Scepters

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “There’s a chain of command, and you’re next in line. Frynkel’s taken care of that by making sure you have a commission in both the Northern and Southem Guard.” He stopped as they neared the mess. “We can go over it later.”

  Feran nodded.

  The marshal and Captain Geragt were standing in the small mess, with its three tables, talking in low voices with Ebuin as Feran and Alucius arrived.

  “…kind who will do what needs to be done…”

  “…seemed that kind before…”

  Frynkel broke off his words to Ebuin and cleared his throat. “Now that we’re all here…”

  Ebuin gestured to Frynkel. “Marshal…we’re not formal here. If you would do the honors?”

  With a nod, the marshal took a seat at the larger circular table, the only one set. Following the marshal, Alucius seated himself, followed by Ebuin and Feran, then by Geragt.

  “As I once told Majer Alucius,” Ebuin said, “the ale is good. It’s one of the best parts of meals here, and that’s why there are two pitchers set out.” He took the pitcher and filled the beaker before the marshal.

  Ebuin kept looking at Frynkel, and Alucius could sense that, for all Ebuin’s outward heartiness, the majer was fretting about something.

  A server appeared and set two large platters in the center of the circular table. The first held long slices of meat covered with brown sauce, garnished with lime slices. The second held glazed and fried rice.

  “Whistlepig?” asked Alucius, although he thought he recognized the dish.

  Feran looked at Alucius quizzically.

  “It’s one of the specialties of Borlan,” replied the other majer. “They’re like scrats, except much larger and tamer, and taste like fowl.”

  The marshal served himself, as did the others in turn.

  As he ate, Alucius decided, once more, that despite what Ebuin said, whistlepig was not so good as fowl, especially not so good as the Vedra chicken at the Red Ram, but far better than much he had eaten over the years.

  “Have you received any dispatches from Krost or Tempre that would be of interest?” Frynkel glanced at Ebuin.

  “There have been very few. Arms-Commander Wyerl will be shifting the Southern Guard out of all the outposts along the Vedra east of Tempre, except here at Borlan, by the turn of the year.”

  “They’ll all go west?” suggested Alucius.

  “More than likely,” Frynkel replied. “Not that I’ve been told yet. What else?”

  “All lancers in either Northern or Southern Guard whose service is due to expire at the turn of winter or spring have been extended another season, until more trainees are ready. As possible, they will be used in training assignments.”

  Feran frowned, as did Geragt.

  Alucius had doubts about whether such assignments would really be offered, especially for the Northern Guard.

  “Such refreshingly cheerful news,” Frynkel said sardonically. “And how are the crops here in Borlan?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. Not for certain, but there’s not too much complaining.”

  The marshal turned to Alucius. “Majer, you’ve heard about the overthrow of the Landarch by the large landowners of Deforya. You are certainly the most experienced officer to serve there in many years. What do you make of that?”

  Alucius took a small swallow of ale before replying. “The Landarch was trying to balance the needs of his land against the demands of the landowners. You may have read my report on the structure of the Deforyan Lancers. Most of their overcaptains are the younger sons of the large landowners. The undercaptains and captains come from the crafters and less prosperous merchants. That means that those with wealth control the water supply through the aqueducts, the lancers through their officers, and trade and business through their golds.”

  “Then why did the Landarch not fall years before?” asked Ebuin.

  “It’s only a guess, but I would judge that his power lay in the long tradition of the Landarchy and in the distrust between landowners. They felt they needed someone who was beholden to all the landowners and not to any one of them.”

  “Why would you judge the landowners overthrew him now?” Frynkel’s words expressed mild curiosity.

  “You would be more aware of the current situation than I am,” Alucius replied, “but I would guess that they overthrew him because he understood what was happening and tried to move Deforya to face those troubles, and the landowners were opposed to the changes…”

  “Go on,” encouraged Frynkel.

