Keep climbing…
The pteridon responded, and with lance-blasts flying around and past him—few actually even glancing off his shields—Dainyl was above Seventh Company. To the west, he could see Fifth Company regrouping into an attack wedge and moving eastward.
Dainyl wanted to end that battle before it began, and he circled, trying to pick out one of the squad leaders, amid the conflicting orders as Seventh Company realized that Fifth Company was also forming for an attack.
After a second swooping pass and a pull-up, in which he had to fend off more skylance bolts, Dainyl recognized the uniform and vaguely familiar face of an undercaptain. He banked and then looped, coming down almost on top of Weltak, before flying formation to the left of the undercaptain.
“Weltak! Bring them down, or I’ll destroy every one of you, one at a time!”
The undercaptain’s eyes widened as he turned his head and recognized Dainyl. “No, sir! Got orders!”
Dainyl lowered his lance and fired—using Talent to blast through the undercaptain’s comparatively nonexistent screens. Another set of boots and a uniform fluttered downward through the skies, and another pteridon wheeled away from the company, climbing skyward to wait out the battle.
Lyzetta! Would she listen to reason?
Dainyl made two more passes before he located the once-junior undercaptain. Then he had to follow her through a series of dives, loops, and banks. His guts were tight, and his head was throbbing, before he managed to get close enough to her to shout out, “Undercaptain Lyzetta! This is Submarshal Dainyl. I’ve taken out all your seniors. You don’t land your company now, and I’ll take out you and everyone else.”
The undercaptain’s head jerked upward, and she fired her skylance.
Dainyl let the blast sheet around him. He couldn’t hold the shields much longer.
“You fire again, and you’re dead! Just like Veluara, Klynd, and Weltak!”
She lowered the lance, helplessly.
“You’ve got a tenth of a glass. Put them down in formation in front of the burned-out building.”
Dainyl banked away, climbing westward, before anyone else tried to fire at him.
In moments, he was flying alongside Fhentyl.
“They’re going to set down. I’m going down after they’re in formation. Keep circling. If anyone tries to lift off, flame them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dainyl banked back to the south to make sure Lyzetta ordered Seventh Company to ground.
More like a quarter of a glass passed before Dainyl’s pteridon touched down before the remnants of Seventh Company. He held his shields, although the effort was getting exhausting, and his fingers trembled, so much so that he laid the skylance across his thighs, his hands only resting on the weapon. He couldn’t do much more.
“Lyzetta! Any other squad leaders forward!”
Two undercaptains appeared—what Dainyl expected, since he’d killed Weltak, Klynd, and Veluara. Dainyl looked over the two.
“Whether you know it or not, you’ve just been part of a rebellion against the Duarch and against the Marshal of Myrmidons. Regional Alector Rhelyn—he was the RA here in Hyalt—had been gathering translated alectors from Ifryn as part of a force to take over Acorus. Before we go any further, I’d like each of you undercaptains, one at a time, to walk inside the entrance there and look at all the alectors’ shimmersilk uniforms stacked in the large chamber to the left. Lyzetta, you go first.”
The alectress did not look at Dainyl, but she did turn and follow his directions. She came back quickly, her expression frozen.
“Now you.” Dainyl did not know—or couldn’t recall—the other undercaptain’s name.
When both undercaptains stood before Dainyl once more, he surveyed them silently before speaking.
“You and your pteridons will not return to Dulka. You will accompany me and Fifth Company to Tempre and then to Dereka.”
“Might we ask why, sir?” asked Lyzetta.
“Captain Veluara was part of the rebel group. So is RA Quivaryt. Your old compound is being used as a base for the rebel alectors. Marshal Shastylt has said that there could be little as bad as Myrmidons fighting Myrmidons. That will occur again if you return to Dulka—unless each of you is killed and your place taken by a rebel. That has already occurred a number of times.”
Lyzetta and the other squad leader exchanged glances.
“That’s why you’re coming to Dereka. It’s for your protection as well.”
