Hell Hath No Fury

by David Weber

  "We would have no objection at all, Regiment-Captain," Toralk replied for the commander of five hundred, "so long as the questions we were required to answer were limited to the discussion of the proposals before us."

  Chan Skrithik considered that, then shrugged.

  "I suppose that wouldn't be unreasonable . . . assuming I feel inclined to consider those proposals in the first place. However, you said you have two messages."

  "Yes," Toralk agreed. "At the moment, you have in your possession several hundred Arcanan prisoners. Two Thousand Harshu would like to propose an exchange—the prisoners you currently hold, for the free passage of your work crews in Karys back to Fort Salby."

  "Our work crews?" chan Skrithik said. "Are you saying you've captured them? Or have you simply rounded up the survivors after massacring most of them?"

  "We haven't 'massacred' any of them, Regiment-Captain. We bypassed them on our way to Fort Salby. However, they're now behind our lines, and it's necessary for us to do something about them." Toralk looked straight into chan Skrithik's eyes. "We can either go back and demand their surrender—and use force to compel them to surrender, if they refuse—or we can attempt to arrive at some other arrangement."

  "Are you suggesting that you might hold them hostage for the return of your personnel?" chan Skrithik asked in a considerably icier voice.

  "I suppose it might sound that way," Toralk conceded. "However, the point I'm trying to make is that at the moment there's been no contact between our forces and the civilian workers on your 'railroad.' What Two Thousand Harshu is offering you is an opportunity to protect them, in exchange for the return of his own personnel."

  "What if I suggested that if he wants his people back he should return all of our people? Everyone you've captured from the moment you attacked us during the middle of the 'peace negotiations' you people proposed?"

  Chan Skrithik watched the other man's expression narrowly and found himself wishing he'd had at least some experience in reading Arcanan body language. Not that he was certain it would have helped a great deal. Watching Toralk, he suspected that the Arcanan would have been a formidable opponent across the gaming table.

  "Two Thousand Harshu thought you might make such a counter offer," Toralk said. "He instructed me to tell you that he doesn't have the authority to agree to such a broad exchange. He instructs me to point out to you that, as he's sure you'll appreciate, having transported at least some of the prisoners your people took when you attacked us beyond our reach, the prisoners in his hands represent an invaluable intelligence asset. He lacks the authority to surrender that asset until and unless both sides are in a position to discuss the return of all prisoners."

  "Does he?"

  There was something about Toralk's reply that bothered chan Skrithik. Something about the careful word selection. He couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was, yet it sent a chill through him, and he found himself hoping it was only because his bone-deep anger at Janaki's death had made him hyper-suspicious of anything an Arcanan said or did.

  "Very well," he said, hoping his flicker of apprehension hadn't been obvious to Toralk and Vaynair, "suppose I make a different counter proposal. If he wants his soldiers back, I want not simply my civilians, but their construction equipment."

  Toralk blinked. Clearly, chan Skrithik had managed to surprise him at least a little for the first time. The Arcanan frowned, cocking his head slightly while he considered what chan Skrithik had said, then shrugged.

  "I can't say how Two Thousand Harshu would react to that suggestion," he admitted. "I would have to return and discuss it with him. Would that be acceptable?"

  "Possibly." Chan Skrithik smiled thinly. "Your 'Two Thousand Harshu' is the fellow who first proposed the exchange. I hadn't even considered it. Obviously, I'll have to think about it, as well, won't I? However, at the moment, I'm . . . disinclined to settle for anything less. And I suppose I should point out to you that what we're talking about is a couple of thousand 'civilians' equipped with the same weapons which blew your first batch of butchers into dog shit at Fallen Timbers. You might find an effort to 'compel them' to surrender rather more expensive than you'd like."

  Toralk's face tightened slightly at the words "first batch of butchers," but he had himself well under control. Instead of some angry response, he simply nodded.

  "You might be right, Regiment-Captain. That doesn't mean either side would be happy about the expense involved, however."

  "True enough," chan Skrithik agreed with a thin smile.

  "I would like to add one more thing, Regiment-Captain," Vaynair said, and chan Skrithik swung his gaze back to the magistron.

