by John Dalmas
Cyncaidh sat listening intently, his deputy and trumpeter beside him. Their horses' faces, necks and manes were white with rime from their own breath. His eyelashes were beaded with frost, his eyebrows crusted with it. They were at the east end of his assault line, where they'd be the first to hear the column. And nearer the road than the rest of his force was—less than twenty yards from it—screened by hemlock saplings growing on a large old windfall.
He didn't like waiting in such cold. It was hard on men and horses. Most of his ylver could manipulate their metabolism and circulation to some extent, to keep warm, but it drained their energy reserves. So they were under orders to use the technique only to keep their fingers warm, and in emergencies, their feet.
And just now their ears, for they'd turned their earflaps up, listening for the enemy's approach. Still, despite the general silence and his acute hearing, the sound of the column sneaked up on him. Suddenly he was aware of the plop-plop of hooves on packed snow. The advance guard, he supposed. Quietly he drew his saber. The hithar passed in front of him, well enough screened by the hemlocks and roadside undergrowth, that all Cyncaidh saw of them was movement. Then came the chink of trace chains, and the squeak of runners on packed snow in forty degrees of frost. He couldn't hear a thing from the teamsters. They were, he supposed, too numb to talk.
For long minutes the sleighs passed. Cyncaidh had tensed. His right wing would attack the advance guard at any moment. Then he'd...
He heard shouts from the head of the column, and spoke a low word of command. His trumpeter blew a long shrill note, and all along the road the ylver charged, Cyncaidh with them. But as they plunged through the roadside undergrowth, the column's escort surprised them, meeting them not with the usual sabers, but with seven-foot spears. A few of the raiders reacted too slowly, and the horses were stabbed in head or neck, but most reined back, briefly confused. At the same time, soldiers arose on the wagons, out of the hay or from beneath tarps, crossbows in hand.
Cyncaidh felt a bolt slam through his Cuirass, and into his upper left chest.
The escort had never intended to fight with their spears. They'd served mainly to halt the charging ylver, making them more susceptible to crossbow fire. Fighting in the saddle at a near standstill, spears were not the weapon of choice, and the escort dropped them. Before most of the raiders could recover their wits, the hithar engaged them with sabers.
The ylver fought furiously and skillfully. Some killed or wounded or unhorsed their opponents, some forced them back. Others died. In the melee, the crossbows had largely stopped. Cyncaidh's trumpeter and deputy had hung back, as they were supposed to. They saw their wounded commander defending himself against a soldier. Then, deflected by Cyncaidh's blade, a powerful saber blow slammed his helmet, and he fell from the saddle.
The deputy saw the hithik rear guard charging up, shouted an order, and the trumpeter blew the quick notes of retreat. As best they could, the ylver disengaged and galloped back into the forest, crossbowmen sending bolts after them.
Nearly a hundred bodies lay in the snow, more raiders than escorts. Not all of them were dead.
* * *
The Younger Quaie and his party had met with a voitik officer the evening before, at the flank post. There'd been no actual negotiations. The voitu had asked questions, then presented terms. Quaie had accepted. He had nothing to negotiate with except his services, and at any rate he felt optimistic. He usually was, manically so, despite the mental abuse visited on him by his famous and sadistic father. Just now, in fact, he felt positively exhilarated; he would soon have the respect he desired and deserved. This voitik prince needed someone who knew the people, politics, and power sources of the empires and the Marches. And he was that man. As time passed, the voitu would rely more and more on him. He'd have rewards, power, people subject to him, whom he could do with as he pleased.
* * *
They spent a second night in the rude cabin assigned to them, and slept late. When Quaie awoke, his exhilaration had faded. Breakfast was more spare than he'd expected. After eating, he said good-bye to his bodyguards. That was the hardest part of the bargain—harder even than being searched. Then his new driver led them outside, and watched while they got back in the cutter.
Quaie felt alone now, exposed and anxious. His driver was a large, hard-looking, frightening man with a face seeming carved from pale, scarred stone. Even the voitik sublieutenant who would accompany them spoke courteously to the creature.
For days, Quaie's hostage had traveled gagged and hooded, nearly hidden beneath heavy furs. After they'd crossed the river, Quaie had removed the gag; they would no longer encounter ylvin couriers and other travelers. Now, as the cutter moved smoothly away into the forest, he smirked at her. "Soon you will meet your new husband," he taunted. "And if you please him well enough, who knows? He may not share you out."
She didn't answer. The Younger Quaie was well known as susceptible to taunts, but infuriating him could have no good result.
* * *
The cutter was drawn by excellent horses on packed snow, and moved briskly. Here the countryside was a fertile till plain, but very stony. Thus it was largely forest, with occasional farm settlements rich in stone piles, rough stone fences, and stone foundations topped with the charred remains of buildings. The voitu loped tirelessly ahead of them, eating occasionally from his pocket as he ran. The creature impressed Quaie greatly; his only stops were to turn his back to the cutter and relieve his bladder. Quaie wished the voitu wouldn't turn away. He wanted to see what the creature had.
