As the darkness lightened into gray, the only sounds from the north were muffled yells and commands from the insurgents’ camp.
“Sir?” Loryalt eased his mount toward Mykel and the roan. “Any word?”
“No. Hamylt’s attacked once, but there wasn’t much of a Reillie reply.”
“Do you think they slipped away?”
That was certainly possible, but Mykel had the feeling that wasn’t the case.
Then, from farther north, came another volley of shots…and then another. This time, scattered shots replied.
“There are some Reillies there. They’re shooting back.”
“Sir?”
“At Hamylt. He’s made two attacks. That’s what it sounds like, anyway.”
Loryalt frowned. “You’ve got better hearing than I do, sir.”
“Practice,” replied Mykel. He thought that Hamylt had attacked successfully and withdrawn, but he saw no riders on the road to the north heading in either direction.
“You still want us to stand by?”
“The Reillies usually make some response. Let’s see what it is.”
“Yes, sir.” Loryalt eased his mount through the trees to the southwest.
Mykel returned his full attention to the road and the valley.
The sky lightened into pale gray, and then, with the edge of the sun peering over the hills to the east, to silver-green. And still no riders appeared. Out of the silence, three or four, perhaps as many as a score of shots echoed from the area of the bridge, and then the Fourth Battalion squads galloped back toward Third Battalion, riding hard, faster than Mykel had expected.
Mykel could sense the Reillies and Squawts before he could see them, but within another fraction of a glass, even the shortest-sighted of the Cadmian troops lined up in the trees on the knoll overlooking the road could make out the horde moving toward them. The Reillies had not taken just the road, but were riding through the orchards, across the frozen fields touched with white, so that they formed a front nearly half a vingt across, only roughly centered on the road.
The middle of that front was extended slightly, into a point of mounted riders that, had it been extended, would have centered itself on Mykel. More than coincidence, that suggested to Mykel that the Reillie he had killed earlier was not the only insurgent with Talent.
Mykel fumbled out his rifle, left-handed, and laid it across his knees. Then he waited until the riders were only a little more than a hundred yards away before he issued his orders. “Third Battalion! Fire at will!”
“Fire at will!”
“Fire at will!”
The commands echoed from the company officers to the squad leaders, and shots rang out, flashing from the trees into the uneven front of the Reillies and Squawts. Despite the accuracy of the Cadmians, and even with bodies falling and mounts going down, the insurgents rode up the gentle slope toward the Cadmians.
A greater number surged toward the center. Mykel felt that all of them were riding directly toward him, but he left the rifle across his knees.
From somewhere came a tendril of Talent—greenish brown Talent from the center of the attackers.
“Aim for the center! Aim for the center!” Those commands came from his right, where Rhystan and Sixteenth Company were set up.
Within moments, Loryalt issued the same orders.
Mykel eased his mount back slightly, trying to use the oak for greater cover. His eyes dropped to his rifle. Not yet.
Three riders crashed through the low leafless bushes on the lower section of the slope, less than fifteen yards below Mykel. They bore long blades, swords that looked too long to use effectively in the brush and trees, but Mykel knew that while he could not have handled such a blade, they certainly could.
“He’s up there! Right behind the oak! The priest-killer!”
“Death to the priest-killer! Avenge Kladyl!”
The cracking of brush behind Mykel was followed by a command, “Fifth squad! Charge!”
“Third squad! Forward!”
Cadmians in maroon cold-weather jackets rode past Mykel on both sides, rifles sheathed and sabres out, sweeping down toward the oncoming Reillies.
“To the priest-killer!” came the call.
The Cadmians cut deep into the mass of the Reillies, driving them back, then swinging aside to allow another set of rifle volleys to decimate the front lines of the attackers.
From the left, a single rider burst through the thinnest part of the line of Cadmians, laying one aside with the outsized blade, urging his mount uphill toward Mykel. His long blond hair streamed back over his broad shoulders. A thin aura of Talent enshrouded him.
