Yet someone had tried to ambush him outside his own stead, and someone—presumably the Lord-Protector of Lanachrona or someone high in the governing councils of Lanachrona—had tried two attacks on Emal.
Alucius suppressed a wince as he began to wash up and shave, still thinking about the attack of the previous day and what he had put in the report he had dispatched to militia headquarters—and what he had not.
Again, there had been little evidence on the bodies, which he had reported. But the rifles and coins and the thirty captured mounts might help raise some funds for Emal Outpost. As a detached company commander, Alucius did have the ability to sell off goods captured in battle, although he had to account for the sale and the use of the coins. He had not reported either the goods captured or his plans for them.
He frowned. Perhaps he had been targeted by the Lanachronans…but not in the way he had thought. Perhaps they had sought out the most junior and isolated captain so that they could demonstrate the weakness of the southern borders. If that were so, though, that meant someone else had set up the attack outside Iron Stem.
With a slow sigh, Alucius dried his face. Either way, he had to watch himself. He just hoped that he’d have a few weeks before something else happened. He needed time to heal, and even though he had some healing Talent, it didn’t work that well on one’s self.
Talent never did.
30
Nothing happened, beyond the usual patrols and garrison requirements, during the week and two days following the attack. There was no rain, and the roads got dustier, and the local farmers complained. A few more bodies washed up along the riverbank, and two more abandoned raider mounts were turned in, surprisingly. Alucius suspected that there were more that would never show up, but he couldn’t blame the finders. Emal and Tuuler were far from well-off locales.
The bruises on Alucius’s chest and upper abdomen faded into a dull yellow and blackish purple. The worst of the soreness subsided, and there was no sign of the “Deforyan” raiders. Nor were there any messages or dispatches or orders from militia headquarters. Alucius did have to write reports on the five militia troopers killed in the fight, and shorter entries in their files on the six who were wounded. He did not make any notes about his own comparatively minor injuries.
On Quattri afternoon, he was crossing the courtyard after making an unannounced tour of the company barracks, when he saw militia troopers—Fifth Company—riding through the outpost gates, with Feran near the front.
Although he wanted to know why Fifth Company had returned early, he did not approach Feran, but retreated to the mess and the spring seasonal reports on each trooper, reports that he had begun the day before. He was glad, still, that he was left-handed, because he remained sore, and some of that soreness extended down into his right hand, although the worst had long since passed.
When Feran finally entered the mess, Alucius looked up from his reports, but did not rise as he spoke. “I didn’t expect you back so soon. I thought they’d keep you wandering around Fiente for at least a month so that the majer could tell the Council how much the militia cared about its traders and their seed-oil works.”
“We got word to head back here about three days ago.” Feran grinned. “They said that the raiders had attacked Emal.” He looked around the mess theatrically. “I don’t see any damage.”
“We caught them crossing the Vedra at the shallows before dawn,” Alucius said blandly. “I thought they might try something like that. So I had sentries out. There were two companies. It was dark, but they showed up pretty well against the river. We found ninety bodies, and the local people here have found another fifteen washed downstream. So far.”
“You don’t like leaving survivors, do you?” asked Feran.
“The fewer survivors, the less you have to worry about fighting them again,” Alucius pointed out. “Also, they were wearing Deforyan tunics and carrying Deforyan rifles, but they were mercenaries. They even had a few snipers.”
“Are all herders like you?”
“I’d guess so.” Alucius paused. “You have something in mind, don’t you?”
“I’d always thought of herders as standing back, watching their flock, intervening and protecting when they had to. You’re more like a lead nightram. You always lead from the front.”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“That’s what I mean. Herders don’t risk themselves that much. At least, that’s my impression.”
“I had to do something that would stop them from trying again.” Alucius waited. “We can’t afford too many fights. Twenty-first Company is already too low on ammunition.”
“The supplies…the coin thing with the Council worries me,” Feran said slowly. “Have you heard anything?”
Alucius shook his head. “I made a deal with a factor coming through Semal. I sold him all the Deforyan rifles we got. It wasn’t what you’d get in Borlan or Dekhron, but I got sixty golds out of it, and another fifty for the mounts. With the twenty golds’ worth of coppers and silvers we got on the battlefield”—Alucius grinned—“the ones that some of the men didn’t get first, that should add another month to what we have for payroll and supplies.”
“You…” Feran laughed. “A herder and a trader. You could be dangerous, Alucius.”
“The regulations say that an officer on detached outpost duty can dispose of property acquired through the militia’s lawful duties, so long as he accounts for its collection and use. I did keep the ten best mounts, though, for spares, and replacements.”
“Have you told the acting commandant that?”
“As I recall…” Alucius said slowly, his eyes twinkling, “that is part of the year-end report.”
“By then, it won’t matter,” Feran pointed out.
“Would you wish me to write a report at a time that is contrary to militia regulations?”
The older officer laughed. “How could I possibly insist on something contrary to regulations?”
