by David Weber
Skirvon had, indeed, worked hard to convince chan Baskay to let him live. In fact, he'd spilled his guts, more than half-babbling in his urgency to tell chan Baskay anything—anything at all—which might placate the Ternathian's frozen rage.
Which meant chan Baskay knew just how utterly and totally screwed he and all of Hulmok Arthag's surviving troopers actually were.
"We're ready," a voice said behind chan Baskay, and the platoon-captain turned to find Arthag standing behind him. The Arpathian stood beside his magnificent Shikowr-Daykassian-cross Palomino stallion with his Model 10 slung over his shoulder, and the rest of their surviving men stood saddled and ready to ride behind him. Every bit of movable, useful equipment had been loaded onto pack horses at truly Arpathian nomad speed. Two of them had packed up chan Baskay's and chan Rothag's gear and saddled their horses, as well . . . and the bodies of every dead Sharonian were lashed across their saddles.
"Is that really necessary?" chan Baskay asked very quietly, nodding at the dead men.
"As a matter of fact, I think it is," Arthag replied. Chan Baskay couldn't quite hide his surprise. Arpathians, as a rule, weren't particularly sentimental about the bodies of the dead. As far as they were concerned, once the soul had fled, the body in which that soul had once resided had no intrinsic importance, which made Arthag's apparent concern for these bodies unusual, to say the least.
"We don't have time to bury them," Arthag explained, responding to chan Baskay's perplexed expression, "and one thing all of us canny Arpathian nomadic warriors get taught at a very early age is that it's important to keep an enemy guessing about your losses. Let the bastards find their men's bodies lying around here without a single one of ours. You don't think that's going to make them more than a little anxious about just what happened here?" He shrugged. "The way I see it, anything that can convince them to be even a little hesitant about chasing after us is well worth the effort."
Chan Baskay gazed at him for a moment, then nodded.
"Good enough for me," he said. "Of course, there's still the little problem of exactly where we're going to go while they hesitate about chasing us, isn't there?"
"I take it there's no point trying to make it back to Company-Captain Halifu?"
"You take it correctly," chan Baskay said grimly. "I'm sure Master Skirvon still has quite a bit to tell us, but I think I've got the essentials for our immediate problem. Which includes the fact that these bastards have dragons, Hulmok."
"Dragons?" One of Arthag's eyebrows rose perhaps a sixteenth of an inch, and chan Baskay snorted.
"Yes. According to Skirvon, they come in two varieties—one that's basically for transporting cargo, and the other that breathes fire and lightning. And the buggers can fly at up to a couple of hundred miles an hour."
"Marvelous."
"Wait, it gets better. The transport version?" Chan Baskay paused, and Arthag nodded. "They can transport entire companies of cavalry by air, and they've been shipping in men, weapons, horses, and still more dragons the entire time they've been talking to us here. They've got what sounds like at least the equivalent of a light division or heavy brigade, and they're probably rolling right over Company-Captain chan Tesh while we're talking."
"I see."
Arthag cocked his head, his expression thoughtful, and chan Baskay felt an incredible temptation to punch him right on the nose. At this particular moment, the Arpathian's total imperturbability was almost as maddening as it was reassuring.
But only almost.
"They've got something Skirvon calls 'gryphons,' too," chan Baskay said, instead. "He says they're about the size of a good-sized pony but with wings, beaks, and great big claws, and they're even faster—and more maneuverable—than these dragons of theirs. They aren't as smart, though."
"Can they get at us through the tree cover?"
"That seems to be about the only good news I've gotten out of the bastard," chan Baskay said, shaking his head. He waved one hand at the overhead canopy of leaves and towering branches. "They can't get down through that, and Skirvon swears the dragons can't see through it very well, either."
"And he's telling the truth?"
"That's what Trekar's Talent says. Of course, the son-of-a-bitch is scared to death. Trekar says that sometimes someone who's piss-himself terrified convinces himself that whatever the other guy wants to hear is the truth, and his Talent can't tell the difference in a case like that."
