Scepters

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “The last company from Borlan is between Krost and here, and will join the companies released from Indyor. That will provide four more companies of lancers that could be used against the Regent as necessary.”

  “And the training?”

  “There are lancers enough to fill four companies in training at Krost. They have just begun, and we will lose a quarter of them in training. They will not be prepared to fight until spring,” Frynkel replied. “We should have less trouble at Krost, now.”

  “For which, again, you can thank the majer. Perhaps, if he succeeds in Hyalt, I should make him a marshal.”

  The faintest hint of a wince crossed Alyniat’s face, and the subdued finger drumming ceased.

  “Oh…don’t worry about that,” Talryn said wryly. “He’s too smart to accept it, and if I offered it, I’d end up losing half my officers within a year. That, too, is a sorry state of affairs.” He glanced at Alyniat, and added, “Especially under the circumstances, Marshal Alyniat. I trust you two will continue to work to remedy those circumstances.”

  Alyniat’s face stiffened slightly at the Lord-Protector’s use of the phrase “under the circumstances.” Then, he replied, “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s all. One of you send me a messenger confirming that the ammunition is on the way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Lord-Protector rose.

  So did the marshals, bowing, then departing the study.

  62

  In the glow of the oil lamp set in a bronze wall bracket, the five officers sat around the single table in what passed for the officers’ mess in the Ceazan way station. Four were from Alucius’s force. The fifth was Korow, the gray-bearded undercaptain in charge of the station. His pale green eyes moved slowly from officer to officer, but kept returning to the gray-haired and young-faced Alucius.

  Alucius took a long swallow of water from the chipped crockery mug. “We’ll give the men another two days to rest and check gear.” The men didn’t need the rest so much as the mounts did, but both men and mounts could stand the time away from the strangeness around Hyalt. He also would leave the more seriously wounded, such as Elbard, to recover at the way station.

  “You haven’t said much, sir,” offered Jultyr. “Not about what’s happened in Hyalt.”

  “That’s true. I haven’t.” Alucius paused. “I’d like your thoughts first. Then, I’ll say what I think.”

  A faint smile crossed Feran’s lips, and Alucius knew that was because Alucius had never been known for being reticent among other officers.

  No one spoke for a time.

  Then Feran cleared his throat. “Something’s happening. It didn’t start when we rode into Hyalt. It didn’t even start when we left Dekhron. There were pteridons when we fought the nomads in Deforya. That was more than three years ago. The Matrial started using the crystal spear-thrower before that. This revolt…whatever it is…is part of it. These rebels don’t act like any lancers I ever saw anywhere.” The overcaptain shrugged. “That’s all.”

  After another silence, Alucius looked to Jultyr.

  “Don’t know what to say, sir. Never seen anything like it. Couldn’t say where any of them came from. They don’t look or act like any folk from Lanachrona, and I’ve served in almost every post in the land.”

  “Captain Deotyr?” Alucius prompted.

  The dark-haired young officer moistened his lips.

  Alucius waited.

  “Sir…where are they getting all the lancers? We…well…the Lord-Protector has trouble raising enough from all across Lanachrona, and we must have killed…what…five companies’ worth, and they still have more…” Deotyr’s words trailed off.

  “That’s a very good question,” Alucius replied. “I have an idea, but we won’t know until we finish what we were sent to do.” He paused, then continued. “The scouts have reported that Hyalt is half deserted, and we’ve seen that many of the steads have been abandoned. We’ve captured mounts, though many aren’t that good, and some have their coats worn from harnesses and collars. We don’t know as much as I’d like, but it looks like this prophet Adarat has used some form of Talent to persuade people to leave their homes and steads and serve him as lancers, and perhaps in many other ways as well.

  “Even so, if that’s true,” Alucius continued, “whatever this is, it’s not a rebellion or a revolt. Rebels don’t have standardized uniforms within weeks. They don’t have lancers who can still ride with wounds that should have left them dead. They don’t have Talent-wielders powerful enough to enchant scouts from a distance.”

