Sarovy’s hand fell to the hilt of his heirloom blade. Unenchanted, he knew, but with the weight of his lineage behind it—the centuries of bloody use, the formal rite of inheritance, the eagle head at its pommel. It had cut the metal elementals beneath Bahlaer where no other normal sword could, and if it had power without being touched by magic, so much the better. He did not care to have the mages’ influence upon him. “No, I do not need one.”
“If you say so. You could try requisitioning another mage…”
Sarovy shook his head. “The General tells me that we have no free mages—that I am fortunate to have you, let alone Voorkei and Presh.”
“Well, with the way the Crimson goes through mages, it’s not surprising,” said Scryer Mako. “Most of the ones here now are support types, not combat. I do portals and mindwashing, I’m not supposed to be on the field. Voorkei’s some sort of battle-mage though, right?”
The Gejaran mage shrugged his bony shoulders, sending the strings of beads and teeth to clattering. “I do vhat needed,” he said roughly. “Fight svirits, dark things, vhatever told. I know lots vykhe—lots sfhells. I try vykhe-iriol, hyes? The…the glyphs she say. I have little skill in.”
“But you’re not an Artificer, right?” said Scryer Mako, eyeing him.
Magus Voorkei plucked at one of the strings of beads, which looked like spheres of resin with dark, unidentifiable inclusions. “Not need to ve,” he said. “Circle Artificer vork vith statues, hyes? Constructs, arnor, veafons. Veapfh— Swords. Is other things can ve done, though. Vhat hyou call synfathetic— Eh, dalurxudrakvykhe—“
“Dalur tioren gih drak?” Scryer Mako said, frowning. “Au kurthi-vykhe?”
Sarovy looked between the mages sharply. He had not known that the Scryer spoke Gheshvan, but by the look on Voorkei’s face, neither had he.
“Au, au,” said the ugly mage, shaking his head. “Vresakha—“
“We should discuss this privately,” Mako said, glancing to the baffled officers then to Sarovy apologetically. “Captain, really, I have no way to address that request. If you think of something else, please ask. But Voorkei needs to explain this to me, and I don’t want to fill up your time with lab-talk…”
Still frowning, Sarovy nodded to them. “You may go.”
“Just in the corner. I don’t want to disturb anything.” Mako rose, patting her hips as if she might have hidden something in the clinging fabric of her robe. To Sarovy’s surprise, she drew a thick leather-bound notebook from a near-invisible slit, then a charcoal stick. When she noticed his stare, she grinned. “Pocket portal.” Then she beckoned for Voorkei to follow, and they moved into a corner of the room, talking quietly but animatedly in the Gheshvan tongue.
Sarovy watched them for a moment, then shook his head. Some days, he felt like he had no clue what was going on.
As if echoing the thought, Shield-Lieutenant Gellart said, “Your pardon, sir, but do we have any idea what we’ll be up against? Has the General told you anything?”
“No, lieutenant, not yet.” Sarovy looked down to the slate, on which he had arrayed the five platoons for the type of army-versus-army clash they had not seen since the Jernizan campaign. Unless they were set against the Padrastans—unless the siege finally broke through Kanrodi—he knew they would not see such action.
If they were deployed here in Illane, they would be fighting smugglers, bandits, cultists. Farmers and peasants. Civilians. He did not like it.
Of course, they might always be sent into Varaku, or to the wraith-haunted forest along the Rift. Maybe to the Bahlaer Shadowland and its underground labyrinth.
He longed for the simplicity of the Jernizan campaign. By their faces, he knew that his men did too.
The contemplative silence was broken by Scryer Mako, who bounded back to the table and slapped her notebook on it, drawing all attention. A wicked sparkle lit her eyes. In a tone of deep importance, she said, “We need hair.”
Everyone stared. Behind her, Voorkei grinned tuskily.
Unwavering, she continued, “Hair from everyone. No more than a few strands, but we have a very good idea for a sympathetic master-spell from which we can hang all sorts of other interconnective magic—diagnostics, tracking, proximity alert, visual mapping—“
“Stop,” said Sarovy. “Hairs from everyone.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Vakya— Vlood-sanfles vould ve helfful,” said Voorkei.