Mykel could feel at least two bullets strike the rider, but the young Reillie ignored them as he flattened himself against the mane of the white horse he rode.
Two Cadmians urged their mounts forward. Mykel could sense that they would be too late. His left hand lifted his own rifle, and he swung it up and toward the Reillie, concentrating on the youthful face of the attacker.
The Reillie straightened in his saddle and lifted the massive blade, almost like a metal bar, bringing it forward for a killing blow.
Mykel fired, willing the bullet into the Reillie’s forehead. The rifle slammed back against Mykel’s arm and side, and he struggled to bring it forward and up.
The youth stiffened, and an incredulous look froze on his face, before he plunged forward in the saddle. His face reminded Mykel of his own younger brother.
Mykel managed to lever his own rifle high enough to slide the Reillie’s falling blade away from him, as the white horse swung away and to a halt, the body of the Reillie who had looked like Viencet half hanging out of the saddle.
Suddenly, like a spent wave, the Reillies and Squawts receded, quickly flowing back to the north and west, leaving the bodies of men, women, boys, and girls—and their mounts—strewn on the hillsides, fields, and even the narrow road that eventually led to Borlan.
“Third Battalion! Hold your position! Third Battalion! Hold!” Mykel tried to boost his order with Talent.
“Hold position!” The order reverberated across the knoll.
Watching as the last of the attackers vanished into the wooded area to the west of the orchards to the north, Mykel slowly eased the rifle back across his legs, then glanced to his left, in the direction of Loryalt and Seventeenth Company. Seventeenth Company was re-forming. To the right, so was Sixteenth Company.
Mykel glanced at the white horse, shuddering and still panting, somehow entangled in the bare branches of a smaller tree. He was glad he could not see the face of the young Reillie.
“Majer? You all right?” Rhystan reined up beside Mykel.
“I’m fine.”
The older captain’s eyes took in the rifle across Mykel’s knees. “How much use did that see?”
“One shot.” Mykel nodded toward the white horse and the dead Reillie.
“You killed him, didn’t you? One shot, one-handed, with your left hand.”
“He was younger than my brother Viencet,” Mykel replied.
“Nothing short of killing him would have stopped him.”
“I know.” Mykel had to wonder if anything would stop the hill insurgents, other than their total destruction.
81
Dainyl had only had to receive petitions for a glass and a half on Tridi morning, for which he was thankful, since he hadn’t gotten as much sleep as he might have liked. While he’d spent Londi night in Elcien, he had taken the Table to Dereka on Duadi night. He and Lystrana had enjoyed a quiet dinner alone together, but Lystrana had slept restlessly. Even in his sleep Dainyl had sensed her discomfort—and Kytrana’s stirrings. Given his own restless sleep, he wasn’t that displeased in the fall-off in petitioners and his being able to leave the Hall of Justice by late midmorning.
Dainyl had been in his study less than a quarter glass after the hearings, looking over local regional Cadmian garrison reports, seeking a hint of where else the ancients might
be undertaking whatever they were doing, when Chastyl appeared with an unfamiliar alectress.
“Sir?” asked the recorder.
Dainyl set aside the reports and gestured for the two to enter. He remained seated.
Chastyl let the alectress enter first, closing the door behind them. “This is Vyane. She’s the assistant recorder in Lysia.”
Vyane was a good head shorter than Dainyl, but not nearly so slender and petite as Alcyna. Her eyes were a deep purple, but her skin bore the slightest tinge of almond. She inclined her head. “I’m Sulerya’s assistant, Highest. If at all possible, she would request that you come to Lysia. So would Majer Sevasya, although she has made no request.”
“For how long might the recorder require my presence?” Dainyl understood more fully—after Khelaryt’s revelation about the scepters—why the recorder would not leave Lysia.
“She did not say, but I doubt that it would be that long. Certainly no more than the day, and perhaps less.”
