When the flurry of lightbeams died way, Mykel eased westward along the wall, still out of sight, past nearly a half squad of Second Hyalt, before he peered just above the wall. He thought he could sense six or seven alectors behind the pillars.
Slowly, he eased his rifle up, and fired twice more, then ducked back down.
“Heads down!”
Yet another set of lightbeams flared, but Mykel had the sense that the flashes were fewer, and the discharges weaker.
He slipped up and fired again, seeking yet another of the rebels, then ducked back down. He felt he’d missed, because he had not concentrated enough.
Only a few flashes of light followed his shot.
Jasakyt appeared, running along behind the wall, then slipping into place beside Mykel. “Sir, Fifteenth Company’s on the west side. We got the wall, but there were about five of them with those weapons to the northwest. We lost near-on a squad, but they’re all dead. Chyndylt ran one down with his mount. We’ve got the rest pinned inside. Undercaptain wants to know if you have any orders, sir.”
“Keep them pinned. If you hit them enough times, they die, just like we do. We’re getting rid of the ones guarding this door. Once it’s clear, we’ll move in.” Mykel hadn’t realized that would be his strategy, but it was clear that he had few choices—as Rachyla had predicted. He could either take the building and somehow seal off the door to the Table, or he could withdraw and leave Tempre. Anything else would kill Cadmians for no result. But then, retaking the building might do the same. Except…somehow, he knew that taking the building was what needed to be done.
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell the undercaptain.” With that, the scout turned and hurried back along the wall, keeping low.
Mykel reloaded, and then concentrated on the building. One of the windows on the main level was open. It had not been before. He watched, waited, then aimed, concentrated, and fired.
He saw nothing, but he felt that an alector had died.
He ducked just before another barrage of lightbeams raked the wall. The odor of more molten stone rose in the hot and damp air.
As the beams passed and died away, Mykel eased back up and fired twice, dropping back behind the wall, and reloading while he waited for another reaction. There wasn’t one.
Keeping his head down, he moved back to the eastern end of the wall, moving behind the crouching Cadmians of Second Company. He came to a halt just short of the granite post that marked one side of the ungated entry to the paved plaza. He eased himself up behind the post, trying to get a feel for how many alectors remained.
As he stood, blocked from attack by the granite, he heard firing begin in the rear of the building, coming from both east and west. He could only see a scattering of bluish lightbeams, and those died away. Mykel smiled grimly. The rear exit hadn’t proved effective for the alectors, either.
He studied the front columns. From what he could sense, three alectors remained.
Once more, he lifted his rifle, aiming and willing.
After two shots, the third alector scrambled into the building. If Mykel had had just a little more time…but the deliberated, Talent-aided shots took longer.
“Matorak!” Mykel reloaded again, glad he’d worn the ammunition belt.
Within moments, the undercaptain was by Mykel’s side.
“They’ve withdrawn inside. Right now, they don’t have a defense. Designate a squad to follow me in.”
“Yes, sir. Second squad.” Matorak turned his head. “Jorust! Second squad! Over here!”
As the squad gathered, Mykel studied the building, watching for a window to open. As he’d suspected, one did, on the upper level. He raised his rifle and fired.
This time a body twisted forward, falling out the floor-to-ceiling window and hitting the pavement with a dull thud.
Mykel took a moment to reload. He wanted a full magazine going back into the building.
“They’re ready, sir.”
Mykel turned. The squad crouched in a line behind the wall. He raised his voice. “We’re headed to the building. As soon as we clear the wall, spread out. Don’t get close to another Cadmian until we get inside the front pillars. We’ll regroup there.”
He looked back to the building. He’d probably lose some men, but now was better than waiting. The rebels could get reinforcements, from wherever they did, anytime. He wondered if they had come through the Table, but pushed the thought aside. “Matorak, send messengers to Fifteenth and Seventeenth Company. Tell them we’re assaulting the building, and not to fire into it, just at any rebel who tries to leave.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Second squad! Forward!”