“That’s all?” Lyzetta finally asked.
“You may have to fight against other rebels. I hope not, but I can’t promise that.” Dainyl was exhausted. He hoped he could make the flight back to the way station. “You’re to lift off and follow me to the way station we’re using a base. We’ll leave tomorrow for Tempre.”
“Sir?”
“There’s nothing left here,” Dainyl added. “We’ve had the compound under siege for more than a week, and we ended up flaming it from the inside.”
He could sense the dismay from the Myrmidons.
“The Duarches do not take rebellion lightly, especially from alectors,” Dainyl said, using what little Talent-force he had left to project coldness and authority. “Neither do I. It’s a waste of resources and lifeforce.” After a moment, he added, “If you would mount, Undercaptains, and follow me.”
Dainyl concentrated. Lift off…northeast…to the way station. As the tireless pteridon burst skyward, his legs were trembling, and his vision tended to blur, but he couldn’t afford to show weakness. Not yet.
90
Mykel rose before dawn on Octdi. He hadn’t slept well, and he was worried. He’d heard nothing from the submarshal, and no alectors had appeared, not that he’d expected them immediately. Quinti and Sexdi had been slightly cooler than the previous days, but a warm wind had begun to blow out of the south late on Septi, and that promised a far warmer Octdi.
Beginning on Quinti, Mykel’s scouts had noted riders in blue, especially on the hilltops to the north and west of the regional alector’s compound—and some were physically large enough to be alectors—but they rode off before the scouts could get close enough to find out more. The fact that they vanished suggested that they were indeed alectors.
Mykel sought out Undercaptain Matorak even before he headed to the mess to eat, because, as duty company on Octdi, Second Hyalt also provided the inside guards for the still-vacant regional alector’s gray granite building. He found the undercaptain outside the stables.
“Yes, sir?”
“Marorak, we’re going to change the way we guard those doors. The ones inside the building. If anyone should come up the doors from below in force, the guards are in a poor position. There’s nowhere to go and no cover.”
“That’s true, sir. What do you have in mind?”
“Post one of them at the southwest corner where the corridors intersect. From there, he can see if anyone comes up the steps from below. Post the second on the west side of the entry foyer. That way, the one observing the doorway can relay what he sees to the one in the entry foyer, and the second guard can immediately inform you or the squad leader right outside. If those who arrive are alectors, tell the guards to withdraw to the outside without informing the alectors. If you get that word, have your men mounted and ready to ride here so that we can turn over the complex quickly. Make sure you pull the squad from the rear, the north side, immediately. If there’s trouble, there won’t be enough cover back there.”
“If they’re not alectors?”
“Then tell them that the building is off-limits until an alector representing the regional alector arrives. If anyone starts shooting, then take positions and defend yourselves. Those stone walls in front might provide good cover.”
“You’re expecting trouble, sir?”
“I hope not, but if there is, you need to be prepared. If, and I hope it doesn’t happen, you have to defend yourself against rebel alectors, remember that those clothes of theirs stop
bullets, but they don’t totally stop the impact. If they get hit enough, they will go down.”
Matorak nodded slowly.
“I know,” Mykel said softly. “It isn’t the best position, but that’s part of being a Cadmian.”
Matorak offered a twisted smile. “It still beats growing nuts or quarrying marble.”
“Or laying tiles,” returned Mykel.
They both laughed—briefly.
Uneasy as he felt, after leaving Matorak, Mykel decided to saddle the roan, then eat. On his way back from the stable to the mess, he glanced at the sky to the south, already hazy. Although the sun was barely up, the air was as warm as it usually had been in midmorning.
Breakfast was overdone mutton strips with egg toast, and some apricots. There was lukewarm cider, a welcome change from ale, and Mykel drank two mugs, as he sat there by himself, thinking. He just hoped he could turn the buildings back over to an alector and move his companies out of Tempre as quickly as possible. The less he had to do with alectors, the better. That still left the problems with the submarshal, but, for whatever reason, he’d left Mykel alone so far.