Twice they met large mounted forces patrolling the road. They wore uniforms like his driver's—quite different from those of the hithik soldiers at the flank post—and their men looked dangerous. The fabled rakutur, Quaie told himself. They must be.
The sun had set, and dusk was thickening, when they rode into a large cleared area, perhaps a mile square. Here there were no stone piles. Along the road were only the stubs of hedges cut since the last snow, and the charred remains of brush piles. In the southeast quarter of the clearing were buildings, a hamlet's worth, with lamp- and candlelight burning in windows. He was, Quaie realized, almost to the next phase of his great adventure, his new life.
* * *
As she got out of the cutter, Quaie threw the fur hood back from Varia's head, exposing her face. Then he gripped her arm needlessly. His strength surprised her. He'd always seemed smaller than he was. Now she realized his seeming weakness had also been an illusion. But not his mental problems; they were genuine.
Their tireless voitik sublieutenant entered the stone manor house ahead of them. Their driver herded them from behind. Varia found the rakutu disquieting. There was a sense of cruelty about him, and more unnerving, hatred.
The entryway opened into what had been a large parlor. Now it was a reception and office area, with numerous administrative personnel, and guards. As she entered with Quaie, eyes turned to them, but they were not challenged. They'd been expected.
The interior was rustic but well-constructed, with heavy, rough-hewn beams, and hardwood floors. The sublieutenant led them up a staircase. At the top, they turned down a hallway to a guarded door at the end. The voitu knocked. The door was opened by another voitu whom Varia realized was in early adolescence; a page or orderly she supposed. The sublieutenant ushered them in—Quaie first, then herself.
She knew at once which of the several voitu there was the crown prince. Even for a voitu he was tall, and his charisma struck her at once. Like the other voitar, his aura was strange, but it was a ruler's aura nonetheless. Like Raien's and Curtis's, and Sarkia's, but more intense than any of them.
He looked first at her, taking in her red hair and green eyes, then at Quaie, then at the sublieutenant. "Yes, Lieutenant?" he said.
The young officer bowed, a short half-bow. "Your Majesty, I have brought the ylvin Lord Quaie. And his captive."
"Ah." Kurqôsz turned. "Lord Quaie. Remind me why you have come here."
> Varia had already been impressed with the voitik fluency in Yuultal. She'd long since read of their hive mind; perhaps when one of them learned a language, it was accessible to all. All they'd need to do was practice using it.
"Your Majesty," Quaie said, "I am volunteering my services to you. I am expert in ylvin government and politics, and of course in the ways and attitudes of my people. In fact, during my fifty-seven years of life, observation, and study, I have learned much about all of Yuulith and its peoples. I can advise you and your generals on the most effective ways of dealing with them. And when your conquest is complete, on administering them with the greatest profit and least aggravation for Your Majesty."
"Hmm. Interesting. But as a person of power and position, why ally yourself with an enemy?"
"Why, it's clear that you will win. In Duinarog, the pessimism was so thick, you could cut it with a knife."
"Indeed? And your gift to me?" He turned to look again at Varia. "Why did you bring her?"
"As a token of my respect, and to demonstrate my knowledge and ability. She is the wife of Lord Raien Cyncaidh, you see, the Western Empire's most powerful duke, and the emperor's chief advisor. Yet I stole her without difficulty." He smirked. "She's very beautiful, don't you think? You may find her useful as a hostage. Or for your royal pleasure. Or both."
There was a sharp rap at the office door and, scowling, the crown prince turned to it. "What is it?" he said sharply.
The answer was in Hithmearcisc. "Your Majesty, an ylvin prisoner has been brought in. By his insignia, a general. He was wounded and captured while attacking a supply train."
Kurqôsz responded in Vismearcisc, seemingly for the benefit of his visitors. "A general? Leading raiders? Interesting. Is his wound serious?"
The man at the door switched to Vismearcisc to fit the crown prince's pleasure. "Your chief physician is with him now, Your Majesty."
"Your Majesty," Quaie interjected, "it is quite possible I can identify him for you." He had no doubt the prisoner was Cyncaidh.
"Can you now? Hmm." He turned to the door again. "Bring him in when Agr:Ucirc;x has finished with him. I want to see this general who leads his men instead of sending them. Either he has a poor opinion of his importance as a strategist, or a very high one of his importance as a fighting man."
He turned back to Quaie. "As for your gift, I already have ylvin women. Several of them, selected from thousands for their beauty. This one..." He gestured. "...is sufficiently robed, that all I can see is her face."
Kurqôsz paused. "But the crux of the matter is your qualifications as an advisor. Tell me about them."
Quaie began to recite a résumé. As he ran on, Varia was vaguely aware that it was almost totally false—his father's, not his own. His own acts, his abilities, even his evils were trivial by comparison with the elder. But her mind was not on Quaie. It was on the captured general. An icy fist had gripped her heart. It's Raien, she thought. It has to be.
There was another rap at the door, followed by a murmured exchange with the junior officer tending it. The young voitu interrupted Quaie's recitation. "Your Majesty, the ylvin general is here, unconscious on a stretcher. Agrûx is with him." He'd spoken in Vismearcisc. It seemed to be his master's choice this evening.
