Next, he closed his eyes and focused his sense of feeling on himself, and what he was.
There was a greater amplitude, far greater, of the green, and no sense of the metallic, confirming his understanding that the green was tied to life. Had the soarers imbued the knife with the force of life itself?
From that, questions cascaded though this mind, and he pushed them aside for the moment, bringing his concentration back to the dagger and to himself. How could one damp out the very force of life itself?
One couldn’t, not without damping out life itself. That meant either changing the color he emanated from green to the colors that radiated from most others or finding some way to block—or shield—the energy. Would changing his color limit his talent? If so, he certainly didn’t wish that. He was having enough trouble surviving with his abilities. Trying to do so without them was something he wanted to try only as a very last resort.
But how could he create a shield?
What about something that turned back the glow? He tried to visualize such a barrier and then looked down. The greenish light that he sensed but did not see remained.
Could he combine the green with a darkness, a blackness, that resembled the aura of most men? This time, he attempted to weave together the black and green. He looked down, then chuckled softly. Why was he looking down? He wasn’t really “seeing” the glow, but sensing it. Yet his mind was interpreting the sensation as if he were, and what he sensed was more like a sieve of blackness through which streamed rays of green.
What about using the blackness to turn the green back?
That didn’t work, either.
For a time he stood in the darkness, once more thinking. The green was far stronger than anything black, and that meant it was the key. What about making the black a framework, but twisting the green back inward and weaving it together?
As he concentrated once more, he tried not to dwell on the manifestly illogical impossibility of what he was doing. After all, it was impossible for men to radiate a greenish glow that only alectors and a few men could sense.
His forehead beaded with pinpoints of sweat, and he felt warm all over, but the greenish glow was gone. He could sense it, but it was contained within himself, not radiating beyond him. He could also tell that it took a certain effort to maintain that shield.
He released the shield with a slow deep breath.
After several deep breaths and a time of resting, he rebuilt it. Doing so was easier the second time, and easier still the third time he did so. On the other hand, he was beginning to feel light-headed. He let go of the shield and sat down on the bedroll, his back against the rough and stained plaster of the wall.
He’d need practice—much more practice—before he felt comfortable with the shield. Still…he had figured out a way to keep himself from being noticed for a short period of time—at least from a distance. He had his doubts as to whether his shield would bear scrutiny if an alector were in the same chamber with him.
He felt tired, and sleepy. He had barely stretched out on the bedroll before his eyes closed. His last thought was that he hoped he didn’t have to rely on the glow-shield any time soon.
58
Despite his exhaustion from his efforts with the glow-shield, Mykel had slept uneasily and concealed a yawn as he rode beside Rhystan, out toward the new compound. Rhystan and Sixteenth Company would be working for a glass or so with the Hyalt companies in the area to the north of the compound before Rhystan took the Second Hyalt on patrol to the east later in the morning. Mykel would take the First Hyalt on patrol north on the high road. He wasn’t about to take them anywhere to the west. Seventeenth Company was on quarry duty, while Thirteenth Company was on patrol duty at the new compound. Fifteenth Company was patrolling the high road to the south and east of Hyalt. Fourteenth Company had light duty—at the old garrison.
“Been quiet lately,” observed Rhystan.
“I’d like it to stay that way.”
“You’re looking too worried for that, sir.”
“I probably am,” admitted Mykel, wondering once more if he really should be a battalion commander. “There are too many things that no one can explain.”
“Suoryt said you sent off two dispatches last week, at the same time, and you gave one of them to the alector on the sandox personally.”
“Can’t keep secrets among Cadmians.” Mykel smiled wryly. “I sent a copy of my report about the missing holders to the Submarshal of Myrmidons. There were some things at that stead that bothered me.”
Rhystan waited.
“Some of the burn marks were the same as the ones when the submarshal took out Vaclyn.” Mykel kept his voice low. “Those lightcutter sidearms are only issued to colonels and above, I’ve heard.”
“Could they have been pteridon skylances?”
“The angles were wrong.”
“I was afraid you’d say something like that, sir. You think the creatures have weapons? Or that we have rogue Myrmidons loose?”
“I don’t think it’s either,” Mykel replied. “That’s why I wanted the submarshal to know.”
“And why we have four guards on duty in a town that doesn’t have a lamp lit much after two glasses past sunset.”
“Something killed the last garrison, and I’d prefer not to give whoever or whatever it is another chance. I’ll be happier once we have the walls and gates finished in the new compound—and the piping from the spring.”
“How long do you think that will be?”
“The water system is done, and so are the walls, except for the capstones. The gates can’t go up until the paving stones are in place, and we’re waiting for more stone from the quarry for that.”
“The mounts will tear up the courtyard if it’s not paved.”
“Poeldyn says they can pave it by sections, and we won’t move in until one section is done. We’ll set up tielines and temporary corrals on a paved section.”
“That should work. Wouldn’t be any worse than what we’ve got in the old garrison.”
“We’ll also have more space,” Mykel replied. The compound would still be crowded, because it was only designed for four companies—twice the permanent complement—but that was an improvement over an ancient garrison built for two companies.
