Darknesses

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  In turn, the pteridon leaped forward and spread its wings, wings that suddenly stretched more than twenty yards on each side, and with strong strokes bore Aellyan Edyss aloft.

  A single explosive cheer echoed from the new Myrmidons arrayed on the steps of the ancient Vault.

  One after another, the remaining pteridons lifted off from the shimmering expanse of polished stone below the Vault and, following Edyss, circled upward into the spring sky, higher and higher, until they re-formed into a wedge that arrowed southward.

  From just forward of the pillars of the Vault, the councilors watched, their mouths slightly parted, as the wedge of pteridons swooped down at the targets to the south, targets that flared into blue flame as the narrow beams of blue light struck.

  21

  Another Quattri came and went, another week, another ten days of increasing warmth and dust, and continued quiet in Emal and upon the roads in the eastern part of the Iron Valleys. On Quinti, Alucius took fourth squad east beyond Tuuler, up along the river road toward the second cataract, not that he expected to find much of anything. He and Egyl rode side by side at the head of the column, and two troopers acting as scouts were more than a vingt ahead, well out of sight around the gentle curve in the river road.

  As if following a celestial glass, once spring had turned, the snowfalls had stopped, and the skies had cleared, and there had not been a drop of moisture falling across the entire river valley for almost a month. The light breeze picked up the road dust, and even at a walk, the squad’s mounts left a trail hanging in the air that followed the riders.

  Alucius wiped the faint grit from his damp forehead and looked at the curve in the road ahead, the shed to the left, and the orchard to the right, with the small green leaves of spring already cloaking the branches of the apple trees and the faint perfume of the last white blossoms lingering in the air. There was not a single sign that barely a month before there had been a skirmish—or ambush—along this section of the road.

  Alucius could sense the roar of the distant second cataract, and he glanced toward the river, running high enough that the underbrush along the normal shoreline was a good yard underwater.

  “There’s been talk around, sir,” Egyl said cautiously. “Things like the men might not get paid, and that we’ll all be put out of service. That’d include those with more ’n a few years.”

  “I’ve heard the rumors,” Alucius said. “We got the pay chests almost two weeks ago, and there’s enough in them for spring and summer, and sometime into fall. I don’t see us going short on pay anytime soon.”

  “That’s good to hear, sir. Still…Captain Feran’s been quiet, too. Jissop says that’s not a good sign, and he’s been a squad leader with Captain Feran for almost four years.”

  Alucius considered. What could he say? Finally, he said, “You’re right. There has been talk, but there are always rumors. There always have been. It’s not secret that the Council has always been hard-pressed to come up with funding for the militia.” He forced a shrug. “It’s something the militia has always had to live with.”

  “What do you think will happen, sir?” Egyl pressed.

  “I don’t know. There are some traders who think we should become part of Lanachrona. There are others who don’t, and there are some of each who sit on the Council. I know that the colonel doesn’t favor that, but I’ve heard that the Council still owes a large sum that they borrowed from the Landarch of Deforya in order to pay for supplies and troopers during the Matrite War. They’ll probably have to raise tariffs to pay that off, and that won’t set well with anyone. How it will all turn out—your guess is as good as mine.”

  Egyl laughed. “I’d not be thinking so, sir. You’ve always seen things the way they would be. That’s why I asked. You’re not saying, and I’d be thinking that you’re as worried as Captain Feran. Would I be wrong in that, sir?”

  Alucius turned in the saddle and looked at Egyl. “No, I am worried. But until we know what’s likely to come down, I can’t say what might be the best to do. There are times to act, and there are times when it’s best to wait. This is a time to be prepared for anything—and to wait.”

  “You think we’ll be seeing attacks by the Southern Guard?”

  Alucius shook his head. “No. We might see an attack by someone else, but not by the Southern Guard.”

  “There’s no one else on this border, sir.”

  “We ran into raiders who were supposed to be from Deforya, as I recall, less than a month ago.”

  “I see your meaning, sir.”

  Alucius hoped they wouldn’t see any more attacks, but he could also see that attacks by “outsiders” would be a way to put more pressure on the Council—to force the militia to use resources it really couldn’t afford. “We’ll just have to be alert and see what happens. That’s all we can do.”

  He just hoped that would be enough.

  22

  South Pass, Spine of Corus

  Vestor rode into the chill wind, following directly behind the vanguard of the Praetorian Legions, a small cart drawn by a single horse behind him, each chest within the frame of the cart containing one of his devices. A second cart remained well guarded within the main body of the foot companies and horse troopers who filled the high road for more than three vingts back toward Catyr. Despite the clear skies and the full sunlight, Vestor wrapped the heavy fleece-lined jacket around his slender form more tightly, trying to ignore the cold creeping up from his legs toward his lower thighs.

  “It’s a warm day for early spring here,” offered the Praetor heartily as he reined in the silver charger beside the engineer’s smaller gray mare. “You should feel it in winter.”

  “If it is all the same to you, Praetor, I would rather not,” Vestor replied. “I was raised in Lysia and never have adjusted to the cold.”