“He says blood,” said Mako.
“We…will see about that. Hair?” Sarovy said, looking to his officers.
To a man, they looked uncomfortable, even Vrallek and Presh. Anything that worries those two is either too dangerous or too advantageous to pass up, Sarovy thought.
“Is this some dire witchery?” rumbled Lieutenant Arlin, moustache twitching as if independent as he peered between Voorkei and Mako. “Some murderous ogrish trick?”
Mako planted her hands on her hips and stared up at the towering Wynd like a hillcat confronting a blond moose. “Of course not. Witchfolk rituals are vastly inferior to proper magic. You’ll be in no danger, and Magus Voorkei will be serving in an advisory capacity only. You must trust me if we intend to get along as a company.”
Lieutenant Arlin looked to Sarovy for reassurance. Sarovy sighed. Soldiers simply did not work alongside mages, and those from the farm-country or the backwoods or the steppes, like Sarovy himself, had no reason to trust them. Even the doctrine of the Light said that they were dabblers in power not meant for humankind.
But the enemy had mages as well, so they were necessary, as much to the company as to the Army.
He nodded curtly to Lieutenant Arlin, who did not seem pleased but ceased to loom at the little lady. “As you say, Miss Mako.”
“Scryer Yrsian,” Sarovy corrected.
The other officers nodded slowly, mumbling reluctant assent. Sarovy noted that the two senvraka and Houndmaster Vrallek still looked uneasy, though Sergeant Presh had opted for wry amusement. His dark eyes darted between the two other mages with speculative interest.
“I would like you to involve Sergeant Presh,” said Sarovy impulsively. He did not trust the man, but something about this situation clicked in his mind. Scryer Mako arched a brow at him but shrugged permissively; Voorkei grinned and inclined his head to Presh, which the Padrastan returned. Houndmaster Vrallek shot his sergeant a displeased look but said nothing, only frowned more deeply.
“He can come along with us after the meeting,” said Mako. “Help collect samples.”
“Mind you, Scryer, we do have some baldies in the ranks,” said Lieutenant Sengith.
“They don’t have to be head-hairs,” said Mako brightly. “Just hairs. Oh! Just clean hairs! Don’t you get any horrible ideas!”
Sergeant Kirvanik snorted, a surprisingly hog-like noise, which made someone else laugh. Shoulders loosened; Korr suggested Lieutenant Arlin donate his moustache to the cause, Linciard muttered that it was a separate creature, and Arlin suggested Linciard cross the table and say that directly to the moustache. Jeers and encouragement arose from the sergeants, except Sergeant Benson who looked disgusted at the sudden unprofessionality and turned an expectant frown to Sarovy.
“Gentlemen,” Sarovy said loudly, repressing his own smile. “Please. No scuffles during meetings. Will there be anything else, Scryer?”
Mako shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll think of something, but between the hair and the sick fellows, it might be a while. Do you need me for the rest of this? Can I take the boys and get started?” She waved her hand to indicate Voorkei and Presh, and though they both raised a brow, they made no comment.
“If you like, Scryer,” said Sarovy. “You three are dismissed.”
Mako clapped her hands on her notebook, then beckoned to her new minions. “We’ll need to stop by the dome for supplies,” she told them as she started away, the men falling in behind her. “Little cases for all the samples, and one of those hanging looms for the master stran
d…”
“You are intending company-wide workings?” said Presh as they stepped out the door. “Or platoon by platoon? Section by section? I would suggest the last. Two hundred subjects—“
“Yes, but this is micro-energy magic. Two hundred isn’t too many, not if we have proper arrays and dampeners. It’s not like I plan to light them all on fire with—“
Presh pulled the door shut behind them, and Sarovy winced. Not the last thing he wanted to hear.