As he and Rhystan rode up the packed dirt trail that might someday be the road to the compound, if Poeldyn’s quarrymen ever cut enough stone, Mykel surveyed the south walls and the gate area. The heavy iron hinges for the gates had been set in place, and then reinforced and mortared, but it would be at least several days before they could bear the weight of the gates. Still, it would far longer than that before the area around the gates could be paved and the gates installed, but he definitely wanted to be able to close the compound gates.
As he shifted his weight in the saddle, Mykel swallowed another yawn. He did need a better night’s sleep—for about a week—but doubted he was going to get it any time soon. He turned to Rhystan. “I’m going to talk to the craftmasters. Go ahead with your training. I’ll join you when I’m done.”
“Yes, sir. Good luck.”
“Thank you.” Mykel continued onward. Behind him, Rhystan ordered the three companies westward and around the compound walls.
Thirteenth Company’s second squad was deployed on the flat just below the southern walls of the compound.
“Majer, sir!” called Jovanyt, the grizzled squad leader.
“Just headed in to talk to the craftmaster. Where’s Undercaptain Dyarth?”
“He’s out on the east side, across the stream, with fourth and fifth squads. Herder was trying to graze his flock too close to the walls.”
“I’ll see him later.”
“Yes, sir.”
Once he was through the gate-gap in the walls, Mykel rode toward the barracks, then dismounted and tied the roan to the temporary railing where the single cart horse was tethered. He walked across the sandy soil that held deep ruts. Rhystan was definitely right about the need for
paving the courtyard, and they’d probably need broken stone and sand packed down as a base under the paving stones. He’d have to explain that in a progress report, because the plans didn’t call for anything like that. Even in building a compound, matters didn’t turn out exactly as planned.
Styndal stood back from the main doorway to the barracks. He was talking to a crafter, a carpenter from the tool belt. “…wall pegs have to be oak…”
Mykel waited until the crafter departed before approaching the craftmaster. “Good morning.”
“Such as it is, Majer. What can I do for you?”
“Is there a tiler here in Hyalt?”
“A tiler?”
“One who can do decorative mosaics, one that can be set in the wall above the main door to the barracks there.”
“Choshyn could do that, so long as it’s not too complicated.”
Mykel extracted the hand-drawn design from his uniform tunic. “This is the design.”
Styndal took it. “Don’t see a problem with that, Majer. Another gold, maybe two. Good thing you told me now. Another day or so, and it would be costing more.”
“How long before the barracks are ready?”
“The end of next week…if your men don’t mind sleeping on the floor. Bunks will be another week past that. Could be two.”
“They’re sleeping on the floor where they are,” Mykel pointed out. “What about the stables?”
“Walls are barely past the foundations. It won’t take as long as the barracks. There’s less finish work. I’d say another month, what with everything else going on. Could be into harvest.”
That didn’t surprise Mykel. “Remember, there will still be work after that.”
Styndal grinned. “You’d not be getting matters done this fast were there not.”
“I had that feeling, Craftmaster.”
“You still want the stone squares done last? And in the back?”
Mykel noted that the craftmaster had never used the word “pteridon,” or even alluded to the creatures. “Yes. Pteridons don’t visit Cadmians often, and I’d rather not have them too close to the barracks or the headquarters building.”
“Pretty small for headquarters.”
“This is a small outpost for Cadmians.”
Styndal just nodded.
After finishing with Styndal, Mykel made a slow and careful inspection of the compound, starting with the new barracks, and winding up with the outside walls. Everything looked—and felt—as it should. He returned to the roan and led the gelding to the water trough and let him drink before he finally mounted.
He’d just ridden out the gap in the walls that would be the smaller north gate when he saw Undercaptain Dyarth riding toward him. He glanced farther north, where Rhystan and the two Hyalt captains were practicing full-company maneuvers, then back to Dyarth, who was turning his mount to ride alongside Mykel.
“Herders!” Dyarth snorted. “Begging your pardon, Majer. He claimed that he’d always grazed here. He didn’t see why he couldn’t now. We weren’t using the grass, and he hated to see good grass go to waste. There’s so little of it.”
“He’s right about that. Around here, anyway,” Mykel pointed out. “What did you tell him?”
“Just what you told us. That the land for a half vingt out from the compound walls belongs to the Cadmians and the Marshal of Myrmidons and that the grass is for our mounts. He didn’t like it, but he understood the business about the mounts.”
“How are your men taking to guard duty here at night?”
“Most of them prefer it. They say that they can get more sleep—those not on duty, I mean, and it’s cooler here.”
“Good.” Mykel nodded. “I’m going to be taking the First Hyalt out on road patrol. You’ll be in charge here once Captain Rhystan leaves.” That was obvious, but Mykel wanted to reinforce it.
“Yes, sir.” Dyarth’s head bobbed up and down, before he abruptly caught himself, and grinned sheepishly.
With a smile, Mykel turned the roan back northward toward the flat where the three companies were forming up into road order.