  Alucius shrugged. “I don’t know for certain, but only a few of the senior officers in the Lancers seemed to understand anything they didn’t want to, or anything new. They could have cultivated more land, but instead they seemed to force people into Dereka, almost as if they wanted to keep them poor. They refused to believe in the pteridons until they were flaming thousands of lancers. Times are changing in Corus. The Praetor of Lustrea was preparing to take over the nomad grasslands, and now that Aellyan Edyss is dead and the nomads are fragmented and blocking trade on the southern route, he probably will resume that effort. If that is the case, the Landarch might assess a slightly higher tariff on the northern pass, but he would be aware that too high a tariff would not be well received by his neighbors. The landowners would not care. They would only see the chance to shift the tariff burden farther away from themselves and onto someone else.” Alucius paused for another swallow of ale. “That is but a guess, and probably a poor one at that.”

  Frynkel nodded slowly, then glanced to Feran. “What do you think, Overcaptain?”

  “I think Majer Alucius is being charitable. The landowners would suck the life out of the stones in the mountains and the grass in the plains if they could make a copper more. Their sons treat the junior officers like ignorant rankers when the juniormost officers know more than the senior officers.”

  “Majer Ebuin?” prompted Frynkel.

  “I know less than either of these worthy officers…”

  “You still must have an opinion.”

  Ebuin tilted his head, thinking for a time. “It is always easier to blame someone else. The Matrial blamed Lanachrona. The Dramurians blame us now. Deforya has slowly become less and less prosperous. I would say that it was easier for the landowners to blame the Landarch. The only way to keep him from refuting their charges was to topple him before he could. That is but my best guess, sir.”

  “You majers are most cautious. Overcaptain Feran is more direct.” Frynkel laughed softly. “Rank can make one cautious. That is not always a virtue.” He laughed again. “I learned that the hard way, many years ago when I was an overcaptain in charge of a small border post near Chronant…”

  Alucius forced himself to listen intently.

  Much later, after several more stories from the marshal and one from Ebuin, Alucius returned to his quarters for the night. After bolting the door, he used his belt striker to light the wall lamp over the writing desk. He set aside the sheets of paper holding his thoughts on organization and began a letter to Wendra.

  When he finished, more than a glass later, he reread what he had set down, eyes skimming through the words.

  My dearest—

  I am writing this from Borlan. As you doubtless know, little eventful has happened, for which I am grateful. I did meet with Colonel Weslyn in Dekhron, and he is as he always has been, most polite and gracious in his speech. It was good to see Feran again, and some of the men I had commanded several years back…

  We leave in the morning for Krost, where we are to meet the rest of the force I will be commanding. We have no new tidings of what may have occurred in Hyalt or elsewhere…

  I would that matters were not as they are, and that we were together on the stead. I look forward to completing my tasks so that I may return to you.

  Then he signed and sealed it. In the morning he would see what arrangements he could make for his letter to Wendra to be carried to Iron Stem by one of the regular dispatch riders. Of c
ourse, it would cost half a silver, and there wasn’t that great a guarantee, but it was worth the coin. He just recalled his regrets when he’d been captured by the Matrite forces and had never written a single letter home.

  31

  Dekhron, Iron Valleys

  The stocky man turned from the shelves of the library as the door opened and a white-haired man in black entered. “Tarolt.”

  “I see you are perusing the volumes again. For references to the scepters, I presume?”

  “I thought that it would not hurt to look, as I could. I have completed my other assignments. Or what of them that I can do at the moment.”

  “The scepters might be helpful, Sensat, but they have already accomplished what was necessary a thousand years ago.” Tarolt’s voice was firm and cold.

  “Are we sure that those tensions remain as necessary? Without the locators…”

  “They do, else none of the Tables would have worked all these years. I have calibrated the new Table, and Trezun has rechecked the measurements. It is so. We do not need the scepters.”

  “There are still possible lamaials—Tyren in Alustre and the herder—and if they find the scepters…”

  Tarolt silenced Sensat with a gesture. “The only one with any hint of true Talent about whom we need worry is the herder. He is on the way to Hyalt. Adarat has been warned that the northern officer with the dark gray hair is the lamaial. That will fire the believers even more, and the herder will have more than enough to handle, because he has not been in service for years and never in such a situation.”

