Feran offered a bitter chuckle. “They got some sort of Talent watching over them. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“What else could it be?” After a moment, Alucius added, “Unless it’s something worse.”
“You know of anything worse?”
“The return of the True Duarchy.” Alucius forced a wry dryness into his voice.
Feran nodded.
“Let’s get the captains and go over the maps.” Alucius turned and headed back toward the tielines and his mount, and the saddlebags that held the maps.
As he walked, he went over the questions in his mind.
The rebels knew where he and his force were—at least in general terms. They might not know exactly where, since there had been no survivors of the attack, but he had one missing scout, presumably dead, and one who had been wounded and one who had left a trail of bodies. If he kept the three companies where they were, he’d need to have them dig in, and the hillside wasn’t that suited to digging in. On the other hand, he knew far too little about the land and the people, and who controlled what—and how. Every move, every ride, was into the unknown. But…he reflected…from what he’d seen, the rebel lancers weren’t that good. They were only fanatics. Only?
He laughed softly to himself.
He knew more about attacking than defending—a great deal more. His forces would have to move on.
52
Alustre, Lustrea
The man in the silver cloak and matching trousers walked up the stone steps of the ancient covered arena toward what had once been the Duarch’s box. Beside and behind him were two quints of guards, wearing silver-gray trousers and tunics. Each of the ten guards bore a brace of two-shot pistols and a gladius. The covered arena was dimly lit, the only light coming through the arched windows that were covered with grime.
A stocky man in dark blue stood beside a device that resembled a cannon, save that what would have been the barrel was composed of crystals set in holders and connected by silver wire and that the armored square body, three yards long and slightly less than two wide, rested on four ironbound wheels, rather than the two wheels and trunnion mounting used for cannon. He bowed. “As you requested, all is ready, Praetor.”
“How does it work, Waleryn?”
“Very well, Praetor.” The stocky figure smiled, drawing his lips into a pleasant expression belied by the coldness in his eyes.
“Then proceed to show us, if you will.” The Praetor turned to look at the center of the arena, where several battered statues had been placed. Armor had been strapped on two of the horsemen. In addition to the statues, there was a shield wall, looking as it might in battle, except that the shields had been fastened together rather than held by soldiers.
Waleryn stepped up to the device and drew down a lever. The faintest humming sounded, thin, high, and intense enough that several of the guards stiffened. After a moment, a line of blue-green fire—or light—flashed from the crystal barrel, light so intense that the Praetor was forced to close his eyes.
When Tyren could see again, the center of the arena contained nothing except an oval of rough glass from which rose heat waves, as in the southern deserts.
The Praetor hid a swallow. “Very impressive. How far will it reach?”
“At the moment, this one has a range of just less than a vingt—say, eighteen hundred yards.”
“How often can you use it?”
“It takes about a tenth of a glass to recharge, but if I adjust the aperture, it could destroy a line of troops three hundred yards across and fifty deep.”
“What makes it work? And keep the explanation simple this time.”
“The essence that supports the Talent…it infuses all of Corus, all of the oceans and the air as well. It is a force, like fire, except it cannot be seen but through its manifestations.” Waleryn took the white leather gloves that he held in his right hand and gently used the fingertips to brush away a fleck of something that had appeared on his lower left sleeve. “The crystals inside the tube barrel concentrate and refine this essence into elemental force, call it a fire, that will burn anything.”
“Anything?” The slender Praetor laughed, a cool and mocking sound. “That is claiming much.”
“Oh, there is more to it than that. Because it draws and concentrates this essence, it can reduce the power of those with the Talent who might oppose you and your forces.”
“How many of these can you fabricate?”
“The materials are most costly, as you know.”
“You had said it would be easier after the first few.”
“Easier, yes…but not that much less costly.”
“Hmmm…fabricate another five. That way we will have two for each force crossing the Spine of Corus.” The Praetor smiled. “I am sure that you can manage that, Lord Waleryn.”
“Your Mightiness is too kind.” Waleryn bowed again, his gesture nearly as mocking as the words of the Praetor.
“If these devices prove their worth in the campaigns ahead, you can look to great rewards, perhaps even, shall we say, the prefectship over Lanachrona.” Tyren nodded and turned.
Two of the guards remained flanking Waleryn for several moments, until the Praetor had entered the ancient tunnel that led back to the underground carriageway. Then, they too departed, leaving Waleryn standing beside his weapon.
The eyes of the Lanachronan lord flashed purplish for a moment, watching the departing guards, but he said nothing at all, before tapping the bell beside the projector to summon his engineers-in-training.
53
At dawn on Septi, the three companies were on the move, headed westward and following the road that Rakalt had scouted the day before. From the maps and from what the scouts had discovered, Alucius was fairly certain that the one rebel camp was to the east of the road they traveled, perhaps by as little as a vingt, certainly no more than two. If the maps were correct, he noted to himself from where he rode at the head of the force, beside Feran.