Mykel sprinted from behind the granite gate post, trying to see and sense if anyone fired at them. Only a handful of lightbeams flashed toward the scattered Cadmians, but one, possibly more, took their toll. Mykel knew that stopping and trying to shoot would only make him a greater target.
He was panting hard when he scrambled up the granite steps and behind the first line of pillars, rifle ready. The space between the columns and the archway was empty, except for tunics and trousers and boots. He half-shook his head. It took getting used to—that when alectors died, they turned to ashes and dust within moments.
“That rebel…he fell out of the window…nothing left but his uniform. Saw him hit…”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Mykel stated. “However they die, they’ve got those lightguns, and they can kill, and we need to get rid of them before they can call in reinforcements. I need two flankers. If anyone pops up, shoot them in the chest. That’ll knock them around enough that they’ll have trouble aiming.” He moved toward the double doors, one of which had been left ajar.
The rebels weren’t used to fighting, not grind-it-out fighting, and that would help. Standing so that the door shielded him, Mykel eased it open.
The entry hall was empty, but he could sense someone behind the archway on the right.
Mykel smiled, then reached back, and motioned. “Hand me one of those boots.”
A ranker passed it forward. “Feels slimy, somehow.”
Mykel tossed the boot into the hall, then raised his rifle in one motion.
With the clunk of the boot on the marble floor, the rebel peered out. Mykel concentrated and fired.
The alector in blue pitched forward, and the lightcutter skittered across the marble tiles.
“Frig…”
Mykel ignored the muttered expletive, trying to locate any other alectors. Then he slipped inside and kept to the left wall, moving quickly, then stopping short of the archway to the right, on the east side.
From the outside, on the north side, came another barrage of rifle fire.
Mykel dropped to his knees and took a quick look down the corridor. He caught a glimpse of blue at the corner, and raised his rifle and fired.
The rebel spun out and sprawled on the floor, then scrambled to his feet. He almost made it back to cover when Mykel’s next shot took him down.
The sound of boots on stone, and the diminishing purple aura, indicated a retreat.
Mykel turned. “Jorust. Take half the squad, Stay here, and be ready to sweep the corridors in both directions. The other half comes with me.” He hurried through the archway and moved quickly down the corridor, past doors closed when he had last checked the building, sensing no one in the studies.
When he reached the corner, he stopped, then took a quick glance. The next corridor heading to the rear of the building, was also empty, but he could still hear the sound of distant boots. Were they heading for the lower level, and the Table? Trying to retreat while they could?
Mykel forced himself to move methodically, checking the studies on each side of the corridor, using his men to cover his rear, but, in less than a half glass, it was clear that there was no one on either the upper floor or the main level, and the shooting from outside had died away some time back.
With some trepidation, he moved to the open doorway that led
below. Absently, he noted that the lock remained missing. He smiled, briefly. Exactly who would have repaired it? Somehow, he doubted that the rebel alectors would have. They seemed far too arrogant to stoop to that.
“You wait here, until I get to the bottom.” Mykel did not sense anyone on the stairs. Still, he moved slowly down the dimly lit steps.
Just as he stepped onto the main floor, the slightest rustle came from his right. He jumped back toward the cover of the archway, trying to strengthen what he thought of as shields, but too late. Bluish-flame angled past his left shoulder, clipping his tunic and part of his upper arm, with pain so intense that he nearly dropped the rifle.
“Frig…frig…” His eyes watered, but he was at least out of the line of fire.
He hadn’t sensed a thing. Not a thing.
The same frigging thing had happened in Dramur. He should have learned.
“Sir? You all right?”
“I’ll be fine. There are some rebels down here. Hold a moment.” Mykel lowered himself to his knees, then eased forward to the edge of the stone casement of the archway, waiting.
Another blast of light flared past him well over his head.
He kept waiting.