  “But if he hears of the scepters…?”

  “How would he even know about the scepters and what they are? Also, it is most unlikely that the ancient ones can support him there in Hyalt—or that they will try. Still, it would be good to uncover the scepters, but not at the expense of preparing for what must be.” He looked hard at Sensat. “Just how much progress can you report on your primary duties?”

  “Adarat has the Hyalt area organized and under firm control. There are already five companies of Cadmians in training. The believers of the True Duarchy have been told that a northerner is being sent against them, a lamaial who will kill them to stop the return of the One Who Is and the peace of the Duarchy to come. They have been assured that they are the chosen ones to restore the Duarchy and to destroy all who would oppose them in returning hope to Corus,” offered the pale-faced and stocky man in the maroon tunic. “Adarat has also sent weapons to Syan as well, but we have fewer believers there.”

  “Whose fault is that?” asked Tarolt.

  “There are few of us yet here. All this has taken some considerable planning and effort, since there are no longer Tables in Tempre and Hyalt…and since we have not yet been able to reactivate the one in Soupat. It will be much easier when one more translation is complete.”

  “It is always easier with more Efrans, but full translations are still difficult and risky…and few on Efra wish to take that risk. Too few, and they do not understand the greater dangers. Like all those in comfort, they do not wish to understand. But…that was why you agreed and why you were translated here,” replied Tarolt. “To assist as required to create the unrest and chaos that will make a new Duarchy seem paradise by comparison. And to facilitate the events necessary to rebuild the grid. Never forget that.”

  “Yes, fieldmaster.”

  “Tarolt…always Tarolt.”

  Sensat swallowed before replying. “Yes, Tarolt.”

  32

  Two and a half days had passed since the four officers and the two horse companies had left Borlan and taken the eternastone road south to Krost. Although it was early afternoon, a gray overcast blocked the sun and had since midmorning. There was no wind, leaving a sullen feel to the day, one that, to Alucius, promised little good. Yet, what could happen now? The two companies rode southward through low, rolling hills with prosperous steads on each side and occasional small towns. There was almost no possibility of encountering hostile lancers, not when the nearest forces were those of the Regent more than three hundred vingts to the west—as an eagle might fly—and twice that by even the high roads.

  Then, from nowhere, a crimson emptiness flared through Alucius’s wristguard. He glanced down involuntarily. Wendra? What had happened?

  But the guard remained warm and gave no other indication.

  He frowned and studied the road ahead of him. He tried to use his Talent to probe the wristguard’s crystal, yet all it revealed was that Wendra was alive and healthy—all it could reveal. He could only take that as a sign that she and Alendra were well.

  Suddenly, Alucius found himself almost shivering, yet he wasn’t really cold. He was wearing nightsilk undergarments and a riding jacket, and it wasn’t winter, but harvest. Harvest was warm in Lanachrona, even on an overcast day, especially without any wind.

  Another quarter vingt went by, and the wristguard revealed nothing else. Then Fifth Company followed Eighth Company through a road cut made ages earlier. Even the walls were of eternastone, rising a good three yards above Alucius’s head at the point where the roadbed was in the center of the ridge. As Alucius neared the southern end of the cut, he glanced over his shoulder, noting that the ridge, unlike the other hills, seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see, both to the northwest and to the southeast.

  As the road shoulders dropped level with the road itself, another crimson emptiness, far more overwhelming, washed over and around him, and not from his wristguard. This was a Talent-sensed void—the same emptiness that he had felt on the high road back from Dereka. He turned to Feran, riding beside him. “Order ready rifles.”

  Feran started, but only for a moment, before replying, “Yes, sir,” then turned to Egyl. “Ready rifles! Pass it back.”

  “Ah…yes, sir. Ready rifles. Fifth Company! Ready rifles!”

  Alucius then added, “If you’d order your four best marksmen up here.”

  “Egyl…” Feran began.