Elbard was better, although he was riding in one of the supply wagons, and he had told Alucius and Feran more about Hyalt itself—a town rather than a city, and one that had seemed half-deserted, but with maroon-clad armsmen seemingly on every street, at least of those that the scout had seen from his hilltop vantage point before he’d been Talent-spelled. Alucius didn’t like the thought that the rebels had enough men to place so many in the town itself, and he had to wonder from where all of them had come. To that question, like so many others, he had no answer.
Alucius had worked with Feran and the fifth squad of Fifth Company the night before, with cloth taken from the downed rebel lancers and some of the gunpowder from the Southern Guard wagon. While gunpowder exploded, it also burned, and that was what Alucius had in mind. He’d decided against sending a messenger north immediately, because, once he’d thought about what he could report and request, he determined that no one would believe him, and, even if they did, they wouldn’t understand the danger that he could explain—and he couldn’t explain about the ifrits. That was something no one would believe, especially since he had not seen a one, just their influence and traces.
“Better to be moving, rather than sitting and waiting,” Feran said.
“I feel better on the move, too, but I’d like to know more about where we’re moving,” Alucius replied dryly.
“Even when you do know, you really don’t.”
Feran was probably right about that, too, reflected Alucius. So often, knowledge could be an illusion, particularly if the knowledge wasn’t firsthand and hard-won.
“I’ve been thinking about the scouts,” Alucius said. “What if we just sent patrols down the roads, maybe full squads as patrols?”
“You don’t think they’d just pick them off?”
“Not at first. They’d have to send out squads and patrol all the roads. I’d like to learn more about this place.”
“If what you have planned for today goes right, they might do that tomorrow.”
&
nbsp; “Where?” asked Alucius. “Even if they have two other camps and six companies, they don’t know where we’ll be. If the lancers we fought the other day are any example, we’ll do better at picking them off here and there. We’ll attack, then move back to the way station and get refreshed and resupplied.” He should have adopted that approach to begin with, but he’d never dealt with anything like the situation in Hyalt before. Then again, he doubted anyone had.
He looked at the hills to the northwest. The stump-covered and gullied ground looked tired, with its intermittent low bushes and sparse grass. Even to his Talent, it felt tired. Could land feel tired? According to what the soarer had told him years before, whole worlds got tired, and the ifrits made that happen more quickly. But how long did worlds last? Or did the worlds continue on as lifeless lumps once the spirit of life was exhausted?
“You look grim,” Feran observed, his voice cheerful. “We haven’t even seen anyone. Isn’t that better than another skirmish right off?”
“I was just thinking.”
“That can be dangerous,” Feran said lightly.
Alucius chuckled, then observed, “There weren’t any survivors. No one tried to escape. I’ve never seen that.”
“Haven’t either. Could just have been the way things happened there.”
“Could be.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Are you?”
Feran shook his head.
Ahead, the road began a long and gentle turn more to the south. To the west, beyond the rolling hills, was another set of higher, redder, and drier hills, and in the dim hazy distance, the peaks of the Coast Range, marking the old boundary between Lanachrona and Madrien. To the east was a short flat stretch of meadow, although the grass was also sparse, before the ground rose into juniper-and cedar-sprinkled hills.
As the companies rode southward, and as the sun crept over the hills to the east, Alucius continued to study the road and the area to the east. After another two vingts, the road turned due south, then angled sharply westward. As he neared the curve, Alucius turned to Feran. “We’ll stop at the turn there.”
“Column, halt! Pass it back!”
“Column halt!”
Fifth Company came to a halt, followed by Thirty-fifth and Twenty-eighth Companies.
“You’re going to lead the squad, aren’t you?” asked Feran.
Alucius had debated himself, back and forth, on whether he should lead the fire detail. In the end, he’d decided he would do so. One reason was simple enough—if necessary, he could use his Talent to touch off the powder. “I know it will work, and they’re more likely to get back.” Alucius smiled. “If you thought I was wrong, you’d say something.”
“I don’t like it, but you’re probably right.” Feran snorted. “I’ve been worried about this duty from the beginning, and I still am.”
“So am I, but that’s another question. We’ll be as quick as we can.” Alucius turned the gray. “Fifth squad forward!”
Nineteen men rode forward along the edge of the narrow road, led by Zerdial. The once-youthful-looking and thin squad leader was harder than when Alucius had first made him a squad leader, and the thinness had become a tough angularity. The squad leader reined up.
“Zerdial, your squad set? With all the burn bags?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s head out, then, along that trail until we reach that outcropping to the southeast. One scout two hundred yards ahead.”
“Yes, sir. Orlant, you take scout.”
Once Orlant was past him, Alucius turned the gray off the road and along the narrow trail following the scout. Zerdial and the rest of fifth squad followed.
For the first several hundred yards the trail was almost flat. Then it swung south between two cedars and angled back east, up the side of the hill in a gradual climb. Although Orlant was well forward, Alucius scanned the trail in front as well as the sparse woods on all sides. For the first half glass, he could detect almost nothing except some grayjays and rodents. As they neared the top of the first rise, through the trees, Alucius could see a thin trail of smoke to the east against the early-morning sky, beyond an even steeper line of hills.