  “You’d never make a Praetorian Guard, then.”

  “No, Praetor, I would not. I fear I must remain an engineer.”

  The Praetor, ruddy-faced in the cold, his iron gray hair blown back by the wind, laughed. “Then best you remain a good one.” He paused. “You are certain Aellyan Edyss has discovered no ancient weapons in the Vault?”

  “No, sir. I am not certain. I have destroyed two glasses looking for such, but, as I have told you, if there is much Talent involved, the glass will not show it. I can say that he has no weapons such as ours, or as those of the Matrites.”

  “Does that woman still rule Madrien?”

  “The woman who had been the chief assistant to the Matrial? She does. She styles herself the Regent of the Matrial.”

  “And no one has said anything?”

  “Who can understand the people of the west?” Vestor replied.

  The Praetor snorted, then looked up as an overcaptain rode swiftly down the side of the high road toward them, reining in and turning his mount. “Praetor, there is a nomad scout ahead. He perches like a mountain cat on the cliff on the north side of the road.”

  “How far ahead, and how far off the road?”

  “Perhaps a vingt ahead, and less than half a vingt to the north, but the cliff is a good hundred yards of sheer rock.”

  The Praetor looked to Vestor. “Could not your device destroy such?”

  “I would think so.”

  “Then let us see.”

  “We will need to reach a high spot where we can look directly at the nomad,” Vestor pointed out.

  “You will be able to see him from the side of the road ahead, there.” The overcaptain gestured toward a shoulder on the north side of the high road, wider than the few yards that bounded most of the high road, and roughly a half vingt farther along the road to the west.

  Once they neared the area, wider and somewhat flatter than the road shoulder before and after it, the Praetor gestured, and the column slowed to a halt.

  Vestor rode his mount onto the crusted and packed snow. He turned in the saddle and, with the lead he still held, stopped the cart horse, awkwardly. After the engi
neer dismounted, a trooper had to ride over and take the reins of the engineer’s own mount as the mare started to wander toward a shiny patch of ice that looked like a puddle of water.

  The Praetor looked westward, noting, “The nomad is still there.”

  Vestor ignored the byplay as he unfastened the heavy oak tripod from the side of the cart and set it on the uneven ground, adjusting and readjusting the legs until it was solid. After that, he extended the retaining brackets at the top of the tripod and screwed them in place. Only then did he return to the cart, where he slid back one of the wooden panels in the top of the cart and extracted a black metal object, oblong in shape, nearly a yard in length, and a third that in height.

  With the ease of practice, he slid the device into the retaining brackets and tightened the clamps. Once the device was firmly anchored, he slid back the apertures on the top to let the sunlight fall on the power crystals.

  “How long before it is ready?” asked the overcaptain quietly.

  “When the crystals glow,” replied Vestor, using the small telescope attached to the left retaining bracket to sight the device at the nomad, who remained nearly motionless on the cliff top ahead, still watching the column of the Praetorian Legions.

  After a time, Vestor slid one of the side levers forward, and a beam of red-limned light flashed from the discharge crystal. To the west, perhaps ten yards below the cliff top from which the nomad watched, a line of steam flared from one of the icicles hanging from rocky overhang. The lower half of the icicle, sheared from the upper by the heat of the beam, plunged into the depths below. The nomad leaned forward, looking down.

  Vestor resighted, then brought the beam up and across in a slashing motion. The red-limned beam of light sliced evenly through the nomad, cutting through the blued armor on his chest as if it had been blue-silver cotton. A pink haze sprayed across the snow, and the rider split into two parts. His mount half reared, then collapsed.

  Vestor swallowed convulsively.

  “Wonderful! Wonderful!” the Praetor exclaimed. “Now he won’t be able to report anything to Aellyan Edyss.”

  The device began to hum and Vestor, swallowing yet again, quickly slid back the power lever and closed the apertures.

  “Why did you do that?” questioned the overcaptain.

  “Because the crystals within would vibrate, then disintegrate. Depending on the temperature, the dampness of the air, a device may work only for a short period, or for a much longer one. That is why we needed so many.”

  “It is good that you recognized that,” offered the overcaptain.

  “The engineer is very good at recognizing limitations, Overcaptain,” the Praetor said. “Perhaps you should check and see if there are any more scouts lurking in the cliffs. It would do little good to kill one and then have two others report our presence.”

  “Yes, Praetor, sir. Right away.”

  Vestor began to unclamp the weapon from the retaining brackets, then slid it clear and returned it to its storage space in the horse cart.

  “You are most adept at that, Vestor,” observed the Praetor. “One might actually think that you came from a family of cannoneers.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Vestor quickly disassembled the tripod and restored it to its place on the side of the handcart, then glanced around, before seeing the trooper holding the reins of his mount.

  “But one would never think of you as a horse trooper,” added the Praetor, with his hearty laugh.

  Even after they resumed their journey, none of them looked forward at the pink-sprayed snow at the edge of the cliff top to the west.