  "What?"

  "The two proposals aren't necessarily linked, Sir. The offer of our medical personnel for the wounded of both sides is independent of any agreement on exchanging prisoners."

  Chan Skrithik nodded.

  "I understand. And, to be honest, we've got some men—on both sides—who probably aren't going to make it without the kind of Healing you seem to be describing."

  "I thought that would probably be the case, Sir." Vaynair's expression was grim. "In fact, with your permission, I've already requested Two Thousand Harshu's permission to remain here and offer my own Gift for the immediate treatment of the most critically injured while you and he make up your minds about the other aspects of his proposals."

  "And did 'Two Thousand Harshu' give you that permission?" chan Skrithik asked. "After all, you say you're his senior medical officer. Is he willing to effectively add you to our bag of prisoners if the negotiation of his 'proposals' falls through?"

  "I'm sure he hopes that in that eventuality, you'll allow me to return to him," Vaynair said levelly. "In fact, he told me to ask you for assurances to that effect. However," Vaynair looked chan Skrithik straight in the eye, "he also authorized me to remain whether you gave that assurance or not."

  Chan Skrithik's eyebrows rose.

  "That was very generous of him," the Sharonian said. "Or else he's a lot more worried than he wants to admit about the care his wounded are likely to receive. In either case, I'm prepared to accept your offer—subject, of course, to that Sifter I mentioned. And," chan Skrithik added grudgingly, "if the Sifter passes you, I'm also prepared to guarantee your safe return whatever happens to the rest of our 'negotiations.' "

  'Chapter Thirty-Two

  "—and I don't give a good godsdamn what you think, Fifty! The next time you drag your sorry ass into my office and get into my face over this, I'll shove my boot so far up it you'll taste fucking leather for a godsdamned week! Now get the hells out of my sight!"

  For the first time in his military career, Therman Ulthar failed to salute his commanding officer before he wheeled and marched furiously out of Hadrign Thalmayr's office. The wiry red-haired officer's blue eyes were cored with rage, his lips were white with compressed fury, and the care he took to shut the door very quietly behind him was a clearer statement of his seething anger and contempt than any violent slam could have been.

  He stalked out of the office block at Fort Ghartoun literally trembling with combined fury, outrage, and humiliation, and Sword Keraik Nourm glanced up from where he'd been mending the buckle on his weapons harness.

  "Guess the Hundred tied his balls in a knot," he remarked with a pronounced note of satisfaction. He shook his head and glanced at the other sword, sitting beside him on the barracks veranda and smoking a pipe. "Graholis, you'd think someone who'd been these fuckers' prisoner would get it, wouldn't you?"

  Sword Evarl Harnak looked back at Nourm thoughtfully for several seconds. Then he took his pipe out of his mouth, tamped the tobacco down, and put the stem back between his teeth.

  "Yeah, you would, wouldn't you?" he repeated in a very different tone, and Nourm's eyes narrowed.

  "Don't tell me you agree with him!" the first noncom said incredulously.

  "Fifty Ulthar's a right smart young fellow," Harnak replied indirectly, looking back out across the p
arade ground at the stables surrounded by infantry-dragons and alert sentries.

  "He's only a fifty," Nourm pointed out. "You've been around as long as I have, Evarl. You've seen the dragon and smelled the smoke. You know most fifties still need swords like us to wipe their noses and change their diapers!"

  "You think so?" Harnak looked back at him.

  "Hells yes, I think so! I mean, take Fifty Sarma. He's a good kid, mostly. Still wet behind the ears and full of all that starry-eyed Academy crap, but a good kid. He just doesn't get it, though. Not where these bastards are concerned."

  "Actually," Harnak said after a moment, his tone thoughtful, "it seems to me the real problem isn't snot-nosed kids fresh out of the Academy and too stupid to understand the real world, but some old sweats who're so stupid they aren't even bothering to try to 'get it.' "

  Nourm stiffened and his face darkened.

  "What d'you mean by that crack?" he demanded.