"Um." Arthag scratched the tip of his nose thoughtfully. "I'm inclined to believe him on this one," he said after a moment. "At least as far as their being able to get at us directly." He smiled crookedly. "You know, this is the first time I've ever been grateful for the way these godsdamned trees get in the way!"
"Maybe. On the other hand, it's not going to be enough to get us back to New Uromath. According to Skirvon, their horses are a hell of a lot better than ours, too."
For the first time, Arthag bridled. He straightened, one hand reaching up to Bright Wind's ears, and his eyes narrowed.
"He says they've used more of this damned magic of theirs to 'augment' their horses," chan Baskay said. "They're faster than ours, according to him, and they've got a lot more endurance, and if they can breed dragons, I don't see any reason why they couldn't do that, as well."
Arthag nodded unwillingly, and chan Baskay shrugged.
"Assuming he's right about that, they'd almost certainly run us to ground long before we could get back to New Uromath. Besides, it turns out they've scouted the New Uromath portal, too. Apparently one of their people made it all the way to Halifu's fort and back again before we took out their base camp. They've known exactly where it is all along, and they're planning to attack it as soon as they've secured control of the swamp portal."
"I figured they must have something like that in mind," Arthag said. "I hadn't considered the possibility of these 'dragons' of theirs, of course. But none of this—" he waved one hand at the body-littered clearing "—would have made any sense at all if they hadn't planned on going all the way. I had expected to be able to outrun them back to Fort Shaylar, though."
"Agreed."
Chan Baskay turned to survey the area himself. The tangle of fallen trees where the Chalgyn Consortium survey crew had been massacred had seen far more than its fair share of bloodshed in the last couple of months, he reflected grimly.
Arthag's people had been busy doing more than just packing while he and Trekar chan Rothag interrogated Skirvon. The three surviving Arcanan cavalrymen sat on a fallen tree trunk, hands bound behind them and shoulders slumped. From their expressions, as well as their body language, chan Baskay was strongly tempted to believe Skirvon was right—those men hadn't had a clue what was going to happen here today. Nothing was likely to make chan Baskay feel particularly kindly towards Arcanans at the moment, but despite himself, he felt an unwilling sense of sympathy for those prisoners.
He felt none whatsoever for Rithmar Skirvon, however.
His mouth tightened at the thought as his eyes traversed the line of Sharonian bodies tied across their horses. There were sixteen of them, in all, and the twenty-three Arcanan bodies scattered about under the trees were no comfort at all as he considered their losses.
"We'll have to jackrabbit," he said after a moment, and Arthag nodded, then cocked his head slightly.
"Which portal?" he asked.
"That's the question, isn't it?" Chan Baskay's eyes slitted as he thought hard, considering their meager menu of options.
"I think we'd better go for the New Farnal connection," he said finally. Arthag grimaced slightly—the equivalent of a shouted protest, coming from an Arpathian—and chan Baskay shrugged.
"I don't like it a lot better than you do," he said, "and I know the horses are going to hate it. But if they've got these dragons, and these 'gryphon' things, we're going to need all the terrain advantage we can get. And if they don't like flying through tree cover like this—" he waved at the leaves overhead again "—then they're going to
hate triple-canopy jungle."
"There is that," Arthag agreed. "It's a little farther to go, though. If they've really got better horses, they could probably overtake us."
"They'll probably figure we broke back for New Uromath," chan Baskay countered. "They know that's the only way home to Sharona, and, according to Skirvon, that's the only other portal they've actually located and scouted. Besides, they've been working extra hard to keep us from finding out about their dragons. If they think they've succeeded—and they did, after all—then they'll expect us to try to outrun them back to Company-Captain Halifu."
"But if they sweep through here on horseback, they're going to be able to tell which way we actually went."
It could have been a protest, but Arthag's tone was thoughtful, not argumentative.
"I know. But I still think it's our best option."
