," the viscount said flatly, turning back to Skirvon. "Not that I really needed Trekar to confirm that. However, perhaps I should warn you that Trekar is what we call a 'Sifter'. You obviously know more than you wanted us to realize you do about our Talents. Well, Trekar's Talent is that he can always tell when someone is lying. I would strongly advise you not to lie again."
"Or what?" Uthik Dastiri asked. The Manisthuan had apparently recovered the ability to speak, although Skirvon wasn't at all certain that that was a good thing. He might be speaking again, but his eyes were still only half-focused and his expression was belligerent, and Skirvon recognized his associate's anger with a sudden, sinking sensation. Dastiri's temper had always been too close to the surface for a professional diplomat. Now his sense of shocked disbelief had transformed itself into unreasoning rage, and his hands twitched at his sides as he glared at Simrath.
The viscount seemed singularly impervious to his anger.
"You've systematically lied to us," the Ternathian said, and his eyes were far colder-and far more lethal
– than Dastiri's. "You've violated the truce between us and killed our soldiers. No doubt, you intended to kill or capture Trekar and myself, as well. In short, you're guilty of premeditated murder, and the penalty for that is death."
"You wouldn't dare!" Dastiri shot back.
"I wouldn't?" Simrath repeated in a deadly calm voice.
"We're diplomats," Dastiri said. "Even barbarians like you ought to understand what that means!
Besides, it's only a matter of time until our soldiers get here."
"Barbarians, are we?" Simrath's voice was very soft. "The sort of barbarians who massacre civilians, perhaps? Or who systematically lie when they claim to want a negotiated end to the violence? Or who commit murder under cover of their diplomatic status?"
"Uthik, shut up!" Skirvon said harshly.
"I won't!" Dastiri shot back. "This bastard thinks he can threaten us? Well, he's wrong!" He turned his glare on the Ternathian. "Go ahead," he sneered. "Tell us what you're going to do to us! Just remember, our soldiers are coming!"
"Really?" Something about the Ternathian's smile tightened Skirvon's belly muscles even further.
"I'm afraid you've been operating under a bit of a misapprehension, Master Dastiri," Simrath continued, reaching back into his jacket and withdrawing his revolver once more. "I really am Viscount Simrath, and I really am Emperor Zindel's accredited representative to these negotiations. But I'm also Platoon- Captain chan Baskay, Imperial Ternathian Army, on assignment to the Portal Authority Armed Forces.
And I'm afraid that at the moment, I'm feeling much more like Platoon-Captain chan Baskay and very little like a diplomat."
Skirvon swallowed again, harder, and chan Baskay smiled icily.
"Under Ternathian military law, Master Dastiri, I have full authority to conduct summary courts-martial in the field and to carry out their verdicts."
"You can't bluff me," Dastiri sneered. "Not even you could be stupid enough to think you could get away with murdering an Arcanan diplomat!"
"Perhaps not," chan Baskay conceded. "On the other hand, I am 'stupid enough' to execute a murdering piece of scum."
He raised his pistol hand, and despite himself, Dastiri's eyes widened as the Polshana's muzzle aligned itself with the bridge of his nose. Chan Baskay's free hand waved two troopers standing behind Dastiri out of the line of fire, and the Manisthuan's nerve seemed to waver for a moment as the cavalrymen stepped aside. But then his mouth tightened once again, and he g
lared back at chan Baskay, as if his momentary weakness had only made him even angrier.
"I would most earnestly advise you to give me a reason not to kill you," chan Baskay said.
"Fuck you!" Dastiri spat.
"Wrong answer," chan Baskay said, and squeezed the trigger.
The black hole which appeared in Dastiri's forehead wasn't all that big, actually, a corner of Skirvon's brain reflected. But the entire back of the younger man's skull disintegrated in an explosion of red, gray, and splintered white bone. The body was flung backward. It thudded to the ground, quivering slightly, and chan Baskay brought that deadly muzzle to bear on Skirvon's forehead.
"You have five minutes to convince me not to kill you," chan Baskay told him. "I'm sure you know the sorts of things I'd be interested in hearing. And, just as a reminder, don't forget that Trekar will know the first time you lie to me. And if you ever lie to me again, Master Skirvon, I'll be very, very unhappy with you. Is that clear?"
Chapter Three
Commander of Five Hundred Cerlohs Myr, CO of the First Provisional Talon, Arcanan Expeditionary Force, settled himself even more deeply into the cockpit hollowed out of Razorwing's neck scales. He felt the deep, subterranean rumble vibrating through the accelerating battle dragon, felt the prodigious power of Razorwing's sweeping pinions, and a matching flood of eagerness poured through him, for t here was nothing-nothing in all the universes mankind had ever explored-which could equal the sheer thrill of piloting a battle dragon into combat.
Not that anyone's had all that much combat experience over the last couple of centuries.
The thought flickered through the back corners of his brain as the air stream began to scream just above his head. Battle dragon pilots didn't use the saddles transport pilots favored. They rode their mounts in a prone position, strapped into their cockpits-the depressions which centuries of careful breeding had formed in the backs of their dragons' huge, scaly necks. Carefully sculpted scutes in front of that depression acted as baffles, protecting it and fairing the airflow. At a battle dragon's maximum speed, that airflow could severely injure any limb which strayed into it, but the curved scales bent it up and around, leaving the pilot in a pocket of absolutely calm air, like the eye of a hurricane.
Hell hath no fury / David Weber & Linda Evans. Page 6