  “You think it’s an invasion?” asked Deotyr.

  “I don’t know. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a Talent-invasion, with the Talent-wielder coming from somewhere else and getting some supplies from there, but using the local men and boys as fodder.”

  “Who could be behind it?” pressed Deotyr.

  “The Regent?” asked Jultyr.

  “It’s possible,” said Alucius, even though he doubted that it could be the Regent. From what he could tell, it had to be the ifrits, and he could only hint at that.

  “You don’t think so, do you?” said Feran.

  “I don’t know what’s behind it. It could be the Regent of the Matrial, but I think it’s something else. What that something is…that’s another question, but the way we were attacked by Talent-creatures near Hyalt, then earlier north of Krost, and all the feeling of Talent all around Hyalt…” Alucius shook his head. “Don’t you think that if the Regent of the Matrial had that kind of power, our lancers would be taking terrible losses in Madrien and getting pushed out of Southgate?”

  “Maybe they are,” suggested Jultyr. “We wouldn’t know, would we?”

  Alucius let a rueful laugh escape. “You could be right. We wouldn’t know.”

  “If that happened, can’t have happened too long ago,” offered Korow. “We get the dispatches here, two, three days after Tempre. Nothing in them. Can’t see why they’d hide something like that. ’Sides, if they did, still be something about lancer companies being formed or moved.” The older undercaptain stopped and pulled at his chin. “Come to think of it, one of the dispatch riders said they’ve got more companies in training at Krost, and something about the companies being moved out of Indyor and being sent west.”

  Alucius put the most faith in the dispatch riders. If anyone outside of the marshals and the Lord-Protector would know, the dispatch riders would.

  “If it’s the Regent, then we’re on our own, Majer, aren’t we?” asked Jultyr.

  “We knew that already,” Alucius said wryly.

  “But where did the Regent get all this Talent?” asked Deotyr, the tone in his voice one between exasperation and annoyance.

  Alucius shrugged. “We don’t know what caused the Cataclysm or the fall of the Duarchy. We don’t even know how the Duarchy came to be. All we know is that something strange is happening that doesn’t seem to have happened before, and it’s been happening all over Corus. The prophet could be a wild Talent-wielder who’s convinced everyone from merchants to local holders that the Duarchy will come again and gotten them to provide uniforms and supplies. Proclaiming that the True Duarchy will come doesn’t mean that it will, no matter how many in Hyalt believe it. Under those conditions, the Regent of the Matrial would be happy to supply weapons to keep the Lord-Protector and Lanachrona occupied elsewhere. Even the Dramurians might do that. We can’t deal with the Matrial or the Dramurians or whoever. Our job is to stop whatever’s happening in Hyalt.”

  “What do you have in mind, sir?” asked Feran.

  “Make a strike at the camp we hit with the fires, first. That’s likely to be the headquarters camp from what we’ve learned so far. Then strike the other camp. If we destroy this so-called prophet’s forces, we’ll find it easier to strike at him—if he’s even alive after we finish.” Alucius cleared his throat and took another swallow of water. “I thought the men could use a break before we made that kind of strike. We sh
ould be getting supplies tomorrow, but, if we don’t get any more supplies, we’ll take whatever extra ammunition Korow can spare and head off the morning after tomorrow.”

  “You don’t want to wait, then?” asked Deotyr.

  “Not too much longer than we have,” Alucius admitted. “I’d thought we could find out more than we have. We didn’t. Sometimes, you just can’t get any more information. When that happens, you have to act, because you won’t get any more until they’re attacking you, and you’re better off acting instead of reacting.”

  “Still think it’s strange,” mused Deotyr.

  “It is strange. It may well get stranger if we don’t put a stop to it,” Alucius pointed out. He didn’t point out that they were also better off dealing with the prophet before the Regent of the Matrial became even more involved—if she were involved in the first place. If the prophet happened to be an ifrit, early action was also better. He just hoped the ammunition arrived—and before long.

