by Weber, David
“I don’t think I like that thought very much,” Ulthar said after a long pause.
“I don’t either, but we need to be thinking about it. And as you just pointed out, Regiment-Captain Velvelig’s smart enough to be thinking the same sort of thoughts. I think it would be a really good idea for the two of us—and Sahrimahn—to make sure we’re on the same page he is.”
“You’re probably right.” Ulthar scowled down into his mug and grimaced. “Damn, I don’t like that thought. I really don’t.”
“The good news is that I’m probably worrying more than I ought to,” Sarma said. “I mean, if anyone really wanted to desert, he could’ve done it when we crossed into New Uromath.”
“Yeah, but at that point they’d’ve been in the middle of nowhere, with the rest of us wondering where they’d gone,” Ulthar pointed out. “The entire garrison at that excuse for a portal fort couldn’t’ve been more than fifty or sixty men. If we’d had to take it out instead of sneaking around it, we sure as hells had the firepower for it, and that was the only place they could’ve gone. I’m pretty sure most of them are smart enough to figure out what the rest of us—and especially the regiment-captain—would’ve done if we’d figured out they’d gone running to the fort to report us. No,” he shook his head, “if anybody’s really thinking about turning his coat on us, he’ll wait until he has a clear run for Mahritha.”
“Probably,” Sarma acknowledged. “If it’s any comfort, anybody who might be thinking that way’s almost certainly one of my boys or Sahrimahn’s cavalry. Your Second Andarans are about as all in on this as it’s possible for someone to be!”
“Well, of course they are!” Ulthar’s frown turned into a grin. “Unlike the rest of you, we know exactly what the duke’s going to do. By now Arylis has to’ve delivered my report to him, and none of my boys have any doubt about what’s been heading down-chain towards us ever since. So we’re not in any hurry to be throwing ourselves into the dragon’s mouth in the meantime.”
“Faith,” Sarma observed, sipping bitterblack, “is a wonderful thing. I just hope to Hali it’s not misplaced.”
* * *
“Ready to proceed, Regiment-Captain,” Therman Ulthar said an hour later as he reined in his unicorn beside Namir Velvelig and Company-Captain Traisair Halath-Shodach, Velvelig’s senior surviving subordinate. His tone was rather more formal than the one he normally used when addressing the Sharonian he’d come to know so well over the last several weeks. Sarma and Fifty Sahrimahn Cothar came cantering up behind him, their unicorns moving with the almost feline stride to which Velvelig had finally become accustomed.
“Any cold feet on your side?” he asked now, raising one eyebrow by perhaps a thirty-second of an inch. For a moment, Ulthar looked blank, then grimaced once the spellware came up with the Andaran equivalent of the cliché.
“Not that we know of, Sir,” he replied, glancing at his fellow Arcanans. “Everyone’s present and accounted for at the moment, at any rate.” He looked back at Velvelig and shrugged. “Actually, Jaralt and I were rather hoping that particular concern wouldn’t have occurred to you. Not that we figured there was much chance it wouldn’t.”
“People are people, Therman, whether they’re Arcanan or Sharonian. Much as I didn’t think I’d ever say this while I was locked up in my own brig, your lads are about as good and solid troops as I’ve ever seen. They’d be more than human if at least some of them weren’t thinking about it, though.”
“The thought had occurred to me, too, Sir,” Halath-Shodach said, stroking his flowing mustache with a gloved finger. “But to be honest, I haven’t seen any sign of its occurring to any of Fifty Ulthar’s men.” He smiled a bit crookedly. “Maybe they’re just not as corruptible as Sharonians.”
“Oh, we’re just as corruptible,” Ulthar replied a bit more grimly. “That’s what we’re all doing out here, after all—coping with someone’s corruptibility.”