  “Waris, Makyr, Solsyt, Tonak, forward!”

  “Put two of them on each shoulder, about three yards ahead of us.” Alucius had no idea what exactly was coming, but it had the feel of a reddish purple Talent, all too much like the wild pteridons, and he wasn’t about to wait to see what it might be. If nothing showed up, he’d pass it off as a drill. He didn’t think they’d be that fortunate. He infused the cartridges in his own rifles with darkness, then did the same to those in the loops in his belt. He waited to say more until the four lancers rode up.

  “I’d like you four to take a position ahead of the company. Be prepared to fire, at my direct command.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Two on each side,” Feran added.

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the four rode past Alucius, Feran, and Egyl, Alucius reached out with his Talent and began to infuse the cartridges in each of their rifles with the same kind of darkness that he had used.

  The chill and unseen red-purple darkness became more and more oppressive as the company continued southward. Alucius felt as though an unseen avalanche was building behind the gray clouds above, a sweep of something ready to crash down upon them. Yet…what more could he do? Tell the marshal that they were facing a danger he could not describe, could not identify, and could not even explain?

  All he could do was to ready his first rifle and slowly infuse the cartridges of the lancers in the first squad with darkness. More than that he could not do, except study the skies ahead and the terrain beside the high road as he rode. Even so, he felt shaky after drawing on so much darkness.

  They had ridden only a few hundred yards farther when the entire sky flashed purple—but only to Alucius’s Talent, and then on both sides of the eternastone road the sky shivered, with lines of black lightning flashing down and then vanishing. To the east Alucius took in ten creatures from a nightmare—or from wherever the ifrits came. Each was more than four times the size of a draft horse, with massive shoulders, a long triangular horn, and scales that shimmered pu
rple. The oversized mouths boasted crystal fangs a yard long.

  “Friggin’ monsters!”

  “Sow’s belly!”

  “…same as back then…”

  Alucius glanced to the west, where another set of identical creatures had appeared, then swung up his own rifle. “Fifth Company! Halt! Out oblique and hold! Prepare to fire. Fire!”

  “Fifth Company! Out oblique and hold! Fire at will!” echoed Feran and Egyl.

  Aiming to the east, because that grouping of Talent-creatures seemed closer, Alucius put his first shot through the forehead of the horned creature in the middle. As the creature collapsed with a thud that shook the ground, then flared into a column of flame, another lithe creature sprang from behind the monster. The second looked vaguely like a dustcat, except that it was a shimmering black, and far swifter—and with longer fangs and claws.

  Alucius’s second shot missed the black dustcat, and the third only struck it in the hindquarters, but it flailed forward, hissing, until a shot from someone else turned it into a small blue-flame pyre.

  The remaining horned Talent-beasts—or wild sandoxes—lowered their heads and rumbled forward, their bulk sending vibrations through the ground itself. Alucius fired the last shot in his first rifle at the foremost of the sandoxes, bringing it down as bluish flames erupted from the wound, but from behind the fallen sandox sprang a pair of the black dustcats.

  Before him, the four marksmen fired deliberately, and one of the dustcats exploded in the same bluish flames, but the remaining dustcat streaked toward Tonak with incredible speed. Somehow, the lancer managed to get off a shot at point-blank range, but so close that for a moment he appeared enveloped in blue flame.

  “Eighth Company! Forward!”

  As the Southern Guards tried to ride away from the attack, three of the horned sandoxes swept through the rear squad. Bodies flew in all directions, each encased in blue flames.

  Because he could do nothing for the Southern Guards without firing directly into them, Alucius switched rifles and looked westward, targeting another of the wild sandoxes, then the dustcat that followed the fall of the massive beast. He paused for an instant to squeeze more darkness into the cartridges of the rifle Waris carried as the lancer reloaded, then raised his second rifle to aim at the nearest beast. While the shot struck, and bluish flames issued from the beast’s shoulder, it swerved and stumbled toward the last rank of Eighth Company, exploding in a gout of flame that engulfed two Southern Guards.