"So do I." Arthag nodded. "And I think I have an idea about how to . . . delay the pursuit just a bit, too."
* * *
"On your feet, you fucking son-of-a-bitch!" Sword Keraik Nourm barked.
The wounded Sharonian soldier just looked up at him. The Sharonian's expression was a mix of hatred, shock, disbelief, and pain as he crouched on his knees, cradling a savagely burned left arm against his chest.
"On your feet, godsdamn you!" Nourm snarled, and buried the reinforced toe of his combat boot in the Sharonian's ribs with a brutal kick.
The Sharonian went down, crying out in pain as his burned arm hit the ground, and Nourm raised his heavy arbalest to butt-stroke the wounded man's head.
"Belay that, Sword Nourm!"
The four-word command cracked like a whip, and Nourm's arbalest froze in midair. His head whipped around, and his face tightened as he saw the officer with the two silver collar pips of a commander of fifty striding angrily towards him.
"What the hells d'you think you're doing, Nourm?" the fifty demanded harshly.
"Securing the prisoners, Sir," Nourm replied half-sullenly.
"The hells you say!" the fifty snapped. "That man is severely wounded, Sword! Godsdamn it, you're the platoon sword—what kind of message do you think this is sending to the rest of the men?!"
Nourm opened his mouth, then shut it with an almost audible click. His face flushed darkly, more with anger than with shame, and he set his jaw stiffly.
Commander of Fifty Jaralt Sarma put his hands on his hips and glared at his platoon's senior noncom. What made Sarma's seething fury even worse was that Nourm was normally one of the best platoon swords Sarma had ever seen.
The fifty leaned closer, lowering his voice, and let his tone soften just a bit.
"I know you're pissed off with these people, Keraik, but that's no justification for violating the Accords. You know that's a court-martial offense."
"The Accords, Sir?" Nourm looked at him as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd heard.
"Yes, the Accords," Sarma said. "Do I need to remind you that they apply to everyone?"
The Kerellian Accords, drafted centuries ago by Commander of Armies Housip Kerellia, had set forth the Andaran military's official rules of war, including the standards for proper treatment of POWs. The Accords had been adopted by the Union Army following the Union's formation two hundred years ago, and officially incorporated into the Articles of War.
"Sir, these bastards aren't even from our universe!" Nourm protested.
"I don't recall anywhere in the Accords that specifies where the prisoners have to come from, Sword."
"But, Sir—"
"Don't make me tell you again, Sword Nourm," Sarma said very quietly, and the burly noncom closed his mouth again.
It was obvious he still couldn't quite believe what his fifty had just said, and Sarma shook his head.
"I understand you're mad as hells, Sword," he said in a more normal voice. "But that's no excuse for turning ourselves into something we'll be ashamed of later."
"Sir, I understand what you're saying, I guess," Nourm said after a moment. "I just don't see why we should waste the Accords on miserable fuckers like these."
"The Accords aren't as much for them as they are for us, Keraik. It doesn't matter what they do. What matters is how we go about being who we are."
"Sir, I just don't see it. These miserable bastards deserve anything they get. They should feel grateful we don't just shoot them in the back of the head!"
Sarma's lips thinned angrily, but that anger wasn't aimed at Nourm this time. Or, at least, most of it wasn't.
Neshok, you bastard, the fifty thought venomously. You and your fucking "briefings!"
"I'll remind you—once—Sword," the platoon commander said after a moment, "that the briefers specifically said those reports couldn't be confirmed."
Nourm's jaw set again, harder even than before. His shoulders hunched like a man preparing to dig in against a monsoon, and Sarma inhaled sharply. He started to launch into the sword again, then made himself stop. This wasn't the time or the place for him to turn his command relationships into a debating society.
"Listen to me," he said instead, his voice flat. "At this moment, Sword Nourm, I don't really care what you feel or think about these people. You will observe the letter of the Accords in your treatment of them, and you will see to it that every member of this platoon does the same. And don't think for one moment that I won't know whether or not you do. The recon crystals are activated and recording, and they'll stay that way. So you think about that, Sword. You think real hard before you abuse another prisoner, wherever the fuck he came from, while you're under my command. Do you read me on this, Sword Nourm?"