“Did she indicate why my presence might be required?”
“No, sir, only that you would find it vital and necessary.”
Dainyl could sense the truth behind the words, and the cryptic nature of the message chilled him. He could also see that the message was a shock to Chastyl. He looked to the older recorder. “Has anything unusual happened with the Tables this morning?”
“Not that I know, sir.”
“I’ll go now.” He stood, donned his jacket, and checked the lightcutters he still wore at his belt. Then he followed Chastyl and Vyane back down the corridor.
He stopped and peered into Adya’s small study. “I’m headed to Lysia. I might be gone much of the day.”
“Sir?” The question suggested that such Table travel might be unwise.
“There are important reasons for it. If Marshal Alcyna seeks me, tell her where I am and my expected return.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dainyl was the last through the small foyer and into the Table chamber. It was definitely crowded, with Diordyn, Chastyl, Vyane, Dainyl, as well as the five guards and the Table itself.
“You first.” Dainyl nodded to Vyane.
The assistant recorder stepped up onto the Table, faded into a misty figure, then vanished.
Dainyl followed her onto the mirror surface, concentrating as he dropped…
…into the purpleness of the translation tube where he concentrated on the orange-yellow locator for Lysia and linked. Now was no time to linger in the tube. The locator sped toward him, and then he was through the silvered barrier…
…and standing on the Table, by himself. He glanced around, then nodded as Vyane appeared behind him.
The assistant recorder looked stunned to see Dainyl there in front of her.
Dainyl smiled at her, then stepped off the Table, moving toward Sulerya.
The Recorder of Deeds for Lysia had dark circles under her eyes. She did not speak, but gestured to the open entrance to the hidden rooms off the Table chamber, then turned to Vyane. “We won’t be that long.”
“Yes, Recorder.”
Dainyl followed Sulerya, noting again how deftly she employed her Talent to manipulate the mechanism to seal the stone doorway behind them. Sulerya sat down heavily in one of the chairs in the study that was far smaller than the one of the High Alector of Justice in Elcien.
“Why did you request my presence?”
“The grid is…they’re making adjustments somewhere on Ifryn…and it’s making translations here unpredictable.”
“I noticed. Preparations to transfer the Master Scepter?”
“That would be my guess, but it could be a result of the rapid decline in lifeforce on Ifryn.”
“Is that the only reason you requested my presence?”
“No. Noryan is dead. So are about half the Myrmidons in Norda. We found out just before I sent Vyane for you.”
“When?” The single word was harsh.
“Last night—or very early this morning. Brekylt learned somehow that you’d ordered Noryan and Josaryk to Dereka, and when he discovered that Noryan was planning to obey, he and a squad of personal guards—assassins, in truth—used the Table to travel to Norda in the middle of the night. Most were killed in their sleep.”
“Most?” There was something in her tone that bothered him.
“One attempted to use his pteridon to escape. One of Brekylt’s assassins used one of those lightcannon on him.”
“They took a lightcannon to Norda?”
“Or it had been shipped there earlier in preparation and hidden,” suggested Sulerya.
“That’s not at all good. Those shred lifeforce. Even the ones with storage crystals draw down lifeforce.” Another thought struck Dainyl. “Someone had to have told Brekylt, someone who knew how to use a Table. He couldn’t have found out soon enough, otherwise.”
“Dubaryt.”
“Is he the recorder?”
Sulerya nodded. “He’s always been Brekylt’s creature.”
“How did you find out?”
“One of his assistants. She’d only made one or two translations, but she slipped onto the Table after the assassins left while Dubaryt was Talent-locking the chamber. She almost didn’t make it here. Dubaryt may have tried to reach her inside the tube. She collapsed, and she’s sleeping right now. If you want to talk to her…”
“Does Sevasya know yet?”
“I’ve told her, but she already knew some of it. She has had a few problems of her own.”
“She didn’t want to summon me?”
“You’re the High Alector, and she doesn’t trust the marshal.”
