Captain Sarovy was uncertain whether the map was worth putting two mages out of action, but with refinement of the technique, it might become practical.
‘Team Three clear, sir,’ said Lancer-Lieutenant Linciard’s voice in his ear. ‘Back at anchor, awaiting extraction.’
“Abide,” said Sarovy.
‘Yes sir.’
“Team Six, report,” he said, watching the orange specks that indicated Shield-Sergeant Korr’s group, which seemed to be milling around in a large chamber.
‘Minor trouble, sir,’ came Korr’s response. ‘Storage room, black biting things everywhere. Need more lights.’
“Sergeant Presh,” Sarovy snapped, “more lights to Six.”
At the cliff, Presh sighed and lowered his hands as if quieting a chorus, then snapped a few mage-lights into existence and sent them spiraling down toward the tunnels.
“On their way, Team Six. Hold out,” said Sarovy.
‘Yes sir.’
‘Team Five at anchor, sir,’ came another voice—Shield-Lieutenant Arlin. ‘Lots of shackles.’
“Abide.”
‘Abiding, sir.’
Sarovy eyed the map and the teams still moving on it. He needed the mages to operate it but also to open the portals, so as soon as the extraction started, he would lose the visual. He had only had the map for this maneuver but already he was loath to give it up.
Abruptly Scryer Mako twitched, and the map-image faltered. She opened her eyes and disengaged one hand from the invisible network to reach for the neckline of her robe.
“What are you doing, Scryer?” said Sarovy sharply.
“Getting a message, sir.” She pulled up a necklace chain. The pendant at the end came free: a smooth-polished stone with a rune carved into it. “Only a few people at camp can contact me through this. I should respond.”
Sarovy grimaced, but nodded. Already the lines of the map were twisting apart, unable to keep their forms, and by Voorkei’s deepening grimace and the beads of sweat on his ugly face, Sarovy knew there was no option. “Do so,” he commanded. “Voorkei, dismiss the map and open portals three and five.”
The ogre-blooded mage grunted and his hands stilled. On the other side, Scryer Mako detached herself fully and tapped the mini-portal, popping its energy like a bubble, then turned to dig through her satchel. Voorkei snapped his hands upward as if shaking a sheet, and all the lines of the map unwound into streams of light that coiled up his arms and vanished.
Wiping his brow, the ugly mage rose and ambled toward where the portal stakes stood stuck in the earth.
Sarovy looked down at the empty black sheet, then to Scryer Mako. She pulled a shallow bowl from her satchel, set the necklace with its stone in the center, then filled the bowl from her waterskin with the efficiency of practice. Drawing a small knife from the satchel, she nicked the side of her thumb and swirled it in the water, then stared into the image that resolved.
Closing his eyes, Sarovy listened past the start of her one-sided conversation to the sounds that rose from below. Shouts and the clash of steel ringing off the cove walls, the slow crash of waves as the ships in port rocked unsteadily, the harsh roars of the ruengriin. All had gone acceptably, but he could do better. He would do better. The only path was upward.
He was starting to enjoy it. It was an interesting challenge.
“Captain?” said Scryer Mako. “He wants to speak with you.”
Sarovy blinked, then nodded and moved to the scrying bowl. The scryer handed him the knife, and he nicked his hand and added his blood to the water before he realized he did not recognize the face in it.
A big man, heavy-bearded. Older, perhaps in his mid-fifties, but still as dark of hair as he was of eye. Uniformed in crimson but with a steel pectoral at his neck bearing the symbols of all three Armies, plus a stylized flame.
Sarovy’s mouth went dry.
“Sir,” he said. “To whom am I speaking?”
‘Your new commander,’ said the man in the scrying bowl. ‘Field Marshal Argus Rackmar, interim Crimson General. I understand that you are on a mission near the coast.’
For a moment, Sarovy could not breathe. His mind whirled with questions. Where was General Aradysson? Had there been an attack from Kanrodi? His imagination painted the Crimson camp in smoking ruins.