The squad drew up at the ridge crest, with Orlant and another scout posted out from the squad, while Alucius spent several moments checking his maps and studying the two narrow trails. Then he nodded. “The left one. It should bring us up on the north side of the camp, and if Waris’s reports were right, we could come out on a low bluff.”
The trail wound down, then back up and farther to the north before turning back to the southeast. To cover perhaps a vingt as an eagle flew took close to three vingts on the trail, and it was late midmorning when they stopped again.
To the south beyond the thicker junipers where Alucius had ordered the stop and just over the ridgeline above them, Alucius could sense both people and something that was similar to an ifrit, but wasn’t, a vague dark purpleness. What could be like an ifrit, but not? He decided that question could wait. As he scanned with his Talent, he looked at the maps once more, not that he needed them, but he wasn’t about to explain that he didn’t. He raised his eyes to Zerdial.
“The camp is almost due south, over that ridge. We’ll ride up through the trees and stop just short of the top. Then I’ll move forward and study the layout quickly and come back with instructions on who will use their burn bags where.”
“Yes, sir.” Zerdial turned in the saddle. “Follow the majer, and keep it quiet.”
Alucius eased the gray from behind the junipers and started up the uneven slope. He reined up about twenty yards from the crest. There he dismounted and handed the gray’s reins to Orlant. Carrying one rifle, he made his way up the slope, moving sideways as well, until he reached the crest at a point just behind an ancient cedar. Keeping low, he eased up behind the cedar’s trunk and studied what lay below.
Several grayjays squawked, but then flew westward.
The camp was almost exactly the way that Waris had described it—or rather, Waris had described it accurately. Alucius studied the lines of vegetation and the trees and spiky thorns particularly. All but one area could be reached from cover, and the wind was from the west, which should fan the flames downhill into the areas of dry spiky thornbush. Alucius set down his rifle and took out the map, marking the spots for each two-man team.
Then he spent more time using his Talent. He could detect no one in the heights above the camp—not a single patrol or sentry. That suggested a lack of solid military training, or something else. The darkish purple that was visible only to Talent seemed to be centered in the cave area that was to his right and farther south, but there was a thin miasma over the entire camp. For Alucius, that was as good as an announcement that the ifrits were involved. It was also useless as an explanation of anything to anyone else. He couldn’t exactly explain the evil behind beings that no one else had seen and no one else alive could explain—except for Wendra and the ifrits and their allies and servants.
Finally, he slipped back down to the waiting squad.
“Gather round.” As the squad circled around Alucius, he began. “We’re just to the north of the camp, and it’s below us, set against a curve in the bluffs. Each of you is to fuse your burn bags and place them so that the areas of brush and thorn catch fire. That will take away part of their defenses so that we can attack later from more points. It might also keep them guessing. Once you get things burning, return to the juniper grove down below here. We’ll reassemble there. Anyone who’s not back in a glass will have to find his own way back. Is that understood? Now…I’ll explain to each team where your targets are…” Using the map and his own study of the camp, he described each target area to each two-man team. When he was finished, he looked at Zerdial. “Let’s go.”
He remounted the gray and rode eastward, keeping below the crest of the ridge but still scanning with his Talent. He picked up more rodents, including tree-rats, and the grayjays, and several larger
animals—a mountain cat, he thought, and several deer—but no sentries or patrols. That absence continued to worry him.
Alucius had given himself the farthest and the trickiest assignment, the one to the east, just above the broadest section of spiky thorn—but the area most vulnerable to an attack by lancers if there were no thorns. It was also the closest to the camp, and the one area most likely to have patrols.
A good vingt to the east and south, Alucius reined up below the ridgeline, although it was more of a plateau running to a drop-off holding the spiky thorns than a ridge. From what he could see and sense, the only guard was one stationed at the end of the palisade running out from the gate at the narrow east road entrance.
Alucius dismounted and tied the gray to the only tree nearby, a bent juniper. He took the three burn bags from behind the saddle and slung them over his shoulder. Then, rifle in hand, and moving in a low crouch, he eased along the gentle slope toward the drop-off. He crawled the last few yards until he was stretched behind a low bush. From there, he looked at the spiky thorn below. It was farther away than he had realized, a good fifty yards to the south of the base of the low bluff, and the area was open and exposed enough that to drop down the two-yard irregular rocky and sandy slope, then move close enough to make sure that the spiky thorn caught fire, would leave him totally exposed to the sentry—and anyone else who might be alerted.
The sentry was not especially alert, but he did scan the area where Alucius lay.
Alucius looked westward and uphill, watching.
One thin trail of smoke appeared, then another. Shortly, there was a third.
“Fire!” The call was faint, but Alucius could make it out.
He lifted his rifle and waited.
Finally, the guard turned to look to the west, moving enough away from the wooden pillars of his sentry box so that Alucius had a clear shot. At that distance, it took him two shots, but with the yelling from the camp, no one noticed—for the moment—the sentry slump out of sight.
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