  63

  North of Iron Stem, Iron Valleys

  As she reined up the chestnut outside the stable in the late afternoon of a cold harvest day, Wendra swung out of the saddle gracefully, despite her growing midsection.

  “You won’t be able to keep that up for much longer,” offered Lucenda, walking over from the processing shed.

  “I’m good for another month, maybe two,” insisted Wendra, leading the chestnut mare inside the stable and into the second stall. “The baby’s fine, and you know that the longer I can ride, the easier the delivery.” She grinned. “That’s what you told me.”

  “I didn’t mean spending the entire day in the saddle. I wasn’t talking about riding herd on the flock.” Lucenda looked over the end of the stall at the younger woman. “You look tired. You shouldn’t be taking the flock so often.”

  “I’m only taking them every other day,” Wendra said. “It’s not that. There were more of those…creatures…those pteridons. They appeared maybe two glasses ago, on the way back.”

  “Did they—”

  “I shot both of them. They didn’t get any of the flock. One came close to a lamb, but I dropped it onto a quarasote bush. They both went up in that blue flame.” Wendra racked the saddle and then shook her head. “I never thought I’d see anything that could burn quarasote.”

  “I don’t like your being out there, not with those…creatures.”

  Wendra looked at the older woman, then lowered her voice. “You know Royalt can’t do anything about the pteridons or the black sanders. Besides, they don’t show up that often.”

  “That’s the third time since summer.”

  “Fourth,” Wendra admitted. “But there were only two, and now that I’m carrying two rifles, it’s easier.”

  “You’re getting those golds from the Lord-Protector. We could afford to lose one or two ewes, and it wouldn’t be so bad now.”

  “They’re helpful, but not enough to replace more than a ram, if we could,” Wendra pointed out. “I’d rather save the golds for later, when we really need them.”

  Lucenda offered a wan smile. “You’re a herder—just like your grandsire. And Alucius.”

  “I’m a herder, and I won’t give it up. You and Alucius gave that to me, and the flock will be here, and so will the stead, when he comes back.” She paused. “I know he’s all right, but I wish we’d hear more. It’s been two weeks since his last letter. He said it would be hard to send them after he left Krost, but I worry.”

  “Knowing Alucius, he worries about you.”

  “He doesn’t need to. He’s the one who’s in danger.” Wendra continued to curry the chestnut. “Rebels will be shooting at him.”

  “Whereas you merely have to fight off Talent-creatures the likes of which haven’t been seen since before the Cataclysm—another legacy of the Duarches.” Lucenda snorted.

  “The times are changing,” Wendra said.

  “You sound like Alucius.”

  “He’s right.”

  “He was almost always right,” Lucenda said, her voice holding a mixture of sadness and wistfulness. “I can remember when he saved Lamb. He looked up at me, and he said, ‘He’ll get well. You’ll see. He will.’ Then he went to sleep.”

  “That’s Alucius.”

  “As a mother, it’s frightening. He always saw so much more. He didn’t always know what it meant, but he saw it.” Lucenda’s eyes fixed on Wendra. “Your daughter…she’ll be like that, and then you’ll understand.”

  “I’ve thought that,” Wendra admitted. “Especially at those times when I’ve wakened and seen Alucius sleep, and he looks so childlike.”

  Lucenda looked as though she might say more. Then she laughed softly. “I need to check on supper. Come on in when you can.”

  After Lucenda left, Wendra continued to brush the chestnut, her eyes open but focused far to the south.

  64

  Octdi found the column of lancers riding back southward on the high road away from Ceazan and toward Hyalt. Although he did not expect to find traces of the rebels until the next day, Alucius was still using both his Talent and his eyesight to scan the road and the terrain to either side, seeking any trace of the purpleness that marked the rebels or any sign of dust in the dry harvest season that was but days away from fall. Soon the weather would turn colder, even in southern Lanachrona, if not nearly so cold as autumn days would be in the Iron Valleys.

