As quickly as he could manage, he placed the rest of the devices in their tripods, and tightened them in place. He glanced to the north, into the silver-green sky, and at the pteridons that swept southward toward the Praetor’s forces.
“Once they cross the middle of the valley between us, fire your weapons!” Vestor stationed himself at the tripod on the eastern end. There he raised the device and swung it toward the oncoming pteridons and their riders. He pushed the firing lever forward. The device hummed, and red-limned light flashed skyward—missing the pteridon at the point of the wedge. He swung the beam again, and this time, sliced through the wing of one of the giant fliers on the flank. For a moment, he watched as the pteridon cartwheeled out of the air, throwing its rider clear, a nomad in blue who spun like a doll in the sky before plunging earthward. Then he forced himself to aim at a second of the fliers. Again, he missed, as he did a third time.
The pteridons were now almost overhead, and dropping into a near vertical dive—right at him. An eerie scream rose to the west. From the corner of his eye, Vestor thought he saw a blaze of blue flame shoot skyward. Something blue flashed above him, and the heat was like a furnace, but passed quickly—except that another blast flared to his left.
A high whine started, and began to climb. Vestor threw himself to the ground, as did the archer immediately to his left. Before either quite settled on the green spring grasses, fragments of metal flew around and past them. Vestor looked at his left arm, then eased a small splinter of metal from his tunic and out of his arm, although it had barely broken the skin. Another burst of blue flashed over the hillside, and the screams of agony shivered the air once more, with another wave of heat, and the sickening stench of burned flesh.
Vestor lurched to his feet, and glanced at the tripods. Where the two farthest to the west had been, blue flames had flared, and were beginning to subside. The tripods—half-collapsed—were sticks of charcoal. The third tripod had vanished, the archer nowhere in sight. The next two tripods—and their archers—were untouched. Vestor looked up.
The pteridons had swept past, and were turning for another pass.
“Aim ahead of them! Just a bit!” Vestor followed his own advice…and missed. He readjusted…and saw another pteridon go down, and then another, its wing severed by one of the other archers. The lead flier and its rider were less than a hundred yards away, when Vestor managed to slice through the long neck of the beast to the left of the leader. For some reason, he had trouble focusing on the leader.
Then more blue fire swept across the ridgetop, and Vestor threw himself to the ground, feeling the air turn furnacelike where he had been standing moments before.
When he staggered up, he discovered he was the last one standing, and his tripod was the only one erect. He glanced to the west, but where the Praetor and his banner had been was nothing but a mass of blue flame, and greasy white-and-gray smoke.
The device on his tripod was beginning to whine, and Vestor slammed the apertures closed and spun the clamps open, before pulling the device from the bracket and running to the cart to try to get a replacement before the pteridons turned once more.
He glanced up to see another group of fliers sweeping from the northwest, and flames flaring across the entire ridgeline. As the flames and the lines of blue light that fed and created them flashed toward him, he dived and rolled for the back side of the hill.
A combination of overtaxed crystals and skylance flames exploded, pushing him into a series of rolls that tumbled him a good hundred yards downhill.
For a time, he just lay sprawled on the damp grass.
“Engineer! Is that you?”
Vestor struggled into a sitting position, then made out an officer—the overcaptain of scouts, riding toward him, leading a mount without a rider.
“You want to see Alustre again, mount up. The Praetor’s dead, and those things—”
“Pteridons,” Vestor said involuntarily. “They’re pteridons.”
“Whatever they are. They’re burning everyone to cinders. Don’t think they’ll do well in the pass. Not enough room for them to get close. The marshal’s ordered everyone to retreat to the pass.”
Vestor struggled up into the saddle, one-handedly, realizing belatedly that he could move neither his left hand nor his arm. Then he rode after the overcaptain. He did not look back.
34
On the last Quinti before the turn of summer, in the dry and dusty midmorning, under a sky of blazingly clear silver-green, Alucius rode eastward along the river road at the head of the second squad. A half vingt ahead rode a pair of scouts, and to his left rode Anslym. Although it was barely midmorning, Alucius found himself blotting his forehead with the back of his tunic sleeve, wiping away both sweat and grit, and having half emptied one of his water bottles.
“Haven’t seen a trace of raiders in almost a month, sir,” Anslym said. “Think we’ll see any more anytime soon?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Alucius replied, “but common sense said that the two groups we fought off shouldn’t have even been out here.” He shook his head. “I hope we don’t see any. We’ve only got enough ammunition for patrols, and not a stand-up battle against raiders.”
“Has Colonel Weslyn sent any messages about ammunition and supplies?”
“Nothing new except a reminder to be very careful about both…and a statement that both powder and sulfur are once more getting hard to come by.”
“The sulfur comes from Lanachrona, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Alucius said, glancing ahead at a plume of dust, before looking back to Anslym once he saw that the dust had been raised by a farmer’s oxcart headed westward toward the squad, presumably to market in Emal. “It’s always been a problem. I’d hoped the new Regent for the Matrial would encourage trade with the Iron Valleys, in goods like sulfur, but it hasn’t happened.”
