“Yes, sir.”
17
In the dim glow of a single oil lamp in the small mess room, well past sunset and the evening supper of excessively aged and baked mutton, Alucius and Feran sat on opposite sides of the table, Feran’s leschec board between them. The first two weeks of spring had passed, and the mud that had covered almost every thoroughfare and lane had finally begun to disappear, either into dust or damp packed clay.
“We still haven’t heard anything from the colonel,” Alucius said, moving his lesser pteridon.
“You’re going to win again,” Feran said resignedly. “I don’t know why I play with you. You can spot me your soarer queen, and three footwarriors, and I still can’t beat you. You could have made a small fortune if you’d played when you were a ranker.”
“That’s why I didn’t. It’s why I don’t play for coin,” Alucius replied, almost absently. “Why do you think the colonel hasn’t replied?”
“Maybe he has. If the roads west of here are as bad as ours are…”
“Three weeks is a long time.”
“What could he say?” countered Feran, his voice turning ironic as he continued. “Captains, thank you so much for confirming that mischief is afoot and for embarrassing someone so dramatically. Of course, I can’t say that officially, and if I make any guesses, it will upset either the Council, the Lord-Protector, the Landarch of Deforya, or perhaps all three.”
Alucius laughed, heartily. “Thank you! That’s the best explanation you could have made, and probably the most correct.”
“If it is,” Feran replied dourly, “I’ll be a captain here or at Rivercliff until I receive a stipend, and that’s another ten years.”
“You want to be a majer like Weslyn? Or Dysar?”
“I could do as well as Dysar did. Anyone could have. He was the kind that makes sour peaches taste good,” Feran pointed out.
“The Council liked him.”
“Of course they did. He didn’t want to spend coins on weapons or training or replacement mounts. He arranged for the worst and cheapest provender, unless it was provided by one of his family’s friends. Weslyn tries, in his own way. We actually have a few spare mounts, now.”
“And the food usually isn’t spoiled.”
Feran tipped the sander king sideways on the leschec board. “I don’t see any point in continuing the game.” He shook his head. “You think life is one big leschec game?”
“I’d hate to think so,” Alucius replied. “It’s played too badly for that, from what I’ve seen.”
“But do we see everything?” countered Feran as he began picking up the pieces and replacing them in the battered wooden box.
“I’m sure we don’t, but there’s an awful lot of waste in what I’ve seen.”
“Sometimes, I wonder.”
“Don’t we all.” Alucius stretched, then stood. “I ought to get some sleep. I’m going out with fifth squad in the morning.”
“At dawn?”
“We’re forming up at dawn.”
“When we take over the patrols next week, we’re not going that early,” Feran promised.
“It has its advantages. We see more, and the men get more time off when we get back.”
“I’d rather get more sleep.”
“Go to bed earlier,” Alucius suggested humorously as he turned toward his small room.
“You herders…” Feran laughed again.
18
By the third week of Triem, the roads around Emal were actually usable, with farmers and peddlers occasionally traveling into town. Alucius and Feran had been able to send out road patrols without it taking a half day to travel three or four vingts, although the patrols had revealed nothing untoward. The rankers of the Third Foot squads, charged with bridge duty and collecting tariffs—always small—and nominally under Feran’s command, had reported nothing strange among those crossing the bridge to or from Semal.
In the sunny late-Quattri afternoon, with a light breeze playing across the courtyard of the outpost, the two captains were standing outside the headquarters building, watching as their troopers unloaded the three supply wagons that had finally arrived from Dekhron, along with the two returning troopers that Alucius had sent with his report almost a month earlier. Alucius and Feran had already locked the two pay chests into the small strong room before returning to monitor the remainder of the off-loading.
The two troopers walked from the stable toward the captains. They had tried to brush the dust and mud off their uniforms, but from their boots and their trousers below the knees, it was clear that parts of the river road were still quagmires.
“Captain…we have three messages. Two are from Colonel Clyon. That’s one for each of you, and one…” Firtal grinned as he extended an envelope to Alucius. “It’s personal-like, sir, I wager.”
Alucius returned the smile and reached for his wallet, extending six coppers, three for each trooper, the going rate for such “unofficial” messages. “I’ll probably appreciate the last one most, Firtal.”
“Seeing as it looks to be from a woman, sir.”
“My wife,” Alucius said with a smile.
“Thought as much, sir, when the herder brought it to me.”
“Do you remember what herder?”
“Said his name was Kustyl, and since he had business in Dekhron, he brought this from his granddaughter. Remembered that, sir, cause he didn’t look old enough for a daughter you’d be…well…” Firtal flushed.
“He is, believe me,” Alucius said. “And he’s a good herder, one of the best.” Alucius grinned. “And we’ve not been married but a year.”
“No wonder you were looking for that message,” Feran said.
The troopers smiled more widely.
“Enough,” Alucius said, mock-gruffly. “We’ll need to read the messages from the colonel first.” He wasn’t looking forward to that message, one way or another.
“Yes, sir.” Firtal and Doonan nodded and stepped away, trying hard to keep the smiles from their faces.