“But not your boys’ corruptibility,” Halath-Shodach said. As a Shurkhali, he’d been filled with just as much hate for all things Arcanan over Shaylar’s death as any garthan in the Arcanan Army had been infuriated by Halathyn vos Dulainah’s “murder” at Sharonian hands. And like his Arcanan trail companions, he’d had to do some profound rethinking once he learned the truth. In the process, he’d become something suspiciously close to an Arcanan sympathizer.
Where some Arcanans were concerned, at any rate.
“I don’t know if I’d go as far as Traisahr, Regiment-Captain, but I think we’re good,” Cothar said, meeting the Sharonians’ eyes levelly. Velvelig gazed back at the cavalry officer for a moment, then nodded.
“In that case, I think it’s time we were going. I trust your little navigating rock is ready?”
“It is,” Ulthar assured him, lifting his navigation unit and showing him the activated display. At the moment, it was still oriented to New Uromath; the instant they crossed back into Hell’s Gate it would shift to the stored navigational data for that universe, although only a sixty-mile radius around the Mahritha portal had been mapped and loaded when Sarma and Cothar passed through on their way towards Thermyn. A broader upload was undoubtedly available by now, but what they had was enough for their present need.
Velvelig glanced at the glowing display and nodded. He wasn’t fully enamored of trusting his navigation to someone who was technically the enemy, but the Arcanan device was clearly better than anything he had. And at least he knew the rough compass bearing to their destination, which should tip him off if they started steering him in the wrong direction for some reason. Of course, seeing his compass was going to be just a bit difficult under the circumstances, he reflected, unable to suppress a stab of envy as he looked at that lighted display.
Oh, come on, Namir! he told himself. What kind of sorry excuse for a septman needs a compass to find his way around even on the darkest night? And in the snow? When he can’t see a damned thing? Anyway, the damned glow’s probably visible a thousand yards away in the dark! Not exactly the best thing in the world when you’re sneaking around in the shrubbery. Assuming the damned forest fire’d left any shrubbery, anyway.
His lip twitched in the fractional lift that served him for a smile and he raised one hand, waving at the darkness before them.
“After you, then,” he said.
* * *
The snowfall thickened as full night fell. It didn’t quite qualify for the term “blizzard,” but it was clearly headed that way. In fact, it ought to reach it in the next few hours, which pleased the fugitives no end. Dragons didn’t mind snow, but few of their riders were particularly fond of it. And even if the inclement weather didn’t ground any potential overflights, not even a dragon would see much on a night like this. The snow which already blanketed the burned-out forest was more than a little treacherous underfoot, and it was deep enough to hide the kind of obstacles which could break a horse’s—or even a unicorn’s—leg entirely too easily, but it also made the night seem less dark.
They produced what seemed like an incredible racket slogging through the snow. In fact, Velvelig knew, there was actually very little noise, considering the number of men and vehicles moving through the dark. It was only tight nerves and adrenaline that made it seem so loud. And even if it had been just as loud as it seemed, the Hell’s Gate portal was what the Arcanans called a Class Eight, just over thirty-six miles across. There was no way in all the Arpathian hells the Arcanans at what had been Fort Shaylar could hope to cover that kind of frontage on a night like this—and he didn’t care if they did have magic to do it with!
He’d never heard of portals as close together as the Hell’s Gate cluster, but he thanked his ancestors’ ghosts for it. The swamp portal to the universe the Arcanans had dubbed Mahritha was thirty miles from the Hell’s Gate itself, but one of the other portals was barely half that far away. In fact, it was close enough that they ought to reach it easily before what ought to have been sunrise, assuming the cloud cover broke enough for th
ere to be a sunrise.
Namir Velvelig was Arpathian, born and bred to the steppes, and he hated close country. He especially hated jungle, if he was going to be honest, but under some circumstances, jungles had a great deal to recommend them. For one thing, they offered lots of hiding places. And, for another, as hard as rain forests could be on equipment and clothing, they never got cold enough for hypothermia to kill his men.
* * *
“Marshan’s mercies, but that feels good,” one of the Arcanans said, and Master-Armsman Hordal Karuk nodded in profound agreement.