“The Madriens don’t like to trade that much, do they?”
“They don’t have to trade as much as we do. They produce more different things. They don’t care for most lands in Corus.” That was being generous. From what he’d seen, Alucius wasn’t sure that the women of Madrien had much use for any other land in Corus. Pushing that thought away, Alucius looked toward the River Vedra, his eyes traveling over the eddies in the black water. Eddies? He turned and studied the river more closely, seeing not just the eddies near the shore, but the two yards or so of drying mud on the shore below the matted grass and low undergrowth that marked a shoreline that, after the spring runoff, seldom varied much. He couldn’t recall seeing the water level that low, especially so early in the year. That meant there hadn’t been nearly the usual snowfall up on the Plateau. With no snow or rain to speak of in two months, and none in sight, and the river already so low, the outlook for the crops wasn’t good—on top of everything else.
“Sir?”
“I was thinking about rain,” Alucius admitted. “If we don’t get more, then the farmers won’t have good crops. By next winter, food will cost much more, and tariff revenues will be even lower because people will be buying less.”
Anslym frowned.
“Lower tariffs mean fewer coins for the militia—and we’re already short of things.”
“Most of the men—”
“Are scheduled to be released at the turn of the year. But they probably won’t get release bonuses, the way they have in the past, and they might even get out a month early—with no pay for that month, and they’d be going back to families, and farms and crafts that will be having trouble feeding the people there.” Alucius added, “That’s if we don’t get more rain. But it’s still early in the year, and that could change.”
The way matters were going, Alucius wasn’t about to wager that the Iron Valleys would get more rain. Or that the Lord-Protector wouldn’t find a way to use the drought to Lanachrona’s advantage.
35
Tempre, Lanachrona
The younger man in the violet-blue tunic looked up from the Table of the
Recorders. An expression of annoyance crossed his narrow lips before he spoke. “Can you recall that scene again, Recorder?”
“As you wish, Lord-Protector. I had thought you should see this.”
“I don’t know what I am seeing,” muttered the younger man.
The ruby mists swirled and revealed a scene as if observed from the sky. Two forces, each on a ridgeline, faced each other. To the south of the southerly force was a great high road that ran east and west, vanishing into the Spine of Corus to the east and disappearing into the rolling hills to the west.
The Lord-Protector studied the scene in the Table of the Recorders, intently, for he had not believed what he had seen the first time. Again, he watched the two forces. As before, a flare of flame, tinged with silver, appeared near the banner of the southern force, a force with livery of black and silver, or, in some places, silver and gray. Then a second flame appeared. Before long, the entire crest of the hill was in flames, and the forces in disarray, retreating hastily back along the high road back behind the redstone cliffs.
The Lord-Protector looked to the Recorder of Deeds. “I saw flames from nowhere, blue flames, that destroyed an enormous force. The other force did not move at all. Some of the flames were tinged with silver, and that means that they were called forth by Talent.” He paused. “But…how can anyone call forth that much flame? And where were those who did so?”
“You did not see all that happened,” explained the gray-haired Recorder. “Blue was always the color of the Myrmidons of the Duarchy, and their skylances created blue flames. That is what the records claim.”
“I did not see any pteridons or any skylances. The only blue I saw was the livery of the northernmost force—and flames from nowhere,” the Lord-Protector pointed out.
“No…that is all the Table showed you. It cannot show creatures of Talent, or great users of Talent.”
The Lord-Protector rubbed his forehead. “Would you make yourself clear? I have little time for games and riddles.”
“I believe that Aellyan Edyss found—somehow—pteridons in the Council Vault, protected against time. Or he has found the secret of creating them. They are creatures totally of Talent, and the skylances are weapons totally created by Talent. You could not see either, because the Table cannot show them. You could see the results, the uncontrolled fires, and the rout of the Praetorian Legions.”
“You are certain?”
“I am certain that he has some Talent-based creatures and weapons. Whatever they are, they did what you saw.”
“So…I have this…Regent of the Matrial to the west, with her crystal spear-thrower. I have to the north an officer in the Iron Valleys Militia that your Table shows as a danger to me, although it cannot say why, and now I have Aellyan Edyss to the west with creatures of such Talent that they can rout an army far larger than any I could field without stripping every outpost in Lanachrona.”
“The Table shows what is, Lord-Protector.”
“The matter with the Iron Valleys Council is not resolved, and yet it may take weeks or months for them to understand that they have no real choice.” The Lord-Protector massaged his forehead with his right hand. “Now, with this, I cannot afford to fight in the north, no matter how long I must wait, otherwise.”
“Perhaps both the threat of power, and the offer of benefits…”
“Benefits?”
“It could be that there is something else, still, that might help persuade this Council and yet enhance your power.” The Recorder paused, then asked, “Have you not said that the Militia of the Iron Valleys has many companies that are the equal of the Southern Guard?”
“Yes. I would not say such too openly, but all know it is so. Especially the one commanded by the herder captain.”
