Treachery's Tools

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Another gout of flame appeared, but one of Alastar’s imagers flung it in a line across the troopers aiming for the gap. Then more of the attackers went down with darts in them. The pace of fire from the defenders picked up.

  After another burst of Antiagon fire flew toward the defenders, but was imaged back across the rebel troopers trying to get to the river road, charring several ranks, a horn sounded, and the attackers turned and began to withdraw.

  Only when it was clear that the attackers were truly withdrawing did Wilkorn order, “Hold your fire!”

  Alastar surveyed the area between the imagers and the marshes. A quick count suggested more than a hundred of the attackers’ mounted infantry lay dead or likely dying just there. Farther to the south the carnage was even greater. For a moment he wondered why the rebels hadn’t persisted. Some very well might have gotten through. But not enough to proceed to L’Excelsis and do what they had in mind. He looked out to the west. The rebels were indeed withdrawing to the hamlet at the northwest end of the lake.

  Wilkorn rode up to Alastar and reined in his mount. “Were those yellow-greenish flames Antiagon fire?”

  “That’s what it seemed to be,” replied Alastar. “The last time I saw that was when Chesyrk used it on the Army High Command at Ryen’s memorial service.”

  “Hehnsyn and Marryt were both junior officers then,” said the marshal. “But … I thought it took an imager to create it.”

  “They could have taken the formula. They’ve obviously had an imager for a while.”

  “Nasty stuff.”

  “We might see more of it.”

  “So long as you and your imagers can handle it, that may be the least of our problems. I just got a messenger from Maurek. They held off the rebels, and he’s moving to join us. It appears that the rebels have re-formed and are following, and they’ve been joined by the regiment of High Holder troopers from Caluse. They have five cannon, from what his scouts show.”

  “How many do we have?”

  “Eight. We had to leave two in L’Excelsis. One turned out to be flawed, might have exploded if we used it, and someone damaged the other one … ruined the trunnion on one side. Could have been done years ago.”

  “You might think about spacing the cannon out,” suggested Alastar. “The rebels might try what we did this evening or early tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ve already planned for that. We’ll also be using earthworks and putting the foot behind them. That way they can fire from cover with minimal exposure. I hadn’t thought we’d be able to do that.”

  That comment puzzled Alastar, given that firing from cover seemed far preferable to firing from a position where one was fully exposed. “Why not?”

  “They have greater numbers. I would have thought that they would attack in waves and from angles and in places where we couldn’t afford to dig in, for one reason or another. If we had dug in, they just would have gone around us, and the effort would have been wasted. This way, they’ve boxed themselves in.”

  Alastar frowned, then almost nodded, but because he wanted to hear what Wilkorn had to say, he replied, “Aren’t we the ones boxed in?”

  “That’s true, but we’ve shown that we can whittle them down with far fewer losses than they’ve taken. They’re running out of time and men, and resources. They feel they have to break through and win.”

  “If they do, Lorien is finished.” And the position of the Collegium will be close to untenable.

  Wilkorn laughed harshly. “We both know that losing Lorien as rex would be no great loss. Putting his brother on the throne at the beck and call of the High Holders would be a disaster for Solidar. That’s why both of us know that we have to use this situation to destroy the rebels or weaken them so greatly that they’re not only defeated, but perceived by other High Holders as defeated.”

  “The only problem with that,” Alastar pointed out, “is that the only High Holders directly linked to the revolt are all dead, except for Ryentar. Lorien might be able to make a case against Caervyn, but he’s the only one besides Ryentar for whom there’s any real proof. The only one living, besides Ryentar, that is.”

  “What a frigging mess.” Wilkorn shook his head.

  Alastar thought the marshal’s assessment was exceedingly understated.

  “They’ll likely attack early tomorrow. That’s Aestyn’s preference. Usually, anyway. We’ll talk later.”

  Alastar turned his mount, only to see that Cyran and Akoryt had eased their mounts closer. “How much did you two overhear?”

  “Enough,” said Cyran dryly.

  “How is everyone?”

  “All the imagers are close to full strength,” replied Cyran.

  Akoryt nodded.

  “In case you didn’t overhear it all,” said Alastar, “it appears that the rebels are massing all their forces. Wilkorn believes they’ll make an all-out attack early tomorrow morning. You two talk it over, and see if you can come up with anything else we should do. We’ll get together later. I need to find Captain Weidyn.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Weidyn wasn’t that hard to find, since he was less than a hundred yards away, standing at the edge of the road, clearly having left his mount elsewhere … or had it shot from under him.

  “Maitre … what can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering. Have you issued those special bullets?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It might be a good idea to do so before tomorrow.”

  “Much as I dislike the idea, sir, I’m afraid you’re right. Especially after they used that yellow-green fire.”

  “Antiagon fire.”

  “Is that what it was? I heard about that, but I never saw it before. Nasty stuff. Where did they get it?”

  “Subcommander Hehnsyn or Subcommander Marryt must have gotten the formula from army files and persuaded a renegade imager to make it.” More likely to image it, but that was something that Alastar didn’t want to get into.

  “Is there anything else, sir.”