He had no idea at all who “Marshan” was. As an Arpathian, he had too many demons of his own to keep track of to worry about all the other Sharonian deities be, much less about heathen Arcanan pantheons! But he was heartily in favor of staying on the good side of any divine being who specialized in mercies, and the blessed warmth blowing into their faces constituted the greatest mercy he’d encountered since leaving Fort Ghartoun.
“Does feel nice,” he agreed. “But let’s hold up for a minute till the rest catch up a bit.”
“Right, Master-Armsman,” the Arcanan replied. Or, rather, his crystal replied for him. What he’d actually said was probably something like “Sure, Master Sword,” but by now Karuk was almost accustomed to the damned twinkly rocks.
He chuckled mentally at the thought and eased himself in the unicorn’s saddle. Unlike his regiment-captain, he’d decided early on that the horned beasties were vastly superior to horses. As an Arpathian, he wasn’t supposed to admit anything of the sort. As someone whose arse had spent entirely too many hours making the acquaintance of entirely too many saddles, however, he approved enthusiastically of unicorns. It might be a tad inconvenient to have a mount who might nip off your arm if it got hungry, but that was a small price to pay for all of the other good points.
He’d also decided, much to his own astonishment, that he rather liked most of the Arcanans in their…diverse party. He hadn’t expected that, even after they’d broken him and the other POWs out of their own brig, yet it was true. He’d spent too many years in uniform not to recognize the Arcanans’ hard core of professionalism, and those same years told him how hard it must have been for them to turn against their own superiors, whatever the provocation, over what amounted to a matter of principle and conscience. He wasn’t sure he bought into the notion that someone with motives of his own had deliberately fanned the flames for the current war, but he’d found he had no choice but to believe these men were simply doing their duty the best way they could in one hell of a messy situation. And the fact that they were said some things which were at least hopeful about the society and military which had produced men willing to run such risks in the name of their army’s honor.
“Have we lost anybody, Master-Armsman?” a voice asked quietly from beside him, and he snorted.
“Now why should we be losing anybody, Evarl?”
“Are telling me Regiment-Captain Velvelig didn’t discuss that possibility with you?” Thermyn Ulthar’s senior surviving noncom replied. “Fifty Ulthar and Fifty Sarma sure as hells both discussed it with me!”
“Ah, well, that’s the sort of thing officers’re paid to worry about, isn’t it?” Karuk turned to glance at the Arcanan, whose face was faintly visible in the backwash from his navigating crystal. “You and me, we’re a bit closer to the lads than that.”
“Have to admit that once they brought it up I was a little nervous,” Evarl Harnak acknowledged. “Couldn’t think of anyone who was likely to hightail it, though, once I put my mind to it.”
“Me neither,” Karuk told him. “Seems to me your boys are pretty solid.”
“Yours, too. ’Course for mine there’s the problem that if that bastard Thalmayr’s story’s gotten out, anybody we go running to might just shoot first and wonder whether we were innocent bystanders second. That’s got to weigh on the mind of any bastard who’d turn on his squad mates in the first place.”
“That kind does like to keep his skin in one piece, doesn’t he?” Karuk chuckled harshly. “Nice to know some things don’t change from universe to universe, isn’t it?”
“Kind of wish some of them did, just between you and me,” Harnak said.
“You think this duke of yours really has the reach to straighten this mess out?” It was the first time Karuk had actually asked any of the Arcanans that question, and Harnak cocked his head, green eyes glinting in the light from his crystal.
“I’m not saying I don’t think he’ll try, understand,” Karuk continued. “I’ve got a pretty good idea about you Second Andarans by now, and I reckon your duke’s probably about as stubborn as the regiment-captain. I know damned well what Regiment-Captain Velvelig’d do in a situation like this, and I expect your duke’ll do the same. But seems to me that whoever’s pushing this thing probably has a line or two in his plans for dealing with the duke, too. And even if he doesn’t, won’t having his own son right in the middle of this make it harder for him to get a hearing?”