He looked back to the officers, to the varied shades of doubt, unease and resignation on their faces, and said, “This is how it is now. We are the test company. What we try, how we succeed or fail, will give the General and the Army its new direction. We all know that we can no longer expect the same wars that we have fought. If we press on into the Serpent Empire, we may find ourselves fighting soldiers who wield spells with the same ease as swords, who need no armor because their flesh is steel-hard scales, whose very breath is poison.”
“Got that already,” said Lieutenant Arlin in an undertone, slanting a look at his ogre-blooded sergeant. Kirvanik snorted.
“Regardless,” said Sarovy. “Common soldiers, specialists, mages—we will need each other in the future. The General believes this and so do I. We must try everything we can think of now before we find ourselves flung into the fires of change. If we do not learn, we will be consumed.
“So. Are there any other issues today? Suggestions, adjustments, any—“
Someone knocked on the door.
Sarovy glanced over his shoulder, frowning, then called, “Enter.”
The door swung open to reveal one of the General’s honor guard, a scroll in hand. “Captain Sarovy of Blaze Company?” he said, and at Sarovy’s nod he presented the scroll.
Brows furrowed, Sarovy took it and unrolled it, skimming the few lines. Then he read them again, more slowly.
Attn: Cpt. F. Sarovy, Blaze Company, Crimson Claw Third Army
Ride-out authorized. Proceed to Miirut NNW of Fellen, arrive by mark 22 of Cyl. 11th. Wagons authorized at Warehouse 16. Permanent horses authorized for lancers. Release of all held pay authorized at main bursar. Load all personal lockers, all files. All personnel to exit camp by mark 12. Further orders at Miirut.
Crimson Claw General Kelturin Aradysson, Cyl. 11th, 171 IR.
He stared at the words, mouth dry. As much as he had hoped for a mission, this was a great and sudden upheaval, not at all the General’s usual style. Claiming pay and loading all lockers meant they were being transferred out of the camp, and he only knew Miirut as a sand-colored outpost near the sea-cliffs, home to perhaps a dozen soldiers.
Mark 12 was barely three marks away.
“We’ve been given orders, gentlemen,” he said. “Time to get moving. Benson, logistics. Three days’ rations. Get the wagons here and include space for the men from the infirmary.”
Benson moved to Sarovy’s side to look over the scroll, then blanched and nodded. “Yes sir.”
“Linciard, take the other lancers to the stables. Get every man a horse, and one for Benson, one for me. Havoc, if he's still here.”
“What— Now, sir?” said Linciard.
“Yes, now. Arlin, Gellart, Sengith, have your men get in marching gear then pack their footlockers and stack them outside the barracks. They will be picked up. Linciard, do the same once you have horses. I’m heading to the bursar for the Company’s back pay—Sergeant Kirvanik, accompany me. We assemble outside the Barrow Gate no later than mark 12.”
The lieutenants’ mouths dropped open, and he saw the questions welling up. “Explanations will be had then,” he said curtly. “You—Korr, catch up with the mages and alert them of the same: footlockers, assembly time. Go. You—Rallant,” he said as Korr strode for the door, “assist Benson with the sick men. We leave no one behind. Vrallek, are you still not prepared to bring your hounds along?"
"No, sir. Best not."
"Then get your specialists in their gear and footlockers out like the others. You are all dismissed.”
For a moment they just stared at him, so he repeated sharply, “Dismissed.” That made them move—sluggishly at first, then with determination as their tasks sank in. By the time the last man went through the door, Sarovy heard hollered orders starting to spread through the barrack.
“Come along, sergeant,” he told Kirvanik, who hunched awkwardly at his side as if concerned about being taller than his commander. The big man nodded.
Scroll in one hand, roster in the other, Sarovy headed into the chaos.
*****
At mark 12, approximately mid-morning, the two hundred and twelve soldiers and mages of Blaze Company stood at attention before their commander. The barrow hills loomed around them, and behind stood the north wall of the compound, gates shut, view obscured by a thatch of desert plants. The cart road that ran alongside the far barrows was full of the company’s wagons and horses, but for the moment all of those stood mind-locked and untended while the men and women gathered. Even the soldiers who had been in the infirmary stood now, propped up by their comrades.