Alucius tucked the message from Wendra inside his tunic and broke the black wax seal of the colonel’s message. Feran opened his as well. Both captains read silently, as the troopers continued to unload the wagons.
The colonel’s message was brief, and the heart of it was in two short paragraphs that Alucius read twice.
At the moment, the militia is running short on both coins and supplies. While I trust that the pay chests, the ammunition, and the provender that accompanies this message will not be the last, as commandant, I cannot promise any quick resupply. I have presented the problem to the Council, and I am confident that they will act upon it with due deliberation, given the gravity of the situation.
The Council has also asked me to convey to all officers of the militia the seriousness of the present situation. For this reason, the Council requests great caution in any maneuvers or actions that could be mistaken as hostile actions. Because of the seriousness of the finances of the Iron Valleys, I will state the situation more directly. Do not fire upon anyone unless they fire upon you first, and do not undertake any actions which you cannot successfully complete within the supplies and ammunition at hand.
Alucius winced. His grandsire and Kustyl had certainly foreseen the problem. Alucius still had problems believing that the Council could have let the situation get that bad.
He frowned. Then…that could be the reason. Only if the situation were untenable…Was that why Kustyl had been in Dekhron? Wendra’s grandfather had always known more than Royalt, and Alucius had wondered how. Now, he had a good idea.
“What are you thinking?” asked Feran.
“That we’re going to end up as a province of Lanachrona after all,” Alucius said.
“How do you figure that?”
Alucius shrugged. “We’ve just been told—I’m guessing your message is the same as mine…” He let the words drop off and handed his to the older captain.
Feran glanced over what Alucius had
handed him, then nodded, and handed the missive back. “Same words. Only thing different is the address.” He glanced toward the wagons being emptied. “We got more supplies than usual.”
“I’d wager that the colonel got them on account, before the Council told him there were no more coins.”
Feran glanced down at his own missive, then looked up. After a moment, he walked to one corner of the headquarters building, then back. He stopped and stared at the younger captain. “I don’t like your wager.” His voice was rueful.
“Do you think I do?”
“Those coin-pinching, offal-swilling, sluts’ sons…Fifteen years I’ve given them, and it’s come to this?” Feran’s voice was low and bitter.
Alucius could understand all too well. He was lucky to have made it back to the Iron Valleys, where he had a family and a stead. Had he still been in Madrien…he would have faced what Feran might. “It might not.”
“You wouldn’t wager your family’s stead on it, would you?”
“No. But, if it comes to that, we could lose it. We almost did when they raised the tariffs during the Matrite War.”
“Those spawn of a dunghill…those…” Feran shook his head slowly.
“Whatever it is, it hasn’t happened yet.”
“It will.” Feran’s laugh was more like a bark. “You don’t look that surprised. Do you have any idea why?”
“Not for certain. I’d heard that the Council borrowed six thousand golds to keep the militia going during the Matrite fight—and that they reduced the tariffs so quickly after the war that they didn’t have enough to repay the loan.”
“Who would lend them that?”
“The Landarch of Deforya, or so I was told. Except he sold it to the Lord-Protector.”
“Asterta save us…What I said about the Council was generous.” Feran’s lips tightened. “And that message means that we’ll be seeing Southern Guards on our lands, and we can’t do anything?”
“I don’t know,” Alucius said thoughtfully. “If they’re pressuring the Council, I wouldn’t think they’d do that.”
“You’re right. The Council might be that stupid, but the Lord-Protector isn’t.” Feran glanced toward the south wall of the outpost, in the direction of the river and of Lanachrona. “Why would he offer that caution?”
“In case we do have to fight later?” Alucius suggested.
“That would follow.” Feran turned. “Can you watch the unloading? I need to go off and think.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Alucius understood Feran’s consternation. The older officer had worked his way up through the ranks and had served the militia long and loyally—and was seeing that everything he’d done and risked his life for might well be thrown aside. Alucius had done the same—but not so willingly, and certainly not for nearly so long.
Once Feran had slipped back into the building, Alucius slipped the missive from the colonel into his tunic and slipped out the one from Wendra.
Dearest one—
You are so thoughtful to write, even when I know you have much to do, but it is a treasure to see your words upon the page…
Your grandsire has taken me out with the flock a number of times now. He was surprised to learn that the rams would follow my lead and instructions, and so was I. I can see even more why you so love the stead, and I love you the more for your love and kindness, knowing and seeing what I have seen…
Alucius smiled to himself. She was a herder. He’d felt it, but he hadn’t known for certain.
…the harder part has been learning to handle the rifles to your grandsire’s satisfaction, but I actually hit a sander and drove it off…even before your grandsire rode up…
A sander? In the late winter?
Grandpa Kustyl and your grandsire both have asked me to tell you to act with great care, for the financial arrangements about the large note taken out in Dekhron have come to pass as you were told, and pardon me, but you will understand if I do not spell out the details, for herders should not. You should be most prudent with your personal goods as well, for we may not be able to send you any…
Alucius paused and reread the lines. They would not have sent him personal goods in any case, but the words were there as a reinforcement.