It seemed like a quarter of a glass before a third—and weaker—blast struck the wall beyond the foot of the stone stairs, but it was doubtless far less than that. Even before that, Mykel forced himself to peer aim, aim, and fire.
The alector’s lightcutter beam etched a line in the ceiling before the rebel alector crashed to the stone floor. There was no one else in the lower corridor.
“All right,” he said quietly. “Half of you come down. The others guard the top.”
He continued to wait behind the stone, watching the corridor, while the four rankers slipped down the stairs. Still, no rebels appeared. Had the one been the only rebel who could hide his aura? Why hadn’t he remembered? He’d gotten so used to employing his extended senses that he’d forgotten that they didn’t pick up absolutely everyone.
“That’s a bad burn, sir.”
“We’re almost done. One of you go tell the undercaptain that, and have him send word to Undercaptain Fabrytal.”
“Ah…”
Mykel inclined his head toward the ranker who stood on the last step. “You. They need to know.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mykel eased out into the corridor, rifle ready, even though he sensed nothing. With the three rankers flanking him, they moved down the corridor. No one appeared.
The door to the Table chamber was open.
Mykel moved slowly to the edge, then took a quick look. The chamber was empty except for some uniforms scattered across the floor. For a time, he stood in the doorway. His left arm burned, so much that he could barely move it. But he had to do something about the frigging Table. But what?
The Table pulsed purple. He’d seen enough to know that the purple force—was that what they called Talent?—carried tremendous energy.
Finally, he turned. “You three. Move back ten yards.”
“Sir.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He didn’t try to smile before he turned and reloaded the rifle. Then he tried to sense from where the energy came—from what amounted to a node on the far side, and the node was close to the side of the stone base of the Table.
He couldn’t fire a bullet through solid stone. But was it solid stone? It couldn’t be, not if it transported alectors, not if it displayed images.
If…if he aimed at the south wall, and willed the bullets to ricochet back into the guts of the Table, willing with all his effort, he could direct them to strike that nexus of energy. That way, if the Table exploded…when the Table exploded, he corrected himself, he’d be shielded by the heavy stone wall.
Slowly, he raised the rifle, ignoring the blistering and agonizing stabbing pain in his left arm, and concentrated, squeezing the trigger, willing and trying to add some of the green energy that flowed around him. One shot, then a second…
He didn’t squeeze the trigger a third time. The building shook and the heavy stones flexed and threw him across the corridor. He felt himself flying…trying to hold his inadequate shields, and then…blackness…
91
Mykel woke with a start, and that sudden jolt sent spasms through his entire body. His left arm was hot and painful, but he was almost surprised to be alive. On the wall to his left was a lamp, but each eye saw a separate image of the polished brass and etched glass fixture. He closed his eyes and then opened them. There were still two images.
He was propped up in a large bed, with a shimmersilk sheet across him. His forehead was damp, and he was sweating. His left shoulder was loosely covered with thin gauze and an ointment had been applied under it to his blistered skin. He had been undressed, except for underdrawers…No, he wore underdrawers but they felt silky.
“So, you’re finally awake. That took long enough, for just a few bruises and a burn.”
The voice was feminine, cold, and reminded him of someone. He turned his head, slowly, carefully. Rachyla sat in a carved chair less than a yard away from the bed. She wore a pale green vest and trousers, and a darker green vest. Her dark hair was slightly disarrayed, only the second time he had ever seen anything about her less than perfect.
“What…?” His mouth was so dry he could not say another word.
“What are you doing here?” She laughed, in low but harsh tones. “Amaryk is furious. That would be reason enough.” The cool smile faded. “Your undercaptain brought you here with some secrecy. He sees more than he says. I told Amaryk that I felt it unwise to displease the acting commander of Cadmians who had routed the evil ones and who held the city. I also told him that if anything happened to you, he would suffer. That made him even less happy.” She offered him a beaker, guiding it to his right hand.