Captain Cismyr rode forward to meet Mykel. The captain had the olive skin that distinguished many of those born and raised in the warmer south of Acorus, along with dark brown hair and eyes. His aura, Mykel noted to himself, was a rich brownish-yellow.
“Majer, First Company stands ready.”
Mykel replied with a nod. “We’re going to take the high road north for about five vingts, to the farm road that heads eastward…” He’d briefed Cismyr earlier, but he’d found that it always helped to reconfirm such details. “…the patrol has several purposes. First, it’s to establish the Cadmian presence here and to pick up any brigands we might run across. It’s also part of making sure you and your men are familiar with all the lanes and roads—or at least as many as we can find before you’re on your own…and to do it with a large force until we have a better handle on what areas require more men and what require fewer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s head out.”
“First Company! Scouts forward!”
Mykel rode beside Cismyr, observing as the captain ordered the company westward to the high road and then northward.
They had been riding the high road for a quarter glass when a large wagon appeared on the road horizon, more than a vingt ahead of the scouts. One of the scouts rode back toward the company, pulling his mount around to ride beside the captain.
“Spirit wagon, sirs. Wide enough to take more than half the road.”
Mykel said nothing, waiting.
Cismyr surveyed the road, then nodded. “We’ll pull the company off the road on that low rise ahead. The men won’t mind a breather. The mounts won’t either.” He looked to Mykel. “Unless you have another idea, sir?”
“No. It’s usually better not to string a company out in single file, and you won’t have much support from the merchants and locals if you force their wagons off the road for routine patrols.” Mykel had seen Majer Vaclyn do that a few times, and he’d never seen the reasoning behind it. But then, that was just another example of one of the reasons why Vaclyn was dead.
After the company reached the low rise and drew up in formation, Mykel eased the roan to the higher side of the rise, from where he could get a better view of the surrounding terrain. The captain followed his example.
Despite the high and hazy silver clouds, the morning was already hot, and Mykel was sweating enough that his uniform was sticking to his shoulders and upper back. He blotted his forehead and then took a swallow from one of his two water bottles. Dramur had taught him that one wasn’t enough.
Across the high road, to the west, were rolling hills, each line of hills getting higher and drier until they merged with the reddish rocks of the foothills to the east side of the Coast Range. Behind him, to the east, the hills were more like gentle rises, with slightly more grass than those to the west. There were no huts or steads in sight anywhere to the north, suggesting that the regional alector had prohibited them and allowed only seasonal grazing.
He looked back to the high road and the approaching wagon, drawn by four draft horses. As it neared, Mykel noted that the entire high-sided and covered wagon body was painted a rich brown. On the side panel, painted in yellow, were the words Spyltyr & Sons, Spirits.
“They can’t have that many buyers in Hyalt, can they?” asked the captain.
“Probably not, but they are moving quickly, and the horses aren’t lathered. The wagon’s close to empty. They’re probably returning to Syan to buy brandy and wine there, and they’re carrying just enough to sell to the inns and taverns in Hyalt, I’d guess. They’ll travel the other side of the square when they’re full, from Syan to Vyan and then Krost, and then either to Tempre or up north to the towns on the Vedra. They might be carrying other goods south as well, maybe spices or shimmersilk, things that are light but valuable.”
“Dreamdust?”
Mykel laughed. “Who co
uld pay for that here? Or even in Syan?”
“Filthy stuff, but they must make thousands of golds on it.”
Mykel had no idea what the profits on the drug might be, only that people seemed to pay far more for spirits and drugs than for food and clothing. Some people, anyway.
Before long, First Company was back on the road heading north.
They didn’t reach the target road until late mid-morning. The narrow road, unlike most farm roads, ran along the flat top of the gentle rise that angled east-northeast. The slopes on each side were so gentle and gradual that it was easy to overlook the fact that the rise was really a long ridge that separated the grasslands south of it from the even more arid plains to the north. The irregular surface was barely wide enough for two Cadmians abreast, riding slowly.
While there was one set of recent cart wheel ruts on the road, there were no signs of riders or boots on the sandy soil. The road had been used, but where did it lead? Mykel looked eastward, where, in the distance, there might be a hamlet at the base of the ridge to the north, just west of what looked to be a small forest.
Mykel wasn’t certain, but, every so often, he thought he felt something, a blackness of some kind, but it seemed to be beneath the road. Was he just imagining it? Ever since Dramur, he’d been asking that question of himself more and more, yet all too much of what he would have once called imagination had turned out to be all too real—if in ways he once never could have predicted.
He blinked. Had the day gotten darker? He glanced toward the sun, not looking at it directly, but trying to gauge if the clouds around it had thickened. They had not.
“Rifles ready,” Mykel ordered, looking at Captain Cismyr, then unsheathing and checking his own rifle.
“First Company! Rifles ready!” The captain looked at Mykel, not quite quizzically.
Mykel tried to sense from where the attack might come—if it came at all.
Crack! Although the sound/feeling jarred Mykel, he could tell no one else heard or felt a thing.
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