But this was not the time for questions, and he had heard of the Field Marshal. Heard plenty. He knew better than to get off track. “Yes sir,” he said. “Northwest of Miirut.”
‘Near enough,’ said the Field Marshal. ‘I have been reading reports all week, captain, and there are certain issues I must see resolved. Since you’re in the area, I want you to do something for me.’
“Sir?”
‘You recall that fugitive you were chasing. KRD1184, Cobrin son of Dernyel. There was a farm-family harboring him a few marks south of Bahlaer, the…’ The Field Marshal glanced to some parchment off-scry. ‘Ah, the Crays. Your orders are to pick them up and bring them—and your company—to the garrison in Bahlaer.’
“Bahlaer, sir?” said Sarovy, baffled.
‘Yes, captain. Bahlaer. I have business there as well.’
Sarovy closed his eyes for a moment, calculating distance and time. “Sir, I have an assault underway, and we are significantly west of Bahlaer. Even if I were to send the lancers now, it would be dark before they reached the Crays’ homestead, and I am uncertain if we could find it in such conditions. I request permission to close this maneuver and return to Miirut for the evening, to retrieve the Crays at Rift-dawn.”
The Field Marshal frowned deeply, then nodded. ‘Prudent, captain. Your personnel file seems accurate. Very well, as long as you bring them to me by noon tomorrow.’
“Yes sir. Shall I have a portal opened for the writ of purpose, sir?”
Smiling, the Field Marshal said, ‘I don’t think we’ll bother with the writ today.’
“But protocol demands that—“
‘I write the protocol now. Do you understand, captain?’
“Yes sir.”
‘Good. I’ll be waiting. Dismissed.’
With that, the scrying bowl went blank.
Sarovy sat back, reeling with confusion. The farm family? Bahlaer?
No writ?
That was simply not done. The writ of purpose declared who was being sought and why, and the breadth of action permitted in pursuit of them. It was required in every Imperial maneuver—for paperwork’s sake if nothing else—and it also gave those sent on the mission an idea of what to expect. Right now, Sarovy had the one in his scroll case for the anti-smuggling action, dictating non-lethal force, confiscations and arrests. Acting outside of those parameters would be punished.
It is not my place to question, he told himself. I do my job.
But he did not like this wrinkle. No writ meant no rules, and if this was how the Field Marshal preferred to operate…
Sarovy had been through a change in Generals before. It always meant an upheaval in the command structure as those more loyal to the deposed General than to their duties were weeded out and replaced with more tractable men. As much as Sarovy had respected General Aradysson professionally, he had not often agreed with him—but having taken on a special assignment from the former General meant that Field Marshal Rackmar would pay an uncomfortable amount of attention to him, to see where his sympathies rested.
Which meant that this Blaze Company experiment might be short-lived indeed.
Follow your orders, speak honestly and work toward the ultimate good of Army and Empire, he told himself. You have done nothing wrong, and you will continue to serve the Crimson to your fullest capacity. If you do so, you may yet get the chance to argue for the continuation of your command.
He heard footsteps behind him and the cough and groan of men passing through the portal, and looked back to see Team Three with their prisoners in tow. The Shadow Cultists and smugglers appeared battered but healthy, their expressions clearly indicating their desire to fight. The sol
diers seemed in good spirits, trying to laugh off the queasiness of portal travel.
“Captain,” said Lieutenant Linciard, drawing up in salute. Sarovy stood to return it as the others followed the lieutenant’s example. “No casualties on either side, sir, only some scuffs and bruises for us. Lancer Vraldewyn broke a smuggler’s arm though. We took twelve prisoners; three cultists got away before we could reach them.”
“A decent haul,” Sarovy said, nodding toward the wagons they had converted to hold prisoners. “Get them loaded up, then salvage whatever you can while we await the other teams. We will only be making one trip.”