  "I mean I'm getting tired of people who don't bother to listen to what's really going on out here, that's what I mean." Harnak's tone was harder, and his voice was lower pitched. "I mean I'm getting tired of people who eat up that asshole Neshok's so-called 'intelligence briefings' like they were handed down from the gods. And I mean I'm getting tired of idiots so locked up with the hate inside them that they can't even wake up and smell the fucking coffee!"

  Nourm's eyes flared wide and he sat back in his cane-bottomed chair abruptly.

  "What in the hells are you talking about?" Anger crackled in his own voice, but there was confusion, as well. "Godsdamn it, you were one of their prisoners! You know damned well they didn't even bother to give the Hundred a decent healer! And you were godsdamned there when they shot Magister Halathyn!"

  "You poor, pathetic excuse for a sword," Harnak said almost pityingly. "My gods, you've been kicking around the Service for this long, and you don't recognize a pile of unicorn shit when they put it on your plate and call it scrambled eggs?"

  Nourm's wide eyes narrowed at the slang phrase. It could be used to describe orders that were unusually stupid or confused or to describe someone's particularly blatant—and unconvincing—cover-his-ass excuses. But it was also used to describe "confirmed" intelligence that was just plain wrong . . . or a deliberate lie.

  "What do you mean?" he demanded harshly.

  "I mean I was there," Harnak grated, taking the pipe out of his mouth and stabbing the stem in Nourm's direction. "I was there at Fallen Timbers when it all fell into the shitter. Hells, Osmuna—the first man down—he was in my fucking platoon and I was the one who found him with a frigging hole blown all the way through his godsdamned chest! Don't you sit there and tell me what the fucking intelligence pukes have been feeding you! I was there, godsdamn it. I saw what the hells happened!"

  The pipe in his hand quivered, and Nourm's expression changed suddenly as he recognized the barely leashed fury in that quiver.

  "Then tell me," he said in a very different voice. "Tell me what happened."

  Harnak looked at him for several heartbeats, as if weighing the risks, then inhaled deeply and shrugged ever so slightly.

  "Hundred Olderhan was right all along," he said then, softly. "I don't know who shot first, Osmuna or their man. I don't think anyone ever will know. But I know who fucking shot first at Fallen Timbers, and it wasn't them. It wasn't the godsdamned civilian standing there with his hands empty, trying to fucking talk to us—just talk to us—when my own shitty excuse for a fifty shot him right in the throat against the hundred's direct orders!"

  Nourm recognized the look in Harnak's eyes now, and the agonizing shame he saw there was more convincing than any anger might have been.

  "Did you know Hundred Olderhan made the only two of them we didn't manage to kill his shardonai?" Harnak continued, glaring at the other sword. "You know whose son he is—you think he did that because we'd acted so fucking honorably? And I'll bet you didn't know the Hundred offered to cut Thalmayr down right there in front of everything that was left of my platoon when that asshole sitting in that office over there wanted to put manacles on the Hundred's shardonai. Well, I know. I was the sword Thalmayr ordered to do it . . . and the one the Hundred ordered to stand fast!

  "And Magister Halathyn? They didn't kill him—we did." Anguish tightened Harnak's fierce, low voice. "It was an infantry-dragon, a godsdamned lightning-thrower—you seen any of them in these people's armory, Nourm? 'Cause I sure as fuck haven't seen any of 'em!"

  Harnak jerked his head in the direction of the Fort Ghartoun armory building and his mouth twisted as if he wanted to spit.

  "And all that crap about shooting prisoners, torturing them, denying medical care—dragon shit! Dragon shit! These people—the officers in that brig over there—saw to it that we were treated well. I never saw a single one of their guards as much as butt-stroke one of our guys with a rifle! You want to explain to me just how that compares with the way we've been treating them?

  "And then there's that bastard Thalmayr and his lying shit about how they 'tortured him.' " Harnak's tone dripped contempt. "Fifty Ulthar and I got left here because we were both wounded, too. I saw their healers at work—hells, they worked on me!—and I never saw one of them do less than the very best he could do. They aren't like our magistrons; they can't do the same things. Can't any of you get that through your godsdamned skulls? They did the best they fucking could, treated us every bit as well as they did their own people, without once asking whose uniform we were wearing, and that's who your precious Hundred Thalmayr's beating and stomping the shit out of every couple of days! It godsdamned makes me want to puke!"