“Trust me, the fifty’s thought about that, too, whether he wants to admit it or not,” Harnak said after a moment. “On the other hand, I sure as hells wouldn’t want to be the poor sod who got in the duke’s way when he thinks the Second Andarans’ honor is on the line. Sure, having Sir Jasak ‘in the middle of it’ may…complicate things for him, but not Shartahk himself could stop him in a case like this. And if there’s one Andaran duke in all the multiverse you don’t want pissed off at you, it’s Duke Garth Showma.”
Karuk nodded with immense satisfaction. It wasn’t as if Harnak had just said anything he hadn’t already heard before from Thermyn Ulthar and Jaralt Sarma, but over the years Hordal Karuk had seen quite a few officers with touching faith in fables, magic charms, moonshine, and the honesty of their superiors. Some of them seemed to feel there was some kind of code that required them to believe the official truth even when they knew better. He hadn’t thought Ulthar or Sarma fell into that category, but it was always a relief when a good levelheaded noncom who’d seen the bison confirmed their judgment.
“Well, in that case—” he began, only to stop in midsentence as Regiment-Captain Velvelig and Fifty Ulthar appeared out of the snowy darkness.
“Chelgayr, that feels good!” the regiment-captain said, and Karuk heard something suspiciously like a smothered laugh from Evarl Harnak’s direction.
“Yes, Sir, it does,” the master-armsman agreed, pointedly not looking at his Arcanan colleague. And it was true. The portal’s vestibule was a bubble of blessed warmth. The steady portal wind wasn’t especially strong—or, rather, most of it was going straight up instead of blowing outward at ground level—but there was at least a ninety-degree difference between its starting temperature and snowy northern New Ternathia. That heat bled off quickly, but not before it had produced a zone perhaps three hundred yards deep in which there wasn’t a trace of snow, and the sky on the other side—actually visible, thanks to the clearing that abutted the portal—was a deep, moonlit sapphire sprinkled with the stars of another hemisphere.
“I suppose we should get our arses over where it’s warmer, then,” Velvelig continued and glanced at the two senior noncoms. “Should I assume in your customary efficient manner the two of you have confirmed our nose count?”
“Yes, Sir,” Karuk replied. “Evarl and I’ve been the sort of keeping an eye on that all the way here.”
“I thought you had.” Velvelig produced another of his infinitesimal smiles. “Good noncoms are an officer’s greatest treasure, Hordal. Now we just have to find me one.”
“You go right on looking, Sir,” the master-sword said easily. “Be a comfort to retire and put my feet up in front of the fire when you finally find one.”
Velvelig snorted, conceding the exchange, and twitched his head at the portal.
“Take us through, Hordal.”
“Yes, Sir! Chan Byral!”
“Here, Master-Armsman!”
The tall but slightly built—and very young�
�Distance Viewer appeared out of the darkness.
“I apologize for disturbing your beauty rest, young Hanyl,” Karuk said in his most fatherly tone, “but if it would be possible for you to spare the Portal Authority a moment of your time, I’d appreciate your taking yourself to the other side of that portal and Looking around. I’m sure Sword Harnak would be happy to ride along and keep you out of mischief.”
“Yes, Master-Armsman.” The youthful Distance Viewer glanced at Evarl Harnak, and the Arcanan shook his head with a smile.
“No rest for the weary,” he observed. “Oh well, Hanyl, I guess we’d best be about it before the Master-Armsman thinks of something else for us to do.”
Chan Byral smiled and sent his unicorn pacing forward.
Behind him, the rest of the column was closing up with remarkable speed, given the weather conditions and terrain. The Portal Authority wagons, floating on the dwindling Arcanan levitation spells, had moved through the treacherous, burned-out, snow-covered forest with an ease the Sharonians still found profoundly unnatural. Welcome, yes, but definitely unnatural.