“Sir?” said Linciard, looking puzzled. In the previous maneuvers, there had been enough prisoners and confiscated goods to merit several wagon-trips to Miirut, where a permanent portal to the Crimson camp had been established. Though it was time-consuming to shuttle back and forth from there, it helped preserve Blaze Company’s mages’ energy stores; every person who crossed through one of their temporary portals seemed to drain them, making the extraction after the assault potentially more dangerous than the assault itself. Since Sarovy’s mission was to squeeze all he could from the smugglers’ coves, they had camped overnight at the previous sites just to make sure that everything was taken.
“We have new orders which override our original mission,” said Sarovy. “I am afraid these maneuvers must be put on hold. Once you have loaded the prisoners and any goods you can fit, send them on with half of your team. The rest are to wait with me until we’ve extracted all of our men.”
“What new orders, sir?” said Linciard. His long face showed the same concern Sarovy felt, but in glancing past him, Sarovy saw several of the Shadow Cultists listening keenly.
“We will discuss it in Miirut, lieutenant. See to your duties.”
Linciard nodded sharply, blond brows still furrowed, and turned to holler at his men.
Moving toward the cliff’s edge, Sarovy cued the earhook with a thought and said, “All team leaders, hear me. The situation has changed. We are withdrawing from the complex. Wrap up your current action, secure all prisoners and retreat to extraction points. Do not continue pursuits. This is not an emergency and we are not under further threat, but keep your eyes and ears open in case of retaliation.”
The chorus of yessirs comforted him. With a few more orders he sent the archers scurrying for their own transport and set Presh to assisting the other mages with the extraction portals.
Then he turned to watch as a smuggler’s ship slipped from the harbor, its sails tattered but straining, its deck overloaded with escapees. With more time, he knew he could have taken them; several more slim ships sat inert in the water, their sails smouldering, and in its condition the escapee ship could not sail far. Perhaps to the next cove up the shore.
But he had his orders.
The Shadow Cultists will inform their fellows of our tactics, he thought. They’ve already had several days to spread the word, and with more time to plan, they will find countermeasures. Perhaps the goblins, or the metal monsters we met beneath Bahlaer. Perhaps some stronger, fiercer type of shadow-beast that is not so easily dispelled by light.
Though he knew such thoughts should concern him, a part of him that had not been engaged in some time now seemed to shake off its rust. He was already anticipating those reactions, already trying to plan past them, and giving his enemies a moment to breathe and enact their defenses did not seem entirely bad.
Easy victories gave him little satisfaction.
*****
In the dark of the encampment outside Miirut’s sandstone walls, with the men settled fitfully to sleep, Sarovy sat with Scryer Mako and his lieutenants to discuss the day’s revelation.
“I’d heard something like it,” said Scryer Mako through a yawn, “but I didn’t really pay attention. We’ve been busy after all, and I didn’t want to feel like I was stalking my ex-lover.”
“Who happened to be our General,” said Shield-Lieutenant Gellart, scowling through his thick beard. The mage-light that flickered in the midst of them painted his weathered face with a regular pattern of light and shadow. “Witless woman, if you can’t think past your own troubles—“
“Gellart,” said Sarovy curtly.
“Sorry, captain, but it’s true. General Aradysson removed from his post? You heard that and didn’t think we needed to know more?”
“I only heard that he was gone, and the Field Marshal was in his cabin,” Scryer Mako sniffed. “Not that he’d been removed. He goes to check on the other camps regularly, and where else would the Field Marshal stay on a visit? In a common barrack?”
“But you could have questioned it!“
“You know what gossip is like.”
“Who would make up that kind of—”
“Please, no arguments,” said Sarovy. “If General Aradysson truly was replaced five days ago...”
That means either the cove-hunting mission was ordered by Lieutenant General Ivraith, not just signed by him—or it came from Field Marshal Rackmar himself.
Was he testing us?
Did we fail?
“I am concerned that it took the Field Marshal this long to contact us,” he said instead, not ready to voice those questions. “We have been sending the cultists and supplies back regularly; it is not as if we are out of touch.”
“I wouldn’t read too much into it, captain,” said Archer-Lieutenant Sengith, the heavyset Amand. “Like the lady said, General Aradysson had his fingers in a lot of pies. Picking that mess up can’t be a quick task. Probably he had small parties all over the place, handling little things that don’t need changing. Why disrupt their work if you don’t have to?”