  23

  A light wind blew through the open shutters of the mess windows, a Londi afternoon breeze cooler than the warm days of the previous week, but not chill. Despite the high clouds, no rain had fallen, and Alucius doubted that any would, not with the wind coming out of the northwest. As he stood across the table from Feran in the mess, Alucius looked at the missive that had arrived moments before, carried by two militia troopers from headquarters at Dekhron. Feran held a similar missive, which he had already opened.

  After a moment, Alucius broke the seal and began to read.

  Captain Alucius—

  Earlier this spring, you received word that, as a result of financially parlous times, the Council requested that all company commanders show great care in the use of their resources. While the militia has been told that a resolution of this difficulty is being developed, supplies are at close to the lowest level in many years. Therefore, you are requested not to engage in any sustained or lengthy training exercises and to refrain from arms practice with cartridges until further notice.

  There will be no dispensation for local recruiting to fill vacancies in companies, and any request for a stipend for troopers nearing the time of completed service must be deferred until the turn of harvest.

  Please acknowledge with a brief response to accompany the messengers who carried this to you.

  The seal was that of the commandant, but the signature was that of Majer Weslyn, with the words “acting commandant” penned beneath the signature. Alucius wondered why Weslyn was acting commandant, and he hoped that such was merely temporary. Colonel Clyon was the only one of the senior militia officers in whom Alucius had any confidence for the ability to stand up to the Council.

  After a moment, Alucius went back over the short set of instructions again, but he could not read anything into them except the Council’s desperate frugality and continued lack of understanding of the importance of the militia. He would certainly acknowledge the missive, not that he had a choice. And he would seal up and send back his latest message to Wendra, even if he did not have time to add more than a quick note to the bottom of what he had already written to his wife.

  Across the table, Feran was mumbling to himself. “…a seed-oil works…all the idiocy…stupidity…”

  Abruptly, the older officer thrust the missive he had received at Alucius. “Would you read this? Can you believe it? First, they threaten to cut our supplies and pay, and now I get an order to take the entire company thirty vingts down the river road for three weeks to a hamlet no one’s ever heard of—except us—because some trader’s afraid that his precious seed-oil works may be threatened.”

  Alucius handed his own orders to Feran, then began to read what the older officer had received.

  Captain Feran—

  In view of your length of service with the militia, and your great understanding of the importance of handling matters with both dispatch and tact, you are hereby ordered to take Fifth Company, immediately, that being the morning after receiving these orders, to the town of Fiente. There you will contact Trader Yussel. The militia has received word that a raid on the seed-oil works is highly likely. Inasmuch as the seed-oil works provide much of the support necessary for militia goods and supplies, the Council has strongly recommended that a company be dispatched to make sure that no ill comes to those works.

  You will spend three weeks in Fiente, unless you receive additional orders to the contrary. You are to exercise great caution to make sure that no harm comes to the works.

  Earlier this spring, you received word that, as a result of financially parlous times, the Council requested that all company commanders show great care in the use of their resources…

  Alucius nodded. The remainder of Feran’s instructions were the same as his, word for word, as were the signature and seal lines. He handed the orders back to Feran and received his own in return.

  “We have to go off and protect a seed-oil works. Can you believe that?” asked Feran. “Just who is going to attack that?”

  “Lanachronans disguised as raiders?” suggested Alucius.

  Feran shook his head. “They’ve got far better oil works all over Lanachrona. More likely, someone on the Council—this trader whatever his name is—wants to show that he has power over the militia.”

  “I worry about the signature,” Alucius said.

  “The signature?” Fera
n looked down. “Acting commandant? Sander offal! As soon as the colonel goes somewhere—or gets sick—the Council’s twisting Weslyn’s arm.”

  “Let’s just hope he’s only sick or away.”

  Feran froze for a moment, then shook his head. “We’d better hope it’s only that.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Alucius was sure of no such thing, but there was no point in saying that. Time would tell, one way or another. He also wondered what sort of resolution was being worked out by the Council. That veiled reference bothered him as much as Weslyn’s signature as acting commandant.

  Still…he had a response to write—two in a way—and he might as well get on with it. He turned to head to his own quarters to get pen and inkwell and paper, and the missive to Wendra.

  Behind him, Feran continued to murmur under his breath.

  Abruptly, Alucius turned and walked out to the courtyard, looking around for the two messengers. One stood talking to Egyl, near the corner of the building.

  Both looked up as Alucius approached.

  “Sir?” asked Egyl.

  Alucius looked at the messenger. “Trooper…I wonder if you might have some information. About the commandant—Colonel Clyon. The instructions you delivered were signed by Majer Weslyn as acting commandant. Is the colonel ill?”

  “Why…yes, sir. He’s been suffering a terrible flux for the past few weeks. That’s what the majer said.”

  “And you haven’t seen the colonel around headquarters?”

  “No, sir. We’d wondered, but when the majer told us…”

  “Thank you.” Alucius nodded.

  He turned and walked back toward his own quarters. The colonel seriously ill? Or being made seriously ill? The timing was too coincidental, and he liked it not at all—even if he could do nothing at all about it. Feran would like it even less. Of that, Alucius was most certain.