Darknesses

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “He’s on the north side of the road, there.”

  Alucius and Anslym rode toward the wounded trooper.

  Even before he reined up, Alucius could sense the shattered bone.

  “How are you doing, Sond?”

  “Have to say…hurts, sir.”

  Alucius eased Wildebeast closer to the trooper’s mount. There wasn’t any infection yet, and the sections of what remained of the bones were lined up. Alucius fingered the splint, then let a trace of his Talent flow. He looked at the trooper, struggling to hang on to consciousness. “Looks like it’ll take a while to heal, but, with luck, you’ll keep the arm.”

  “Felt the bone go, sir.”

  “You’ll make it, Sond.” Alucius projected confidence, then turned. He couldn’t afford to spend too much Talent that way, but it was unlikely that he’d have to use his Talent extensively for several days, and he owed what he could give to his troopers.

  “Anslym…detail someone to ride with him, watch him, and keep him alert.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alucius reined up slightly to the north of where the squads had trapped the raiders. From what he could see, they had not worn uniforms, but with the near-identical gray woolen riding coats and black winter caps, they might as well have, although Alucius knew of no troopers in Corus who wore black and gray. He doubted that there were any.

  The rifles the raiders had used were neither the heavy five-shot weapons used by the militia nor the lighter ten-shot weapons used by the Matrites. Nor were they Lanachronan, but something else.

  All the circumstances indicated trouble ahead, and while he guessed the cause of the trouble lay with the Lord-Protector, it was only a guess. He could hope that what his troopers were gathering would provide evidence, but he had doubts that the evidence would point southward. The Lanachronans were far too devious for that.

  He took a deep breath, feeling the chill, despite the lightening of the sky in the east with the coming of dawn. The squads still had a ride of several glasses back to Emal, with all the captured gear—and the wounded.

  11

  A glow that shone through the ground fog to the east signified dawn as the second and third squads of Twenty-first Company formed up to begin the ride back through Tuuler to Emal. It had taken more than a glass to gather together the fifteen captured mounts, those that had not scattered, and the weapons and personal effects of the raiders, but all were packed on the fifteen horses.

  “Column forward!” Alucius ordered.

  “Second squad! Forward!”

  “Third squad…”

  Alucius was more than a little worried. With the weapons they had carried, the riders they had killed had certainly not been traders. Nor had they carried anything that would have absolutely identified them. Their wallets had contained coppers and silvers, but no golds—except for that of one gray-bearded and hard-faced raider, whose figure and face looked far more like that of a trooper than a brigand. His wallet had held ten golds—an enormous sum for a raider or a brigand.

  The young captain looked at the road ahead, a road now covered with hoofprints and tracks, despite the frozen clay. In places, there were splotches of blood, and in others, the carcasses of a few horses, too heavy to move easily.

  “We didn’t take that many casualties,” Faisyn said from where he rode on Alucius’s left. “For raiders, they seemed surprised when we attacked.”

  “They didn’t expect an ambush in the middle of the night,” Anslym pointed out.

  “You’re both right,” Alucius said. “We’re going to stop at the chandlery shop in Tuuler.” Sensing Faisyn’s puzzlement, he added, “Someone was up and had a fire going when we passed through, and that was two glasses before dawn.”

  “You think the raiders were headed to get supplies there?”

  “We’ll see.”

  As Alucius and the two squads passed the shed behind which he had set his part of the ambush and reached the outskirts of Tuuler, he could see the smoke rising from the chimneys of most of the scattered dwellings. Farther toward the crossroads, several dwellings had even opened their outer shutters to let light in, and a woman in a sheepskin jacket was standing on a side porch, throwing a bucket of water out onto the snow of the side yard. She looked at the riders, and the black winter riding parkas of the militia, and hurried inside, banging the empty bucket on the doorframe as she did.