“Because he replaced our commander,” Lieutenant Linciard said tightly. “He can’t just do that and not tell people.”
Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek snorted. “Why, little pretty? You need someone to hold your hand?”
Linciard glared at him. They were all out of armor, some still in their padding and some in sleepwear, but even like that, Vrallek topped Linciard by a head and outweighed him by half. Still, the blond lancer opened his mouth to retaliate.
Sarovy cut him off. “You all have your points. My concern is that we may not exist as a company after tomorrow. We are former General Aradysson's project, not Field Marshal Rackmar's. I regret that my words at our ride-out may soon be undone.”
“I don’t see why he’d disband us,” said Lieutenant Sengith. “We’ve been working great here, right? Haven’t had a casualty yet!”
“And now you’ve gone and cursed us, you optimistic idiot,” said Gellart.
“Cursed you, maybe. My archers—“
“Would die if a cultist sneezed on ‘em.”
“Maybe the Trivesteans, but my archers come from everywhere in the Heartlands. Even some other Amands. It’d take more than a black-clad sneak-thief to muck them up.”
Everyone but Sengith turned to Sarovy expectantly, as if willing him to snap at the Trivestean comment, but he had heard it so many times—especially since becoming a lancer—that he barely noticed it. “The Field Marshal will dismantle the company if it is not what he wants,” he said instead. “The integration has not been without its hitches. We still have men sick from the inoculations, yes?”
Lieutenant Arlin grunted an affirmative. “The Brother Islanders. They can walk a straight line now but I still don’t trust them with blades.”
“And we have no way of knowing when such effects will pass, or if there will be relapses,” said Sarovy. “The senvraka have told me that every inoculation is unique.”
“So would it be such a bad thing to drop this experiment?” said Lieutenant Gellart. “No offense, captain, but the only reason the men haven’t been beating each other’s faces in is because we’ve been running or fighting nonstop.”
“Yes. I am aware of this.”
“I mean, putting the Riddish together with the Trivesteans, the Drixi with the Jernizen, that Corvish scout with the Wynds�
��not even getting to all the ‘specialists’—“
“Yes, lieutenant, I know.”
“I’m just saying, sir. Might be best to fold before we get taken for everything.”
Sarovy sighed. “So if we were given the choice of disbanding or remaining as a company, you would choose to disband?”
“Don’t listen to these tree-humping cowards, sir,” said Linciard, drawing glares from his fellow Wynds. “The only reason they’re crying is because they’ve been out-infantried by the ruengriin.”
“You’re one to talk, lancer, sitting up top ‘guarding the exits’ while us real men fight.”
“I was down in the tunnels same as you today.”
“Yeah, wielding your sword like your mama’s spatula.”
“I will not have this,” Sarovy interjected, staring around at the five men and the scryer. “From any of you. If you can not stop fighting, how can you expect your men to do the same? Lancer, archer, infantry, specialist, mage—I do not care who started it, who holds what grudge or sees what flaws in the others. We are comrades now. We have shown that we can raid strongholds previously off-limits to the Crimson, and that proves the success of this venture. If the Field Marshal would speak with us in Bahlaer tomorrow, I want to know that you accept this.”
“You want us to speak on your behalf?” said Lieutenant Gellart dubiously.
Sarovy shook his head. “I want the results to speak for themselves. I do not want petty bickering to outweigh the fact that we have succeeded in our missions without killing each other.”
Lieutenant Gellart’s mouth twitched beneath his beard. “It’s only been a week, sir.”
“And yet I count that as a great success.”
“Piking right,” rumbled Arlin. “It’s taken every ounce of menace I’ve got to keep those piking Drixi from mangling your Jernizen lancers in the night.”
Houndmaster Vrallek chuckled and Sarovy glanced to him, noting the wryness written on his florid face. “Feel like I’m in good company,” he said. “Everyone hates everyone, not just me.”
The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Page 62