After a moment, Alucius asked, “Have you heard anything about Majer Weslyn or the commandant?”
“No. The orders I received at Fiente were signed by Majer Weslyn, still sealed as acting commandant, and the troopers who delivered them only knew that Colonel Clyon remained very ill.”
“Before…he was just ill.”
“I know. It doesn’t look good.”
The two exchanged knowing glances.
31
Borlan, Lanachrona
Ebuin straightened his tunic and stepped through the door into the small room. He closed the door behind him and stood stiffly before the dark table desk and across from the captain-colonel of the Southern Guard, who remained seated behind it.
After a moment, the captain-colonel gestured. “Sit down, Majer.”
Ebuin sat, on the front edge of the chair, his eyes not quite meeting those of his superior.
“Well?” asked the captain-colonel.
“The mercenaries made the attack two glasses before dawn the Duadi before last. They reported no sign of the Twenty-first Company before they crossed the river. The plan was to take the river road and move westward to the edge of town, station snipers, and cut down the captain when the Twenty-first Company appeared, then withdraw, unless engaged.”
“I take it that the plan did not work as designed.” An amused tone colored the captain-colonel’s voice.
“No, sir. Less than a third of the mercenaries survived,” Ebuin reported.
“Fewer than fifty out of a hundred and ninety? Exactly how did that happen?” asked the captain-colonel. “If you would explain…?”
“Somehow, he knew. He had his company waiting. It was almost pitch-dark. Neither moon was up. His timing was perfect. They’d watered the bank, somehow, because the first riders got slowed by the mud, and most of the rest got cut down in the river. Only the last few squads escaped.”
“In the river and in the dark, and they shot that many?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Y
ou had enough mercenaries for two companies…Two.” The captain-colonel leaned forward. “How many casualties did Twenty-first Company take?”
“Less than a handful. Two of the snipers claim that the captain was hit full in the chest, twice, and it did not even slow him down.”
“He is a herder. He was doubtless wearing nightsilk under his uniform.”
“Nightsilk may stop a bullet, sir, but it does not stop its impact. He should have suffered broken bones, as if he had been hit with an ancient lance in the chest.”
“We could use a captain like that.” The captain-colonel smiled, ruefully. “There are so few.”
“What else—?” began Ebuin.
“For better or worse, this effort is over. The vulnerability of the southern borders of the Iron Valleys has been shown.”
“Sir?”
“That is an order from the Lord-Protector, Majer. What you did was not totally successful, and not as successful as either of us would prefer, but it accomplished what the Lord-Protector needed, and he is not displeased.”
“Yes, sir.” Ebuin could not quite conceal the relief in his voice.
“Not as pleased as he should be, but not displeased. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am not totally pleased, either, Majer, but I believe we were both most fortunate, and we should count ourselves well acquitted. At times, it is best to let the soarer queen reign.”
“Yes, sir.”
Both officers nodded, if for different reasons.
32
Alucius and Feran had just finished their uninspiring and overcooked mutton supper when the duty guard knocked on the doorframe. “Captains, messengers for you.” After a moment, he added, “Looks bad, sirs.” Then he was gone.
Feran looked at Alucius. Alucius shrugged. They both walked out into the courtyard, filled with shadows cast by the late-afternoon sun. Two troopers had just dismounted. They wore the green sashes of messengers, but the sashes were crudely trimmed with black.
Alucius had no doubts about what message they brought.
The shorter trooper stepped forward. “There are two for each of you, Captains.” He extended the missives, first to Feran, and then to Alucius. “From militia headquarters.”
One of the missives was edged in black, and sealed on the outside in black wax as well. Alucius opened it, aware that he was being watched from a number of places around the courtyard, as was Feran. The main text of the carefully written note was short.
It is with great sadness that the militia announces the death, after a lingering illness, of the commandant, Colonel Clyon. The colonel devoted his entire life to the Iron Valleys Militia, to its success in safeguarding the peoples under its care, and its efforts to ensure the full and free flow of trade to and from the Iron Valleys. In tribute to this remarkable officer, a month of mourning is hereby declared for all militia outposts. All officers will wear black mourning bands.
The signature was, of course, that of Majer Weslyn as acting commandant.
Alucius looked up from the missive. “Thank you, troopers. We will miss the colonel.” He nodded to Longyl, who had eased his way toward the group. “If you would see to the messengers, Longyl. They’ve ridden a great distance with tragic news.”
“Yes, sir.”
Neither Feran nor Alucius spoke until they were back in the small mess, alone.
“We knew it was coming,” Feran said. “Doesn’t make it any easier.” He looked at the second, unopened message. “Hate to even think about opening this.”
So did Alucius, but they both looked down, then opened the missives they held. Alucius read slowly and carefully.
The past few years have been difficult and trying times for the Militia of the Iron Valleys. The efforts it has taken to obtain coins, provisions, ammunition, and other supplies required to maintain the militia have been enormous, and Colonel Clyon accomplished much against odds that were overwhelming, it can be stated without exaggeration. This struggle has taken its toll, both on the colonel, and upon the militia and the people of the Iron Valleys.