  Alucius looked toward the crossroads ahead, then spoke. “Anslym…take your squad to the back side of the shop. Have them with their rifles at the ready. I don’t want anyone leaving.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Third squad will cover the front, while I go inside,” Alucius told Faisyn. “I’d like to talk to the chandler.”

  “How many troopers do you want with you?” asked Faisyn.

  “Four should be enough, I’d think, with the squads outside having their rifles at the ready,” Alucius replied.

  “Yes, sir. Third squad! Rifles ready! First two ranks, dismount and accompany the captain.”

  Just as third squad reined up before the chandlery, a man emerged from the door of the cooperage across the street—only long enough to take in the armed riders, and immediately retreat back into the shop.

  Alucius dismounted, then climbed the two steps to the narrow wooden porch. The door was unlocked, and he nodded to one of the troopers, who stepped inside before Alucius. Alucius followed him into the shop, far warmer than outside.

  The other three followed, sabres drawn.

  Inside, at the back of the shop, little more than a large, single-room warehouse, stood two men beside a long bench. From the iron stove set on a small stone hearth next to the north wall radiated gentle warmth.

  “I’m looking for the owner,” Alucius announced.

  “Who might you be?” asked the taller of the two by the bench, a burly man with a square-cut brown beard.

  “Alucius, captain, Iron Valley Militia.”

  “You don’t do much these days, Captain, except ride back and forth. It’s not as though we’re fighting folk, but I suppose you have to do what you’re ordered to do.” A wide and generous—and false—smile appeared on the man’s face, exposing white but crooked teeth.

  “I take it you’re the owner?”

  “You take it right. I’m Cephys.”

  “Are you usually open this early?”

  A frown crossed Cephys’s face, then vanished. “We’re really not open yet. Usually folk don’t show up until two glasses after dawn in winter.”

  Alucius nodded. “That’s understandable. Mind if we look around?”

  “Can’t say as I like it, but you got four men with blades. Man would be less ’n wise to say no.”

  Alucius moved toward the bench.

  The other man, younger, thinner, stepped back, his eyes wide. Cephys watched the militia captain intently.

  “I see you’ve got some provisions laid out here. Are you expecting someone?” Alucius watched the chandler.

  “That’s why I was here early,” Cephys admitted. “Some traders…said they were Deforyan. They came through a couple of weeks ago, said they’d be back on Sexdi this week.” He frowned. “Should have been here already.”

  Alucius could Talent-sense that the chandler was more than shading the truth. “Did you ever see them before?”

  “Not until two weeks ago.”

  The lie was obvious to Alucius, but he let it pass as he looked at the goods laid out in stacks along the long bench. He picked up one of the waxed wedges of hard cheese. “Riding supplies. Most of them made right here in Tuuler. Some even have the marks on them.”

  “Fellow said he wouldn’t take unmarked goods. Said that too many folk tried to pass off shoddy or spoiled stuff on traders just passing through.”

  “I imagine he would say that,” Alucius agreed, nodding.

  “You think I’m lying?” Cephys’s face stiffened in anger.

  “No. I think you’re telling the truth…this time.” Alucius set dow
n another wax-coated packet—one containing strips of dried beef—and turned. “I don’t think your traders will be here. Was the one you made the agreement with a gray-haired, gray-bearded fellow?”

  “No…but he was the one who paid the deposit.”

  Alucius could sense Cephys’s sudden worry.

  “We’d had reports of raiders,” Alucius said. “So we were out early this morning, patrolling. We ran into some raiders. Most of them didn’t escape.” He smiled and shrugged. “I just thought you’d like to know.”

  “Raiders? Said they were traders. Wore good gray coats.”

  “That may be, but they fired a great number of shots for traders, and when they realized they were trapped, they fought to the death rather than be captured. Traders don’t do that.” Alucius turned back toward the door. “I wondered why they were headed to Tuuler. Now I know. Good day, chandler.”