  Through the morning Alucius rode with Twenty-eighth Company, and midmorning came and went. At noon, he ordered Thirty-fifth Company forward and rode with Jultyr. They had ridden more than a glass, passing but a few pleasantries, before Jultyr cleared his throat.

  Alucius waited.

  “The marshals sent that ammunition real quick, sir.”

  “My dispatch explained the problem, at least as well as I could.”

  “I’ve seen colonels, sir, didn’t get supplies that fast.”

  “The Lord-Protector has a problem. The sooner we get the ammunition, the sooner we can deal with it.”

  “You don’t think there’s any other way?”

  Alucius laughed softly. “I don’t know that the rebels gave us much choice. They attacked us first on several occasions. Do you think there was anything else we could have done?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you think we ought to strike the hill camp first or the one northeast of town?”

  Jultyr considered.

  Alucius waited once more.

  “I’d say the hill camp, sir. You hit the town camp, and they’ll be ready for the second attack. Be harder to get word from the hills back to the other camp. Also, you hit the town camp, and folks could run to the other one. Make the second attack harder, and we might have to kill women and children.” Jultyr shrugged. “Might have to, anyway.”

  “We might.”

  “Still can’t figure why they don’t like the Lord-Protector. Never did anything to these folks. Nothing. Garrison here was mostly those with injuries of the kind that wouldn’t heal, serving last year or two before getting a stipend.” Jultyr paused. “This True Duarchy thing…might not be as good as the old one. Who’s to say the old one was that good? All we got is stories and legends and a few roads and buildings. Doesn’t tell what living there was like.”

  “Legends don’t tell everything,” Alucius replied mildly.

  “Folks remember what they want to. Could be good. Could be bad.” Jultyr cocked his head, thinking. “My grandda…he told stories. Never told a happy one. My grandmam, she never told a sad one. Spent near-on fifty years together. Funny…lived the same life. Sure saw it different—or told it different.”

  “People are like that.”

  Jultyr frowned. “Except these rebels. They all act the same…do the same. Folks in their right minds aren’t like that.”

  “This prophet is using some kind of Talent to change their minds.”

  “That’s hard on folks, hard on us.”

  Alucius nodded. Whatever happened was going to be hard on every
one. He scanned the road ahead once more, then the thornbush-covered rises on each side.

  65

  On a cool and cloudy Londi, just past noon, Alucius, Feran, Jultyr, and Deotyr stood to one side of the ashes of a cookfire, halfway down the slope of the hillside camp less than five vingts from the eastern approach to the western camp of the Hyalt rebels.

  Facing them were Rakalt and Waris, the two best remaining scouts. Given the earlier scouting problems, Alucius was both pleased and relieved that the pair had returned, although Elbard remained at the way station and was healing well. For that, at least, Alucius was grateful.

  “Sir…you know we burned all those trees around their camp—and the spiky thorns,” said Waris.

  “I was there,” Alucius pointed out.

  “The trees that we burned—they’re still black, but there’s fresh green spiky thorn everywhere that was burned—looks even bigger and thicker.”

  “You’re sure about that?” asked Feran.

  Jultyr and Deotyr exchanged glances.

  “Cut off a piece. Tough, too.” Waris produced a half-yard length of a greenish brown thorn branch.

  Even as the scout extended it, and Alucius took the thorny length, he had to repress a shudder at the faint hint of purple and black that his Talent detected. Someone—either an ifrit or an ifrit-possessed Lanachronan—had bled off the very life-essence of people to spur or fuel the unnatural growth of the spiky thornbushes. “It’s like this all the way around the camp?”

  “Looked to be, sir.” Waris glanced toward Rakalt.

  “Far as I could tell, sir,” added the second scout.

  “What about the palisades and the walls? Have they been reinforced?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are the gates kept closed, or are they open some of the time?”

  “Only the same two, sir, and they were both open. Didn’t look like they were ever closed, maybe except at night. Maybe not then.”

  “Did you see any lancers, besides those doing sentry duty?”