The officers and troopers of the militia continue to face such odds with honor and with the ability for which the militia is justifiably known throughout all of Corus. One company, although out-manned by well-armed attackers with more than twice its numbers, recently repulsed an attack and did so with minimal casualties. That attack came less than two months after another attack of similar intensity. These attacks illustrate that we live in an unsettled time, and, because we do, once more, as the new commandant of the militia, I must call upon you and your troopers to maintain the high standards and unending vigilance that have been the militia tradition throughout the generations.
I look forward to working with you to continue that proud tradition.
Alucius’s message was signed by Weslyn as colonel and commandant. Below the seal and signature, in the different hand that had signed the message, presumably Weslyn’s, another brief line had been written: My commendations on a job well-done! Twice!
The younger captain refrained from snorting. At least, Weslyn knew Alucius had done something. Alucius waited until Feran had finished reading his own message before asking, “Did you get the ‘honor and tradition’ message?”
“Oh, that was clear enough. The part that bothered me was about the toll taken.”
Alucius nodded. “A hint, you think?”
“More than a hint.” Feran shook his head. “And there’s nothing I can do, not with five years to go before even a short-coin stipend. You can get out in less than a year.”
“If they let me,” Alucius countered.
“They’ll let you. They don’t want to pay anyone any longer than they have to.” Feran laughed.
Alucius laughed as well, but he had his doubts. Still, there was little that he could or should say, in anything that might get back to Dekhron. He had a message already written to send to Wendra, but he decided against dispatching what he had written. Instead, before the messengers departed in the morning, he’d write a much shorter note, merely conveying his love and the news of Colonel Clyon’s death. He had no idea who might be looking at what in the days and weeks ahead.
33
West of South Pass, Illegea
The Praetorian Legions rode and marched westward along the high road and passed through the cut in the red cliffs—carved with the forgotten abilities of the Duarchy long before the Cataclysm—that marked the western end of the South Pass. The overcaptain of scouts rode along the shoulder of the high road toward the Praetor, slowing his mount as he neared, and announced, “The nomads remain drawn up on the hills to the north a good four vingts west of here, Praetor, and we have scouts on the rise facing them. They have not moved.”
“The position where the Legions will form is less than two vingts from theirs, is that not correct?” The Praetor looked westward, checking the clear silver-green sky, then the rolling plains that spread westward into the distance, split by the dark gray of the high road, the one called the Lost Highway, for reasons buried with long-past generations.
“Yes, sir.”
“That is well within the range of your devices, is it not, engineer?” asked the Praetor, looking back at Vestor, who rode beside the cart horse that pulled the first third of his equipment.
“It is,” Vestor replied.
“You should be ready to set up all ten of your devices when we reach there, without delay.”
Vestor looked at the Praetor. “There are tripods but for six, Praetor.”
“I will have the other carts sent forward, along with the archers you trained, and you will set up six, and have the others open to the sun and ready to replace those. The nomads will certainly not give us time to replace the devices once they experience them in battle.” The Praetor frowned. “In battle, one must have all ready to use at once. One may not get a second chance.”
“Against grassland nomads?” Vestor blurted.
“We were all grassland nomads
, or some such, once,” the Praetor replied dryly, turning his mount so that he could call back his orders. “Bring forth all the carts of the engineer!”
Vestor stood in the stirrups, just to stretch his legs for a time, swaying from side to side before he dropped back onto the leather of a saddle that felt like iron. He kept riding, silently.
In less than a glass, only slightly past midday, the Legions had arrayed themselves across the rise, waiting. In the center of the Praetorian forces, just to the east of the highest point on the ridge, where the Praetor’s banner flew, Vestor finished setting up the sixth tripod and adjusting it. Then he began to place the crystal weapons in each tripod.
“Praetor!” At the urgency of the call, Vestor looked up from the second tripod, held steady by an archer as the engineer slid the device into the restraining clamps. Vestor looked to the north. He expected to see the nomads advancing, but their lines remained motionless. All he could see was a flock of large birds, hawks perhaps, rising in the distance behind the nomads.
“Praetor!”
At the second call, Vestor focused on the birds, for there was nothing else moving. He swallowed as he saw, truly saw, the creatures climbing into the sky, with their long blue wings, and the men upon each, so small compared to the pteridons they rode that they looked like dolls. The flying creatures had to be pteridons, although Vestor had never seen one except as depicted in ancient drawings, or in the figures of a leschec set.
“Pteridons…” he murmured. “Pteridons…” The glint of blue metal caught his eye, blue metal in the hands of the pteridon riders. Abruptly, he rushed to the carts. “Hurry! We must get the devices ready! You must aim them at the pteridons!”
“Pteridons?” asked one of the archers. “There aren’t any—”
“There are now!” snapped the engineer. “What do you think those things are?”
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