  The wave of consternation and panic that emanated from the chandler told Alucius that the chandler had suspected something was not right, but that he had not known for certain—and that he was likely to be out coins he didn’t have.

  As Alucius stepped through the door, he caught the muttering of the chandler.

  “…horsedung…miserable militia…”

  “…careful…he’s the one…”

  Alucius couldn’t catch the rest of the phrase, but he suspected he knew one of the phrases. Either it was about his being a herder or about his reputation as the killer captain.

  He mounted quickly, then nodded at Faisyn. “We can go.”

  “Third squad! Column to the crossroads…”

  Alucius turned Wildebeast, thinking. How could he lay too much blame on Cephys when the man was only following the example of the merchants who controlled the Council in Dekhron? He took a slow breath and resettled himself in the saddle.

  Even with the sun close to burning through the mist that clung to the river valley, the ride back to Emal would be chill, if not nearly so cold as the ride out had been.

  12

  Catyr, Lustrea

  The white morning sunlight did little to warm the second-floor workroom of the provincial armory. Chill winter winds from the Spine of Corus whistled outside the windows as the angular engineer looked down at the ancient workbench and at the black metal container resting upon a thin sheet of perfect green quartz. The container was approximately two-thirds of a yard long, a third wide, and a third in height. Within were an assemblage of crystals—none red nor pink—small silver metallic objects, and an empty silver bracket.

  The thin man wearing the black and silver of a Praetorian engineer adjusted the contacts of a silver bracket and eased the green crystal into place before sliding the cover back over the black weapon. He looked up, then across the workbench at the gray-haired man in the silver vestments of the Praetor. “That was the last one. All ten are ready for battle.”

  “A good half year later than you had originally promised, Vestor.”

  “I could not have planned for whatever Talent-anomaly it was that shattered every red and purple crystal in all of Corus.”

  “No. That was not within your control. Have you discovered anything else about that, save that it appeared connected to the death of the Matrial?”

  “No, Praetor. Whoever marshaled that Talent has done nothing at that level since then.”

  “And it could not have been the Matrial herself?”

  “It is possible, but I think that would be too convenient an explanation.”

  The Praetor laughed. “Spoken like a true son of Lustrea. Convenience never operates to one’s advantage.” After the briefest of pauses, he continued. “I do not understand why your replica devices—the ones that mimic the Tables of the Recorders—show Tyren, and Aellyan Edyss, and even a herder and trooper who has been in three different uniforms in as many years, but they do not ever show the Lord-Protector of Lanachrona as one likely to hold or seek the dual scepter.” The Praetor’s voice was mild, but steel backed his words.

  “I do not know, Praetor,” Vestor replied carefully. “I would surmise that might be because Lanachrona is the pivot around which the entire future of Corus will turn, and a pivot is not an actor. Also, the device would not show all those seeking to hold the scepter, just those who might be capable. The militia officer might have the Talent, but not the ambition, while the Lord-Protector might have the ambition, but not the ability.”

  “Still…the Lord-Protector, young as he is, can marshal a force of far greater size and power than can this Aellyan Edyss.”

  “Aellyan Edyss holds the Council Vault at Lyterna. We do not know what that holds. It is Talent-shielded.”

  “Could he have devices such as these?” The Praetor pointed at the black metal box on the workbench.

  “If he does, he has not yet removed them from the Vault. Even if he does, he may not be able to repair or use them.”

  “You can tell if he has such a weapon?”

  “So long as it is not totally developed and operated by Talent, and so long as you can afford each replica mirror, Praetor. If the weapon is made by Talent and operated by one of Talent…then the glass will not show it.”

  “Are there such weapons?

  “Not since the Cataclysm,” Vestor offered cautiously.

  “Then those are golds well spent.” The Praetor turned and looked in the direction of the small window at the west end of the workroom. “Once the worst of the snows abate, we will begin the campaign to take Illegea. While the high road is seldom fully blocked, with your devices, we will be able to assure that it remains clear for all of our legions. We will come upon this barbarian before he is ready, and before the grass grows high enough to nourish the mounts of his horse warriors. And before he becomes more ambitious.” The Praetor added in a cold voice. “His insolence in tariffing our traders is not to be countenanced.”