So far. Rachyla might well be right, that Dainyl had a use for Mykel that wasn’t in Mykel’s interest, and that use was probably why he was still in Tempre. He shook his head. He just wanted to get out of the city in a way where he wouldn’t be actually directly disobeying orders.
Finally, he stood, getting ready to leave when Fabrytal walked in, followed by a ranker, who, as soon as he saw Mykel, hurried toward the majer.
“There’s an alector in blue at the place, sir, and he wants to see the head Cadmian. Undercaptain said he looks mean, sir.”
Mykel looked to Fabrytal, who had moved toward Mykel when he had heard the message. “You and Loryalt form up everyone, out front, rifles ready. As soon as you’re formed up, ride to join me and Second Hyalt.” He looked to the ranker. “You head back and tell Undercaptain Matorak I’m on my way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come with me for a moment,” Mykel ordered Fabrytal, as he hurried out of the mess, back toward the stables. “When you and Loryalt join us, you set up more on the west, and Loryalt on the east. I don’t want someone sneaking out the back, not with their weapons, and outflanking us. I told Matorak to pull his men from the rear directly behind the building, because there’s no cover there, but you two can rake it from cover on the sides. The last thing—I told Matorak this already—about firing at rebel alectors. Did he pass it on?”
“Yes, sir. Their clothes stop the bullets, but not the impact.”
“Make sure Loryalt and your men know it, too.” Mykel was almost running as he crossed the center courtyard.
“Yes, sir.” Fabrytal cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, sir, but…”
“How do I know this? Part of it’s experience. I saw an alector take a crossbow bolt last year, and it knocked him down, and I could tell he was hurt. Part of it I learned from others.”
“Was that why…? Sorry, sir.” Fabrytal flushed. “I need to get the men ready.”
“The lady Rachyla? Yes.” Mykel turned toward the stable without looking back.
Fabrytal bellowed out his orders. “Fifteenth Company! Mount up! On the double! Loryalt! Same for Seventeenth Company!”
“Seventeenth Company! Mount up!…”
Mykel hurried into the stable. Once there, he led out the roan, checked his rifle, then unpacked the ammunition belt and slung it place. Only then did he mount.
As he rode out through the granite gates, turning westward on the boulevard, heading toward the complex, he looked to his right at the granite building, still amazed that the regional alector had constructed such a compound without the knowledge and approval of the Myrmidon Submarshal. Or had Dainyl known and had he just waited to act for reasons of his own? With alectors, it was clear, often one could not tell.
The hot south wind whipped the Cadmian banner that Mykel had ordered placed on the flag staff in the center of the south wall. He’d had the Alector’s Guard banner folded for delivery to the submarshal when—and if—he returned.
Despite the gusts of hot wind, or because of it, the gardens on Mykel’s left seemed limp and wilted as he rode past them.
He nodded to himself as he neared the compound. Most of Second Company, while mounted, had moved out of the plaza immediately before the alector’s headquarters and stood ranked behind the front stone walls. Matorak remained waiting, standing beside his mount, less than fifteen yards from the front entry to the building. Three Cadmians flanked him. Mykel eased his rifle from its holder, but rested it across his legs, as he rode toward Matorak.
The undercaptain turned his head momentarily, as if to make sure it was Mykel.
“Undercaptain,” Mykel said loudly. “I’ll handle this. Return to your company.”
Matorak looked up and back at Mykel, surprised at the harshness in the majer’s voice.
“Get everyone out of here, back behind the wall.” Mykel mouthed the words, not even daring to speak them. He knew how acute the hearing of some alectors could be.
A hint of an understanding glint appeared in the undercaptain’s eyes, but his voice was as cold as Mykel’s had been. “Yes, sir.”
Matorak had barely vaulted into the saddle and begun to ride away when an alector stepped out from behind one of the four columns at the top of the steps up to the building. While the color of his tunic was the same blue and gold as the Alector’s Guard had worn, the fabric was the treated shimmersilk that all alectors apparently wore.