Feran was right to be worried.
Alucius looked back at the graceful letters upon the page. Despite the clear warning and the ominous tone, he was glad to have received the missive, and glad once more that he and Wendra had been able to share what brief times that they had, and glad that he had seen how special a girl had been at a gather so many years before.
19
On the Septi three days after the arrival of his letter from Wendra, Alucius was up early, unable to sleep, and rather than toss in his blankets, he washed and dressed well before dawn and made his way from his quarters out into the darkness of the courtyard, past the sentry from the second squad of the Third Foot, who acknowledged him with a challenge, and then out onto the deserted cobblestone causeway to the bridge.
He walked slowly, silently, stopping short of the foot of the bridge. He looked out into the clear sky, with the full greenish disk of Asterta hanging well above the river bluffs to the west of Emal. Asterta—the ancient moon of the horse goddess, half of the duality—with Selena—that the ancient Duarchy had embodied. Balanced duality, the goddess of war and the goddess of peace, sharing the heavens, and for millennia, or so the ancient texts and roads proclaimed, that balance had brought prosperity. But had it?
From what Alucius had seen in his short life, he wondered about the truth of those ancient legends.
He looked down from the moon at the black surface of the river, flowing westward toward Dekhron. Kustyl had been in Dekhron, and Wendra’s letter had been about more than love and longing. It had also been clear enough in suggesting that times were unsettled and likely to become more so—and that the Council had been unable, or unwilling, to take the steps to repay the debt they had incurred in the Matrite War. While the Landarch of Deforya had no real way to require repayment, and doubtless knew it, that lack of ability did not apply to the Lord-Protector of Lanachrona. The only real question in Alucius’s mind was how exactly the Council would sell out to the Lord-Protector. The traders in Dekhron, and those few others all along the Vedra, probably had more in common with Lanachrona than they did with crafters of Iron Stem and the herders of the north, and the nightsheep herders were few and far between across the arid quarasote plains. Alucius doubted if, even with wives and children, they numbered more than five hundred. And five hundred could do little against the thousands in Dekhron, and the tens upon tens of thousands in Lanachrona.
He turned toward the bridge itself, where nothing moved. There was but a single bridge guard at night—although there was a large bell atop the guardhouse with which he could summon aid—and the iron gate was locked. The gate was tall enough to accommodate a rider and wide enough for most wagons, although at times some traders had been forced to disassemble their wagons and slide the wagon beds through sideways. The gate was also far enough out onto the bridge, if on the south side, that while an individual might be able to climb over or around the barbs on its extended edges, that individual certainly would not have been able to carry much in the way of goods. Neither the Iron Valleys nor Lanachrona was that concerned about individuals. Both wanted the tariffs from the others’ traders or from any goods crossing the river.
Alucius suspected that the real purpose of guards and gate was to force those traders with goods of greater value to travel through Dekhron and the smaller city of Salaan on the Lanachronan side of the River Vedra. The Lanachronans probably didn’t care that much, since little enough trade came to the eastern arm of the Iron Valleys, but the traders who made up the Council of the Iron Valleys cared greatly enough to keep two horse companies and two squads of foot stationed in Emal.
On the far side of the bridge and river, there were no lights in the hamlet of Semal, not a one, and Alucius had seldom seen any there, excep
t early in the evening, and certainly none late at night or well before dawn.
The faintest of silver-green radiances washed over him from his left, and he turned, slowly, sensing the clean greenness of a soarer. But for a moment, she hovered there, a small womanly figure with wings of silver-green light that extended yards from her shoulders. Then she was gone, as if she had never been.
Not a message, not a thought, not even a gesture…but Alucius shivered. Soarers had only appeared for him when his life had changed or was about to change. Then, he reflected with a self-deprecating smile, he had already known his life was about to change. He just wasn’t sure how.
20
Lyterna, Illegea
Shadows still cloaked the redstone spires of the Council Vault, even as the harsh white early-morning light of the sun poured over the peaks to the east that composed the Spine of Corus. Against the shadows, the timeworn crimson stone spires, carved ages before out of the cliffs, stood out as a hard red.
Legions of the new Myrmidons, all in their blued armor, stood on the steps leading up to the Vault, but they faced westward, looking down upon the polished redstone plaza beneath those steps. Upon the plaza were twenty pteridons, creatures from before the Cataclysm, formed into a wedge. Beside each blue leather form stood a rider, wearing the blued armor that had not been seen in Corus since the Cataclysm. Each rider held a length of shimmering blue metal, the ancient skylances once carried by the original Myrmidons.
Beside the lead pteridon stood Aellyan Edyss, his silver-blond hair glittering in the morning sun, his arm raised, holding the skylance overhead. He jabbed the lance skyward once, then turned toward his pteridon, slipping the skylance into the holder that extended forward of the saddle. Then, with a mighty leap, he vaulted into position astride the pteridon and settled himself into the blue leather saddle that seemed invisible against the pteridon’s hide.
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