  “Not right now.” Alastar smiled pleasantly and turned his mount back toward where Cyran had gathered the imagers.

  46

  Alastar woke well before the sun on Samedi morning. Knowing that he would not sleep longer, no matter how long he lay on his makeshift bed, he slowly rose and stretched, trying to get the aches and soreness out of his muscles, trying to ignore all the reminders that he wasn’t as young as he liked to think he was. He checked his shields … and was relieved that he seemed able to hold them without strain. The last thing he needed was to be unshielded or to have to rely on one of the other imagers for protection.

  There was neither a glimmer of light to the east nor were there many night sounds outside of the chirping of crickets. Unlike birds, crickets didn’t stay quiet unless someone was moving and close enough to step on them. Erion was still fairly high in the western sky, but gibbous, while Artiema, nearly full, was close to setting. The hunter’s moon will see the day hunt. A sardonic grin crossed Alastar’s lips and vanished.

  Once he was fully dressed, he walked toward the upper level of the low earthwork revetments set in a semi-circle, careful to stay well back from the troopers manning them as he looked first south along the river road, and then westward toward the hamlet, where he saw several points of light that had to be fires, most likely cookfires. Although he, Cyran, and Akoryt had discussed possible imager tactics the night before, none of them had come up with anything new. The only questions were those relating to when to use what tactic or ability and how to space out which imagers were dealing with the attackers so that some were always ready to step forward.

  Alastar had no doubts that the day ahead would be long, one way or another, as he made his way to the imager wagon for an early breakfast, most likely of porridge and tea. Cyran was already there, not totally surprisingly.

  “The rebels had their cookfires going early this morning,” said the senior imager after a mouthful of porridge. “What sort of imaging d
o you think we’ll face today?”

  “I wish I knew. There’s only so much two imagers can do, but Bettaur’s as strong as a Maitre D’Structure.”

  “We haven’t seen that sort of strength yet.” Cyran sipped tea from his tin cup. “They’re probably saving him for something special. Where do you think we’ll be?”

  “Most likely in two groups, but not too far apart, and under a concealment so that they can’t target cannon at us … at least until we can get rid of their cannon, one way or another. The objective today is simple. Destroy every possible rebel ranker and officer. We don’t want to have to fight another battle.”

  “No tactical victories, then?” Cyran offered an exaggerated smile.

  “Not unless they’re total.”

  “And you’ll promise not to make any heroic sacrifices so that I don’t have to tell Alyna?” While Cyran’s tone was humorous, Alastar could sense a certain concern behind the words.

  “No heroic sacrifices, I promise. I’d like to have the rebels make heroic and futile sacrifices.”

  “That makes two of us,” returned Cyran.

  After eating hurriedly, Alastar made his way to the command tent.

  Wilkorn was there alone, sitting behind the camp table where a small lantern illuminated the map spread before him. He looked up. “Morning, Alastar. How does it feel to be one of the two gray eminences … fighting a revolt that never should have been, caused by pride, ignorance, arrogance, and greed?”

  “About the same as you do, I imagine. Except I feel gray, and not much like an eminence of any kind. But hasn’t every revolt or war been caused or fueled by pride, ignorance, arrogance, and greed?”

  Wilkorn laughed harshly, then winced, and adjusted the sling that still held his broken arm. “Any that I’ve ever heard of. To win will require the greatest slaughter I’ll ever be a part of, and … and if we lose, the same will be true. The pity of it all is that almost all of those who created this mess are either already dead or will never be called to account—except by the Nameless … if there even is a Nameless.”

  “Can you tell if Ryentar is here?”

  “The scouts report a group flying his banners, and it appears to be the command group. Well back, of course.”

  Alastar wouldn’t have expected any less of Ryentar, whether as the disinherited brother of the rex or as High Holder Regial. “He must be confident, then, because his life is forfeit just for being this close to L’Excelsis.”

  “From what I’ve seen and from what you’ve said, he’s never lacked for either confidence or arrogance. It runs in a certain bloodline. Aestyn’s in actual command. I’m certain.”

  “And Ryentar’s here to inspire the rebels … to lead them into a new and better day for Solidar … and especially for the High Holders.”

  “Of course.” Wilkorn straightened, wincing slightly. “How do you plan to deploy and use your imagers?”

  “The best way I can think of is to get rid of their cannon and kill as many of them as possible. Here’s what I have in mind.…”

  All that Alastar said took far less than half a quint. When he finished, he looked to the marshal. “Does that upset anything you and Maurek had planned?”

  Wilkorn shook his head. “Except for the cannon, Maurek feels that the later the imagers can be used the more effective they’ll be. So what you’ve outlined goes with what he’s planned, even to where you intend to muster your imagers.”

  “Then I’d better get back to them.”

  Wilkorn was back looking at the map even before Alastar had left the tent.

  By the time the eastern sky was graying, columns of rebel foot and mounted infantry were moving from the hamlet and from an encampment to the south toward Wilkorn’s forces.