Dainyl could understand that. “The marshal and Noryan have turned out to be far more trustworthy than others.” In fact, it appeared as though the submarshal had paid for his loyalty with his life. “I’d better see Sevasya.”
“Vyane can—”
“I can find my way, and you may need her.”
“Thank you.”
Dainyl started to turn, then stopped. “I saw your father not that long ago—on Londi.”
“How was he?”
“In good health, but tired.”
Sulerya nodded. “He has worked too hard for too many years. We see each other seldom, usually only through the Tables.” The momentary wistfulness left her face. “Sevasya could use your advice and help.”
“Then I’d better go and provide them.”
The door to the hidden chamber opened, and Dainyl stepped out, just in time to see a creature appear on the Table. It had the head of a pteridon, the lower legs of sandox, and ropy arms that held lightcutters. Two guards triggered their lightcutters, and the creature collapsed, but did not disintegrate.
“You’re still getting wild translations,” he said, turning back toward Sulerya.
“There are fewer, but they’re more bizarre.”
Dainyl nodded and left the Table chamber, following the corridor to the staircase—also cut through solid stone—that he took up to the doorway leading out into the walled courtyard beyond. The mild sun and moist air reminded him that even winter in Lysia was warm, and he unfastened his shimmersilk green jacket as he crossed the courtyard, skirting the immaculate pteridon squares and then stepping through the archway into the headquarters building.
The duty officer jumped to her feet. “Highest!” Her eyes darted down the corridor.
“I’m here to see the majer. Is she in her study?”
“Yes, sir, Highest.”
“Thank you.” Dainyl turned left and walked to the second doorway, opening it and stepping inside.
A Myrmidon captain was bound with shimmersilk ropes and tied to a chair. Dainyl could sense the darker purple aura of an alector born on Ifryn.
Sevasya stood by the narrow window, thinking, but her eyes immediately turned to Dainyl. “Highest!”
“I understood that you are facing some difficulties. I can see that Captain Josaryk—this is Josaryk, is it not?”
“It is.”
> “I can see where his loyalties lie.” Dainyl looked to the majer. “How did you find out?”
“He tried to suborn the wrong Myrmidon. I’ve been watching ever since.”
Dainyl could see the weariness in her eyes. He looked directly at Josaryk. “Why?”
“The Duarches are weaklings. Only Brekylt can save Acorus.”
“Even if that were true, you owed your allegiance to those Duarches. You could have left the Myrmidons and become an assistant to the Alector of the East. Why didn’t you?”
The captain’s eyes flickered, but he did not answer.
“Might it be that you wanted the pteridons, and that suggests that the Duarches are not that weak. When will Brekylt declare that he is Duarch of the East?”
“I know nothing of that.”
“What did Brekylt promise Duarch Samist?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Or Ruvryn?”
Josaryk closed his mouth.
Dainyl turned to Sevasya. “Do you need to know anything else?”
“No. He’s revealed what he knows, and it’s not all that much. He was supposed to fly Fourth Company back to Alustre this morning.”
“Did Sulerya tell you about Noryan?”
“Yes.”
Dainyl unholstered the lightcutter.
“You can’t do that,” said Josaryk.
“I can. The Marshal of Myrmidons can’t, but the High Alector of Justice can.” Dainyl lifted the lightcutter and aimed it, focusing his Talent into a thrust that opened a wedge in Josaryk’s shields. Then he fired.
The Myrmidon barely had the chance to look surprised.
Dainyl turned to Sevasya. “Do you have enough trainees for the pteridons of the rebels?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And an undercaptain we can promote to command? Who’ll be loyal and can command?”
Sevasya nodded. “Waelstyr. He’s solid, and Fourth Company will follow him.”
“Let’s see the next one of the rebels.”
“That’s Undercaptain Staetyl.” Sevasya turned and left her study, walking to the south end of the building and down the steps to the lower level.
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