"Yes, Sir," Nourm grated.
"I don't believe I heard you, Sword."
"Yes, Sir!"
"That's better. Now, I believe this man needs medical attention."
"Yes, Sir."
Nourm's anger was obvious, but it was equally clear to Sarma that the sword was at least trying to control it, so he let it pass. Which didn't prevent him from keeping an eagle eye on the noncom as Nourm helped the wounded Sharonian back to his feet. He wasn't especially gentle about it, but he wasn't brutal, either, and for the moment, Sarma was willing to settle for what he could get.
He watched the sword half-dragging the prisoner towards the healers and sighed.
Sarma knew his own attitude towards the Sharonians was atypical. Which was . . . unfortunate, since it was supposed to be the entire expeditionary force's attitude. Two Thousand Harshu's general orders had made it abundantly clear that the observation of the Accords was the official policy of the Union of Arcana in the present conflict. Unfortunately, unless Sarma was very much mistaken, it wasn't going to matter a great deal what general orders said.
It was Acting Commander of Five Hundred Neshok's fault, he thought bitterly. Sarma's platoon had been in the first wave of reinforcements to reach Fort Rycharn. That meant he'd had the opportunity to talk directly to Five Hundred Klian's men before the rest of Harshu's troopers and dragons had assembled. Perhaps more to the point, one of his uncles had served with Five Hundred Klian when they were both mere squires, and the five hundred had invited his old friend's nephew to join his own officers for dinner one night.
Which meant he'd heard Five Hundred Klian's version of what had happened when the Sharonians punched out the Andaran Scouts at this very portal.
Somehow, the five hundred's version was quite different from the official briefings Five Hundred Neshok and his staff had delivered. According to Five Hundred Klian, who'd spoken directly to the only Arcanan eyewitnesses, Magister Halathyn vos Dulainah had been killed accidentally by an Arcanan infantry-dragon after he'd been pulled out of his tent by a Sharonian cavalryman. But according to Neshok's briefers, although they'd been scrupulously careful to warn everyone they were still seeking confirmation, Magister Halathyn had been dragged out of the tent and shot dead by the Sharonians. And, those same briefers had said gravely, there were additional unconfirmed reports that the Sharonians had systematically executed all of the Scou
ts' wounded, as well, rather than providing medical care.
Nothing could have been better calculated to fill Arcanan soldiers with fury. Magister Halathyn had been quite possibly the most beloved single man in all the Arcanan-explored multiverse—outside his own native Mythal, at least—and the idea that he'd been murdered out of hand by the Sharonians had fanned the rage of men like Sword Nourm to an incandescent pitch. Adding the possibility that the Sharonians had murdered their own prisoners only made it worse . . . assuming that anything could have.
Sarma shook his head. He'd never seen troops in such an ugly mood. They were out for blood vengeance on the "Sharonian butchers," and the fifty felt a cold, icy shudder of fear when he considered where that might lead everyone.
But it's not too late, he told himself. Surely, it's not too late. Two Thousand Harshu can still turn this around, if he'll just make Neshok stick to the facts.
Only . . . the two thousand hadn't done that yet. Whether he agreed with what Neshok was doing or not was almost beside the point. Even the officers who might have questioned Neshok's briefings, or pointed out to their men that even the Intelligence briefers had stressed that the reports were unconfirmed, were going to take their lead from Harshu's apparent attitude. And until Harshu specifically addressed the issue, they were going to ignore his general orders' official position.
And when they do, what happens to the Union Army? Sarma asked himself almost despairingly. What happens when we wake up and realize what we've done? And what happens if the way we treat our prisoners leads them to really start shooting our people out of hand when they're captured?
Jaralt Sarma didn't know the answers to those questions . . . but he was afraid that was going to change.