  Nourm stared at the other noncom in shock as he realized there were literally tears of fury—and shame—in Evarl Harnak's eyes.

  "I—" he started, then broke off. It was too much for him to take in all at one sitting, stood too many preconceptions he'd spent too long cherishing on their heads. But in Evarl Harnak's rage and shame he recognized truth when he finally saw it.

  "What?" Harnak half-snapped as Nourm hesitated.

  "I guess, maybe, I should've spent a little more time listening to Fifty Sarma," Nourm replied finally, slowly. "Maybe then I wouldn't feel like as big a piece of shit as I do right now."

  "Yeah?" Harnak growled. "Well, you aren't the only one who feels that way. Trust me."

  "Maybe not."

  Nourm sat staring out across the captured fort's parade ground, thinking about everything Harnak had just told him. Thinking about everything he'd said . . . and done.

  "Maybe not," he repeated, "but what in Graholis' name do we do about it?"

  "I don't know." Harnak put his pipe back into his mouth and turned away from the other man while he fished out an accumulator and used it to relight the tobacco, and his voice was even lower than before. "I know what I'd like to do, but I can't. And I wish the Fifty would remember the same advice he gave me," he added, turning to look in the direction in which Ulthar had disappeared. "If he keeps on with this, keeps getting in Thalmayr's way, I don't know what's going to happen."

  Nourm's eyes followed Harnak's, and as they did, they deepened and darkened with fresh worry all their own.

  I know exactly what's going to happen if Ulthar doesn't back off, he thought grimly. And he's not the only officer it's going to happen to, either. So what the hells do I do about my Fifty? Because that "wet-behind-the-ears kid" I should've been listening to all along sure as hells isn't going to leave it alone either!

  Keraik Nourm looked into the future and didn't like what he saw there at all.

  * * *

  The miles-long train pulled into the Fort Salby station in a long, shuddering, clanking spasm of steam and hissing air brakes. It stretched as far back down the tracks as the eye could see, and Rof chan Skrithik's eyes narrowed in appreciation as he saw the machine guns and light pedestal guns which had been mounted on top of many of the freight cars.

  The command and staff cars were at the head of the train, and chan Skrithik came to
attention as the doors opened and an officer in the uniform and paired golden sunbursts of a Ternathian division-captain came down the short steps.

  The division-captain was short, for a Ternathian, with dark hair beginning to be streaked with dramatic silver highlights. He was also wiry and fit, with a horseman's build and large, powerful hands which went well with his cavalry boots and the bone-handled grips of the H&W holstered at his side instead of the lighter Polshana many other officers preferred these days. But his brown eyes were dark, and the black mourning band on his right arm matched the identical mourning bands worn by every other person in sight.

  "Division-Captain chan Geraith," chan Skrithik said quietly.

  "Regiment-Captain," chan Geraith replied.

  "I'm glad to see you, Sir. I only wish—"

  "So do we all, Regiment-Captain," chan Geraith said as chan Skrithik broke off. The division-captain held out his hand and gripped chan Skrithik's firmly. "So do we all. But you did a fine job out here. A fine job."

  "Thank you, Sir. We didn't do it all on our own, though, and, I'd like to intro—"

  Chan Skrithik broke off again, but not this time because he couldn't find the words. This time, he was interrupted by the magnificent peregrine falcon which came slanting down across the station platform's roof and landed on his shoulder.

  Chan Geraith's eyes widened. He hadn't actually noticed the leather pad on the regiment-captain's shoulder, he realized.

  "I'm sorry, Sir," chan Skrithik began when he saw chan Geraith staring at the bird. "I know she's Prince Janaki's, and I'm sure there has to be some other arrangement, but since he was killed, she's . . ."

  His voice trailed off helplessly. For a moment longer, chan Geraith just looked at him. Then the division-captain gave himself a visible shake.

  "That's an Imperial Ternathian Peregrine, Regiment-Captain," he said. "No one tells them what to do in a case like this. On the thankfully rare occasions when they lose their human companions, they decide where to go and who, if anyone, to bond with. If she's chosen you, then that's her decision, not anyone else's."