His fingers trembled, but he managed to turn more and drink. The ale felt both harsh and cooling as he swallowed. “Thank you.”
“It is the least I could do, Majer. You fed me when I was ill…as well as you could.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, cold.
“How long have I been here?”
“Just since this afternoon. It is near midnight now. I had thought you might wake.” She stood and peered into his eyes. “I thought as much. Did you strike your head?”
“I struck…” He tried not to cough, but couldn’t stop. It felt as though his entire back was bruised. When the coughing subsided, he took the smallest sip of the ale, hoping it would calm his throat. He waited, then spoke again. “I hit everything. The explosion threw me into a stone wall.”
“You have a concussion. It will pass. What about your shoulder?”
“One of the rebel alectors shot me with one of their weapons.”
“The ones that burn with light?”
Mykel nodded, trying to keep from coughing.
“You should not be alive.” After a moment Rachyla went on. “You will need a new sabre and scabbard. Your belt buckle snapped into three pieces. I know of no one who has been wounded with the burning weapons and who has lived.”
He would have shrugged, but he knew that would have sent shooting pains everywhere.
“I cannot say I am fond of you, Majer, but I am not at all fond of the evil ones, and for your killing of so many, I am appreciative.”
“How did you know…?” Mykel stifled a yawn. How could she possibly have known?
“I asked your undercaptain why he brought you here. He said that you had killed more than a score of the evil ones—he called them rebel alectors—but whatever name they have, they are evil. He felt you would be safer with someone who knew something about them. He did not want you helpless in the compound.”
As he lay there, taking another sip of ale, looking at Rachyla, exhausted as he was, he had sensed something strange about her words, especially at first, but his head throbbed, and he could not identify why he felt that way. He could not sense much about how she felt, unlike most people, from whom he could gain a se
nse of feeling and sometimes more. He frowned. She was like the seltyr trooper in Dramur and the alector who had shot him—one of those few he could not feel or sense.
“For many reasons, I could not deny him. Not when the evil ones have done so much to us.” She laughed, once, harshly. “It is so ironic that you, who serve them, have done more to avenge my family than anyone.”
“You planned it that way. Or hoped…” He tried to stop the coughing, but he doubled up in pain anyway. After a moment he lay back, his head swimming.
“Me, Majer? I could not plan my own course, let alone yours.”
Mykel felt differently, but the coldness of her voice and his own exhaustion told him he should not pursue those thoughts. He should not have said as much as he had. He should have said something about Fabrytal and nothing about Rachyla. He definitely owed Fabrytal—and it was clear the undercaptain was more perceptive than Mykel had realized. He managed another swallow of the ale, realizing that he had emptied the beaker—between drinking and spilling it.
Rachyla took it from it. “That is enough for now. You should not eat or drink any more until your eyes are better.”
Until his eyes were better? He could see, if in double images, or was that what she meant?
She said something, but he could not make it out.
“…sorry…” he mumbled.
“Why do you persist?” she asked. “Even when you cannot move, you arrive at my door.”
“The ancient said we were tied, somehow,” he said tiredly. Was that what the ancient soarer had said, or was that how he had interpreted it?
“You must have imagined it.” Her voice was chill once more. “The ancients do not tie men to women. Nor do they advise men—not those who wish to live.”
“Believe what you will, Rachyla.” His eyes were heavy again, and he struggled to stay awake, to keep looking at her. His eyes closed anyway.
92
On Novdi morning, Dainyl could barely move. His legs were stiff and sore. His head throbbed, and occasional shooting pains stabbed down the arm that had been sliced earlier with the ancient sword. Had Galya taken care of that? He’d forgotten that in the welter of follow-up details. Several of the pteridons of fallen Myrmidons had been loaded with items Dainyl had not wished to leave—mainly all the lightcutters. In the end, he’d destroyed the two working lightcannon, because they were too heavy to carry by pteridon and too dangerous to leave in any custody but that of the Myrmidons.
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