"Have him brought in." Kurqôsz turned to his aide, and gestured. "Clear that table for the stretcher."
Raien Cyncaidh's torso had been bared and bandaged. His face, always fair complected, was ivory white.
"I know him!" Quaie said.
The crown prince stilled him with an imperious gesture. "What are his wounds?" he asked the physician.
"A crossbow bolt struck his chest, Your Majesty, but his unconsciousness is from a heavy blow to the head. He will probably awaken from it before morning."
"Then he is not near death?"
"Seemingly not, Your Majesty."
The crown prince turned to Quaie. "Tell me his name."
"He is Lord Raien Cyncaidh of Aaerodh, Your Majesty. Gavriel's—the emperor's—chief advisor and sometime deputy." He pointed at Varia. "Her husband."
The crown prince smiled at Quaie. "I could as well have named him for you. He is not our first prisoner, you see, and we always question them. It is standard intelligence procedure, and occasionally recreation."
He pursed his lips in mock thoughtfulness. Quaie began to sense that he was in trouble. "I do not envision needing a viceroy. I will rule by force, not politics. As for an advisor..." Kurqôsz paused, watching emotions wrestle in Quaie's face. "I can smell liars," the crown prince said, "and liars make poor advisors. No, I have no need of your services."
Again he paused. "But I will reward you for your gift of the general's wife. Yes." He stroked his chin. "But what will it be? Hmm." He turned to the scarred, hard-eyed rakutu who stood behind Quaie, and spoke in Hithmearcisc: "Strangle him, Tsûlgâx."
Tsûlgâx reached a forearm across Quaie's throat and pulled him backward hard against him. The ylf's eyes widened, and he clawed at the rakutu's wrist and hand.
"You'll find it quick and relatively painless," the crown prince told him. "Merciful, compared to the death I will visit on Lord Cyncaidh."
The whole room watched till Quaie's heels stopped drumming the floor. When it was over, Varia looked pleadingly at Kurqôsz. "Your Majesty," she whispered, "please. Don't torture my husband, I beg you."
"My dear woman," he said. "Consider all the trouble he's been to me! It would be utterly immoral not to."
She ran to the table then, and turned to face the crown prince, her arms spread as if in protection, or supplication. The move captured every eye in the room. Tsûlgâx moved to get her, but his master stopped him with a gesture.
One of her hands rested on the knob of Cyncaidh's boot knife, concealed by the folded top of a heavy woolen stocking. "Please!" she said. "I beg you. I'll..." Abruptly she drew the knife, and turning, plunged it into Cyncaidh's solar plexus, thrusting upward, twisting. Blood gushed over her hand and wrist, then a fist struck her, knocking her to the floor. There, on all fours, she vomited. Tsûlgâx jerked her upright by the hair, to face the crown prince, her eyes wide with shock, mouth open, vomit on her chin.
Kurqôsz's eyes had widened. "Well!" he said. "We have a wildcat among us! Remarkable!" He laughed, the sound genuinely admiring. "You fooled us all with your act of the pitiful wife.
"You will pay me for that, you know, but not with your life. You are loyal and highly courageous, and you think quickly. An excellent bloodline. The pleasure of fathering sons on you will be my recompense."
To the crown prince, the death of the ylvin commander, and possession of his beautiful wife, were favorable omens. Quaie he'd already forgotten.
* * *
Shortly before his orderly would have wakened him, Kurqôsz came awake on his own. And sat up abruptly with a new knowingness: Conditions would be right! Soon!
Without bothering to have Gorvaszt brought to him—it was a familiar channel—he reached through the hive mind to his younger brother. «Chithqôsz,» he said mentally, «come to my headquarters! As quickly as you can! With your circle. Leave this morning! I need you here!»
36 Decision
When Macurdy and the 1st Cohort had reached forest again, he'd divided its four companies into two independent forces. Blue Wing, through the great raven hive mind, had already called for another great raven to work with the second force. After that the two forces traveled north still as a unit, to the district through which the supply routes ran. There they separated.
Macurdy's first ambush was a success: somewhat costly, but less than he'd feared. They'd ambushed a company of rakutur patrolling the road, outnumbering the half-voitar nearly two to one. No prisoners were taken, and so far as he knew, none of the rakutur had run. All, or nearly all, had died.
As a side benefit, he and a few of his Tigers now wore the coats and fur caps of actual rakutur.
He'd known since his time in Hithmearc that the rakutur were the offspring of human wo
men impregnated by voitar. Also, from his reading at the Cloister, he'd learned that after the Voitusotar had crushed the continental ylver, there'd been a prolonged period of hunting down refugees, killing the men and boys, and making sex slaves of the women and girls.
It had been a period of considerable chaos. The Voitusotar were in transition from being migratory barbarians to "civilized" rulers and administrators. The sex camps had been haphazard and unmanaged, and the voitik warriors ill-disciplined when away from their commanders. Thus numerous ylvin women had escaped. Those who could, then fled in small boats to Ilroin. Sometimes on their own, but often with hithar who hoped for sanctuary from the Voitusotar themselves. Some had left pregnant, and later gave birth. And the ylvin attitude was that sound infants should be nurtured regardless of their origin.