  “He does appear insolent,” Vestor said carefully.

  “Insufferably insolent.”

  “Will Tyren be with us, Praetor?”

  “Not for now. It is not wise to have both the Praetor and his successor on the same campaign. I have kept him well aware of both our plans…and your…capabilities, Vestor.”

  “You are most kind, Praetor.”

  “You mean I am most careful.”

  “That, as well.”

  As he departed, the Praetor’s hearty laugh filled the armory workroom.

  13

  A gust of wind rattled the windows of the officers’ mess, but Alucius continued to look down at the papers on the table. It was already midmorning on Septi, more than a day after the battle with the raiders, but he really couldn’t finish writing his report to militia headquarters until he heard from Haesphes. He wiped the pen clean and closed the inkwell, then stood and walked to the door. Smoke was coming from the chimney of the armory.

  With a shrug, and without bothering to don his parka, Alucius stepped out of the small outpost headquarters. For a moment, he surveyed the courtyard, kept free of snow by troopers with shovels—a measure that provided both exercise for the troopers and freedom from endless mud when the spring thaw came. Then he walked across the courtyard to the squarish stone building that was the armory. His boots crunched on a patch of the crusty snow that had escaped the shovels and softened with the momentary thaw of the afternoon before and then refrozen. Officially, winter would be over in another week, but the snow would likely persist for several more weeks, before melting and turning the roads—and everything else—into a muddy mess.

  Once at the armory, he opened the door and stepped inside. Despite the heat radiating from the iron stove set against the stones of the south wall, the armory was chill. Alucius looked at the rifles on the armory bench, then at Haesphes, the elderly armorer, who had just returned to the militia outpost that Septi morning. Alucius couldn’t blame the armorer for wanting to go to his daughter’s funeral, but Haesphes’ absence had not been at the most convenient time.

  “What do you think?”

 
Haesphes looked up, then coughed, and cleared his throat, twice. Finally, he spoke, with the thick accent common to those who lived on the upper reaches of the River Vedra. “They’re Deforyan rifles, sir, or so much like to them as none could tell the difference.”

  “You think someone copied them?”

  “Not all of them. Five of them have the maker’s mark, and Deforyan issue numbers. You can find issue numbers on Lanachronan rifles and Matrite rifles, too. Iron Valleys is about the only place you don’t find issue numbers.”

  “Why didn’t they copy the issue numbers? Or put false ones there?”

  “Extra work…or they wanted to be able to claim that the rifles were copies.” Haesphes shrugged. “Good workmanship, though. It’s as good as if they were Deforyan, and they make good weapons. That’s one reason why Deforya has stayed independent.”

  “And one reason why the Lord-Protector would like to take it over?” Alucius speculated.

  “I’m just an armorer, Captain,” Haesphes protested.

  Alucius laughed. “You know more than any of us captains, I’d wager, and you’ve seen a great deal over the years.”

  “Not so much as you, sir, from what I’ve heard tell.”

  “You’re older, and you’ve listened. Who else could make those weapons? You could. So could the Matrite’s workshops at Salcer, but I doubt either of you did.”

  Haesphes pursed his lips, then looked toward the iron stove before turning back toward Alucius. “Elcoyn could. Apprenticed in Dereka, years back, and he’s got a place in Dekhron. Probably three or four in Lanachrona could. And, I’ve heard tell, a good number in Lustrea.”

  “So…either Elcoyn did or someone in Lanachrona did,” Alucius said.

  “Most likely.”

  “Is there any way to tell from the rifles you have?”

  “Not here. If I watched an armorer, I could see if certain patterns showed in the metalwork and woodwork. Without that…” Haesphes shook his head.