Sarovy looked them over, considering all the men he knew and all those who were still mysteries. They had been a company for barely a week, and being rushed out the gate like this worried him, but he did not have time to question. He had his orders.
He raised the voice-casting token Presh had brought him. A circle of silver holding a mesh of crystalline strands, it was the same sort of arcane contraption the Crimson General used for his camp-wide speeches. Sarovy had never expected to use one, but he was learning to accept all sorts of new duties.
“Good morning, Blaze Company,” he said, and the enchanted object thrummed in his hand as it sent his words to every corner of the hollow. “I would have liked to speak with you more formally than this, but we have received our first assignment and it brooks no delay. Therefore I will be quick. I apologize.
“Many of you will have noticed new faces within your sections. Others will have been visited by a man or woman for a peculiar purpose. These are the Specialists, and they will be working with and among you from now on. Do not be alarmed by them. This company is not simply an experiment to blend the army’s disparate forces into smaller, cohesive units, but to blend human troops with those who have become something more.”
Over the sprinkling of questioning voices, Sarovy said, “These Specialists have been chosen by the Empire to receive advanced skills to better serve the cause of the Light. I would not have them hide themselves from you or exercise their talents from the shadows when that is not where they belong. I warn you now: this may be unsettling, but it is necessary. Houndmaster-Lieutenant, if you would.”
Stillness fell like a held breath as the Houndmaster turned to face the crowd. At his vantage point, Sarovy held his breath as well; he was unsure how the men sickened by their inoculations would react, but he had no intention of marching his men into an unknown mission without this revelation.
Vrallek lifted the pendant from around his neck, and even from behind, the transformation was as remarkable as ever. Slowly, throughout the crowd, the specialists he had divided among the various sections removed their own pendants. Sarovy watched the human soldiers stiffen, frozen by the sight, and saw several hands fall toward swords. His knuckles whitened around the voice-caster as he waited for an outcry.
But remarkably, there was none. As the last illusion dispersed, the forty-two specialists stood revealed—even the scouts in the back showing their bracers, not that it meant much. He caught the fleeting scent of honey in the air and frowned, realizing that the lagalaina were calming the crowd, but could hardly object.
“Study their faces,” he said through the voice-caster. “Do not shy away from them. Understand that through all your time in service to the Crimson Army, you have fought alongside others chosen like them, but until now you have never seen it.
“Now we are all chosen. The Crimson General, Crown Prince Kelturin Aradysson himself, has selected us to stand apa
rt from our fellows and truly see the world as it is, not have that awareness constantly washed from our minds. We are here because we are stronger, more courageous, and we will stare into the eyes of the Dark unflinching.
“This is my challenge to you. Accept the truth that we have been shown. Fight alongside your brethren with open eyes, for the glory and triumph of the Light. Learn to work with their skills and let them work with yours. We are beyond the days when we could expect to face a proper army on a proper field, and so we must adapt, we must trust each other, and we must have no secrets among us.
“Any who can not stand up to this challenge will stay here, to be seen by the mentalists and absorbed into a new company. All they will remember of their time with us is that they once stood before the Light of truth and had to shade their eyes.
“For those with the will to remain—and I sincerely believe that I address all of you with this—I must lay down my rules. You know that I am Trivestean, and that my people are said to be humorless, rigid, and overly invested in honor and obedience. This is true. You are under my command now, and you will behave with honor. You will show proper obedience.
“But they also say that we do not question, and that is not true. Not here, not in this company. I will not command you without reason. I will not condemn you without answer. I owe you the same thing that you owe me, and that is respect. Perhaps it is not the way your previous commanders have led you, but it is how I will lead you now.
“With that understanding, you will show respect to your fellows, regardless of designation or origin. You will not behave so as to bring shame upon us—and if you do not know the meaning of ‘shame’, as I have been told some of you do not, then you will be taught it. You will obey your superiors. Officers, you will treat your men equitably and bring their concerns to me.
The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Page 45