  Major Rykards’s foot rankers manned the revetments of the defenders, their rifles in hand, while Luerryn’s mounted infantry was mustered to the east of the river, partly shielded by the slope down to the water, with Fifth Company to the north, behind where the imagers would be, Eighth Company farthest to the south, with the other mounted infantry companies between them. The eight cannon were in sandbagged pits, their muzzles barely visible even from a few yards away … and their powder trunks and ammunition well out of sight. That ought to make their imagers work to even find them.

  Alastar had gathered the imagers, not yet mounted. He looked over the junior maitres—copper-haired Julyan with his ready smile standing beside Chervyt; Chervyt, who had lost a lover in the last mess, but still was there to give all he had for the Collegium; then Dylert, so steady and determined; Taurek, burly, broad-shouldered, and more than accomplished enough to be a Maitre D’Structure; Seliora, who probably should have been one already; and finally, Belsior, not the most gifted, but hard-working, and enormously pleased to be an imager at all. To one side were Cyran and the senior maitres—Arion, Khaelis, Tiranya, and Taryn.

  “Our task in the coming mess is to see what we can do to take out the rebel cannons … and hold back as much as possible until later in the fighting … when we’re likely to be more effective … and less easily targeted if we can’t take out all the cannon…”

  Three quints later, Alastar rode toward the south end of the revetments, accompanied by Arion. Once on slightly higher ground, under a concealment, he and Arion reined up.

  “We’re looking for cannon … and for ammunition wagons or powder trunks. Since the ground slopes away from us rather gently, and there aren’t any real hills or hillocks, we ought to be able to find them now that we’re getting better light.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alastar was still looking when Arion spoke again. “Sir? Do you see those three bushes four hundred yards or so down the road to the hamlet?”

  “I do.”

  “About three hundred yards, I guess, due south, there’s what might be a revetment, concealed by bushes, and there are wagons. One of them looks like a long trunk on carriage wheels.”

  “That’s a powder trunk.” Alastar squinted. After several moments, as the early-morning light strengthened, he could make out what seemed to be the muzzles of two cannon, but only the one powder trunk. “I can only see two cannon.”

  “That’s what I see. Just two of them. I don’t see anything like that emplacement anywhere nearby.”

  “Let’s look on the other side of the hamlet road, then.” Alastar shifted his attention northward, toward the ground just south of the marshlands.

  Once again, Arion spoke first. “Do you see that place in the marsh where the reeds are higher?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fifty yards back and a little to the left…”

  “I see them. Three cannon muzzles. Two powder trunks. The trunks are half hidden in the reeds.” In both instances, once Arion had pointed them out, Alastar had had no trouble seeing them. But you couldn’t see them first. “Can you image something that far?”

  “If it’s small.”

  “Let me see what I can do.” Alastar focused on the emplacement near the reeds, since it was slightly closer, if still a good seven hundred yards. He concentrated on imaging a single very thin, white-hot, iron needle inside one of those magazines. Nothing happened. He took a long swallow of lager, waited a bit, and tried again … with no better success. The third time, the wagon exploded. How much damage resulted, Alastar had no way of knowing, given that white smoke wreathed the entire area.

  “There must have been a lot of powder there.”

  “Enough, anyway.”

  “How did you do that, sir?”

  “A thin, very thin, white-hot iron needle inside the powder trunk. Why don’t you try that on the other emplacement?” Alastar blotted his suddenly perspiring forehead with his sleeve. Imaging a hot iron needle that far had been work. A lot more work than something like that used to be. That was something he really didn’t want to think about. Instead, he watched Arion concentrate on the rebel emplacement.

  “Needle’s not that hard … harder to aim.”

  After a time,
a second explosion and a cloud of white smoke marked where a powder trunk had once been.

  “Excellent!” Alastar estimated that the younger maitre had likely imaged more needles than Alastar had, but Arion had merely appeared annoyed, rather than flushed.

  “That was tricky.”

  Technique helped, Alastar decided, as Gauswn had once written about Quaeryt, but there was no doubt he didn’t have quite the raw power he’d once been able to summon. “Tricky, but effective. Let’s get back to the others and hope that they can’t come up with more powder.” In point of fact, Alastar had had no intention of trying to destroy any cannon, not given the distance and the imaging effort it would take just to destroy the powder, without which a cannon was just a big bronze tube.

  Alastar couldn’t help but notice the line of black and crimson banners near the rear of the rebel forces. Behind the banners was perhaps a half company mounted in black uniforms, trimmed in crimson. At least, that was the impression Alastar got.

  He continued to study the advancing forces, beginning to re-form about three-quarters of a mille from the arc of the revetments holding Wilkorn’s troopers. If the formations of the rebels were any indication, their battle plan was simple. One group would advance north along the river road, and two would advance across the sloping grasslands. Between the two forces, apparently readying to advance eastward on the east side of the road from the hamlet to the river, was a much smaller force, little more than a squad with a wagon, except the wagon was being pushed by a team of oxen. All of that pointed to a direct and headlong advance against riflemen in protected positions, which seemed suicidal, given how exposed the attackers would be.

  Concealments. The rebels were already forming up far enough away from the defenders that accurate fire would be difficult, even for Wilkorn’s few cannon. Then the rebel imagers would raise concealments, and the attackers would move quickly in a mass rush to get as close to the defenders’ revetments as possible, most likely within a few yards.