“Perhaps you should make them—and him—your ally. Would not an ally be better than a foe? They have a militia they cannot afford to pay and support for a defense they would not need, were you to offer them guarantees of their liberty and freedom to trade.”
The Lord-Protector’s head jerked up. “Not a bad thought, but how…?”
“That, Lord-Protector,” replied the Recorder of Deeds, “I cannot say. I can see how the pieces might fit, but you are the leader who must discover how to encourage those involved to see it as you do.”
“Or as they would like to see it,” mused the younger man.
After a time, a slow smile crossed his lips. He stood slowly, nodding to the Recorder as he left the small, marble-walled chamber.
36
Late in the day on the first Quattri of summer, a single wagon, half-loaded, had arrived from militia headquarters—carrying the entirety of the supplies for the next season. With the wagon had come a short missive from Colonel Weslyn explaining that and apologizing for the shortfall, but citing the inability of the Council to raise enough tariff coins to provide more. Half a wagon, Alucius reflected, for two months. More than half the supplies had consisted of flour and dried beef. There had been but four cases of cartridges, two for each horse company, and none for the two squads of foot, and Twenty-first Company had gone through close to four cases in the one battle against the raiders.
The only cheerful aspect of the supply delivery had been the message from Wendra, which Alucius had slipped inside his tunic to read when he had a quiet moment.
That moment finally came after supper, when in the dying twilight, he sat on the ancient chair in his small room and broke the seal on the message.
My dearest Alucius,
I am writing this quickly, because Grandfather Kustyl is riding down to Dekhron to see some traders. He said that he could deliver my words to militia headquarters and make sure they got to you.
We just received your latest message. That was the one about Colonel Clyon’s death and about your battle with the raiders. Your grandsire had already heard about the colonel. He was deeply saddened, and said to tell you that. He also said that he was not surprised about the raids. He is hopeful they would be the last for a time because of everything that has happened.
Alucius nodded. His wife and his grandsire shared the same views as Alucius did.
We were both glad to hear that you were not seriously wounded in the battle and that all is now well…
Alucius frowned. He had not said anything about his injuries. Then he glanced down at the black crystal of his herder’s wristband. Of course, Wendra had known that he’d been hurt.
The spring shoots on the quarasote are smaller and shorter than usual. That didn’t affect the nightwool we just finishing shearing. Unless we get more rain later in the summer, their coats won’t be nearly so strong next year…
Your grandsire is letting me take the flock to the southern sections of the stead, now, by myself, if only for part of the day. Sometimes, we trade off. That lets him work on the equipment in the mornings, then I help your mother with the carding and the spinnerets in the afternoon…
A sander got one of the ewes two weeks ago, and left a ramlet. I remembered the story about Lamb and decided that, if you could nurse him through when you were only five years old, I certainly could manage. The first nights were hard, but he’s now taking the bottle well, and he’s going to grow up strong.
Alucius smiled to himself. He’d said that she’d make a herder, and she was. He just wished he were there to share in that joy. But then, he reflected, would she have discovered what she truly was had he been there?
I must close so that Grandfather Kustyl can take this. I look forward to seeing you when I can, whenever that may be. All my love goes with you…
For a long time, he looked at the words on the page, reading and rereading them, especially the last lines.
37
On a late Septi midmorning two weeks after the supply wagon arrived, Alucius was conducting mounted sabre drills with second squad—one-on-one. Longyl had first squad on the flats to the east, working on maneuvers.
The sun was pounding down on the outpost through the silver-green sky on another cl
oudless day—when the militia trooper wearing the sash of a messenger rode through the gate of Emal Outpost. Despite the swept stones of the causeway, the messenger’s mount still raised dust.
“Stand down!” Alucius ordered, and turned Wildebeast toward the messenger, who had reined up outside the small outpost headquarters building. He brought Wildebeast to a stop several yards short of the dusty trooper.
“Captain Alucius?”
Alucius nodded.
“I have dispatches for you and Captain Feran. Each has to be hand-delivered to each of you, sir.”
Alucius was spared having to call for the older officer because Feran stepped out of the headquarters building.
“Captain Feran?”
“None other,” Feran said.
The messenger leaned forward in the saddle and extended a dispatch to Feran, then eased his mount toward Alucius, handing the sealed missive to him, almost as if he didn’t want to get too close to the younger of the two officers. “I’m to wait for a response from each of you.”
Alucius turned and motioned to Anslym, then waited as the squad leader rode across the courtyard.
“Anslym…if you would arrange for the messenger. He’ll be staying tonight, and leaving in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.” Anslym looked at the trooper. “Please follow me.”
The slender trooper glanced at the officers.
“You’ll have a response by muster tomorrow,” Alucius promised.
“Yes, sir.”
Feran and Alucius watched as the messenger followed Anslym toward the stables.
“He doesn’t want to stay around,” Feran observed. “That’s not good.”
“I don’t think I’d want to be a militia messenger right now,” Alucius added. “There can’t be that much good news to deliver.”
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