“Who are you?”
“Majer Mykel, commanding, Third Battalion, Cadmian Mounted Rifles.”
“Why are you here?” The alector’s voice carried contempt and anger.
“The Submarshal of Myrmidons ordered us to guard the area until the regional alector or a designated representative returned,” replied Mykel politely.
“There was no need of that. Alector Fahylt had his own forces. What happened to them?”
Mykel tensed. How was he supposed to answer that? “I was not aware that any regional forces were authorized to any regional alector.” He could sense more alectors moving out from the building and behind the pillars at the top of the steps. “Are you the designated representative of the regional alector?”
“You don’t ask questions, steer. You obey without question.”
Besides his unbelievable arrogance, there was something else different about this alector, although Mykel couldn’t immediately place it. What he did understand was that the alector would take offense at anything he uttered and that Mykel wasn’t getting out of Tempre without a fight. Rather than say anything, he waited, his rifle across his knees. He also tried to strengthen what shields he had, yet keep them hidden. Matorak and his men needed more time.
“Answer me, steer.”
“What would you like me to say? I wasn’t aware that you asked me anything. I had only asked if you were designated by the Duarches to resume administration.”
“What happened to the Alector’s Guard—if you happen to know?”
Mykel didn’t care for the continued evasion of his question about the alector’s authority, but he replied, “They rode away after we arrived in Tempre.” That was true enough in its own way.
Mykel could sense that there were ten alectors behind the pillars.
The one who had been speaking lifted a hand weapon, one Mykel recognized as similar, if not identical, to the submarshal’s sidearm. “Do you know what this is, steer? Do you know what it will do?”
“It appears to be a Myrmidon officer’s sidearm. I wasn’t aware that those were given to administrative alectors.”
“You are too insolent to remain alive—”
Before the alector finished his words, Mykel’s rifle was up and aimed. He squeezed the trigger and willed the bullet home.
The bluish lightbeam from the sidearm slashed into the stone as the arrogant alector’s body toppled forward.
“Take cover!” My
kel ordered. “Rifles ready!” He turned his mount, urging the gelding across the plaza, and trying to hold what shields he had, hoping that the surprise of his attack would gain him a few moments.
“Talent steer! Kill him!”
One lightbeam flashed by Mykel, so close he could feel the heat, but only one, as he turned the roan sharply behind the stone wall and vaulted from the saddle.
“Fire at will!” he ordered, lifting his own rifle again.
For several moments, lightbeams flashed from the stone pillars as alectors ducked out and aimed their sidearms.
What could Mykel do now? The alectors behind the pillars had as much as admitted that they were rebels. He could hear the hoofs of the other two companies, headed down the boulevard toward them. He turned, looking for Matorak, not seeing him, but locating a squad leader. “Squad leader! Here!”
The darker-skinned and wiry subofficer hurried toward Mykel, careful to keep his head below the top of the wall. “Sir?”
“Send someone out to meet the other two companies. He can go on foot and use cover. They need to carry out their orders without exposing themselves to direct fire from the front of the building.”
“Yes, sir. Fylankar! Front! Orders from the majer…”
Mykel turned his concentration back to the building, easing up just enough to aim the rifle over the top of the wall, concentrating on where he knew one of the rebel alectors was. He squeezed the trigger.
Another body sprawled out onto the stone steps.
Knowing that the rebel alectors would return fire immediately, Mykel shouted, “Second Company, heads down!” Still, he was ready for the next head to peer out from behind a pillar. He fired, twice, before the second bullet hit, then dropped completely below the wall, where he reloaded, watching as the blue lightbeams coruscated above. With each lightblast came the odor of melting and burning stone.
The screams of a badly burned mount shrilled through the morning air. Mykel should have ordered the mounts farther back, but he hadn’t thought that so many of the alectors would have had such sidearms. Until today, the submarshal was the only alector he’d ever seen with one.
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