From Across the Clouded Range (46 page)

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As the portal shrank to oblivion
behind the Belab’s latest progeny, a ruffling sounded outside the
tent. The interruption annoyed the Belab, but he motioned to the
man on his left. That man made a gesture, and the tent flap flew
open.

On the other side was a short creature
with translucent wings, a spike-riddled exoskeleton, and a face
dominated by a vicious double set of mandibles. The creature seemed
impatient to enter, so Belab motioned it in. It walked on two sets
of double-jointed legs that ended in opposable toes. Halfway up the
multi-segmented body were two similar sets of limps that acted as
its arms. Past its mouth were two huge black eyes that did not
dispel its similarity to an insect.

When the creature was in the room, it
made an awkward bow. “Great Belab, we have failed to take the boy.
You were correct in your assessment of his position, but Hileil has
given him powerful protections. He escaped across the river, and we
were unable to find him through the trees.” The creature paused to
gather itself and speak the last. “The losses, I am afraid, were .
. . .”

The creature fell to the ground before
it could finish. Belab’s face never seemed to change as he mumbled
the words that dissolved the creature. After a few moments, its
thrashing had turned into a slow gurgle as its body liquefied and
soaked into the ground beneath the tent.

“
I did not expect you to
succeed, my friend, but I still cannot tolerate failure.” Belab
spoke calmly, almost with remorse for what he had just done. “This
boy is dangerous. I could sense it as soon as we crossed the
Devil’s Teeth. I should not have been so careless. He needs to be
controlled, to be crafted. Otherwise, he could be ruin
everything.”

He thought for a moment then continued
as if speaking to himself. “Sending the tal’ ladorim was foolish. I
should have known that he would be protected by forces that they
could not overcome. Likewise, I cannot confront him. Not now, not
as an enemy. We cannot risk opening him to the full extent of his
powers.”

The words ended there as the old man
pondered. None of the other figures in the room moved. A long time
passed as the Belab thought. “Yes!” he concluded to himself. “This
new path will have to do. He will have to be handled delicately,
handled by those he trusts. We have his friend. His father is
within reach. If we are patient, he will fall into our hands. He
will make the mistake that will turn even his own against him. Once
that is done, he will come begging for my help. Help that I will be
only too glad to give.”

Chapter 22

The clash of steel on steel echoed
across the courtyard like a thousand discordant cymbals played by
an army of children. Avoiding one of those clashes, Jaret Rammeriz
slid easily beneath a whistling blade. The wind rush past his steel
cap as he stepped in and slammed his left hand into his opponent’s
mail-covered ribs. His foot followed, snaking easily behind the
man’s thick legs. Unprepared for the simple rejoinder, the
legionnaire grunted, reeled back, lost his footing, and crashed to
the ground in a tangle of limbs, blades, and armor.

“
What in the name of the
great and holy Order was that?” Jaret admonished as he whirled
around to stand above his opponent.

The big man just sat,
looking stunned by how quickly he had been upended. Jaret was
equally stunned.
How had this fool earned
the blade of a legionnaire fighting like that? He shouldn’t have
made it past the first day in the Camp.
He
looked back down at the man, trying to hide is considerable
contempt. He wore the uniform of a legionnaire: loose black pants,
red shirt, black leather vest with a red sun embroidered on the
chest. A jerkin of light steel rings had been draped over the vest,
acting as he man’s only armor beyond the steel cap on his head. In
that regard, he looked exactly like all the other hundred or more
men who were skittering back and forth across the huge walled
courtyard just north of the Great Chamber in Sal Danar. The
difference was that this one was sitting on his ass rubbing his
ribs where the blunted weapon in Jaret’s left hand had hit them. He
was not seriously hurt. The weapon was nothing more than a handle
with a simple guard and a half-circle of steel, but Jaret found
that it was the best way to illustrate the pain of being stabbed
without actually killing his men.

Jaret looked down at the padded
training sword in his other hand. He had had not even needed it in
the recently completed bout – his opponent had swung so wildly that
he did not even feel the need to block his blows. All around them,
men floated across the courtyard in elaborate dances of mock
violence that would hone their already formidable skills. They had
just started their exercises, but already their uniforms showed the
signs of their exertion. It was very early, the sun was just
beginning to peak above the horizon, but it promised to be a hot,
sticky day in the huge city on the sea. Already the air was thick
and heavy with humidity, and no breeze stirred to shift the
stifling air. Jaret wished that it would rain, not only to wash
some of the humidity and stink from the city but also to revitalize
the countryside, which had been suffering from what seemed like
years of drought. As it was, the only clouds in the morning sky
were high and wispy. They would burn off by the time the sun was
above the white spires just east of them where the Palace of the
Dawn scarred the horizon.

“
What is our name
legionnaire?” Jaret growled, returning his attention to the man who
was just now finding his way to his feet. “And how the hell did you
earn your blade fighting like that?” The display of swordsmanship
that he had just witnessed had been an embarrassment, and Jaret
would have an explanation. The Legion of the Rising Sun was meant
to represent the best that the Empire had to offer. He might have
expected such foolhardy zeal from a new recruit, but there was no
excuse for it from a man who had received one of the specially
marked blades that denoted membership in the Legion.

“
My name, Lord Commander,
is Yatier.” His voice was conciliatory, but his mouth was quirked
in a half-smile, his expression cocksure.
By the Order, who could have recruited this clown?
Jaret wondered and spared a glance at the center
of the courtyard where a small cluster of officers directed the
training from a tall platform that provided an unobstructed view of
every contest. “I am sorry, Lord Commander. When I saw that you
would be my sparring partner. Well, I supposed I became over
excited. If you will give me another chance, I will try harder to
meet your expectations.”

Jaret inspected the
legionnaire from top to bottom.
Who the
hell talks like that?
He towered a full
head above Jaret and was half again his weight, but that had as
much to do with Jaret’s diminutive stature as the legionnaire’s
size. His blockish features were framed by a close-trimmed brown
beard. His nose was long and regal, his cheekbones were high and
proud, and his lips were large and red. Brown braids hung out of
the back of his helmet down the back of his vest. The features
surprised Jaret. They were noble. The man’s skin was fine, without
a scar or pock. It stood in contrast to the rough, weather-beaten
faces like Jaret’s that defined the other men in the courtyard. In
contrast to Jaret’s square jaw, blunt nose, sullen brow, and
leathery olive skin, this man was the form of male
perfection.

Jaret’s first reaction was
that he must be a noble, but the first rule of the Legion was that
it included no one of imperial blood.
Could this be some unaccounted bastard?
He dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred. The nobles kept
as close a watch on their bastards as they did their legitimate
children. An unanswerable question, he decided, and one that did
not matter much in any case. This man was a legionnaire now. His
background was inconsequential.

The hair was another issue
altogether. He made a quick inspection of the courtyard and found
not a lock peeking out from a helmet. He had been away from Sal
Danar for several weeks now on a dreadful review of the countryside
and had feared that the whole world had come undone in his absence,
but the man in front of him was, thankfully, the exception, not the
rule. Discipline must have fallen precipitously in the Camp, the
facility in the remote northern forests where the legionnaires were
trained. Jaret had not seen this man before, so he must have
received his blade very recently, a new graduate.
By the Order, even the Camp is falling
apart
, Jaret cursed and made a mental note
of one more thing needing his attention.

“
You’re used to fighting
in armor, heavy plate, is that correct?” Jaret finally asked. The
legionnaire was taken aback by the question but eventually
nodded.

By this time, Commander Traeger Hanar
had noticed that two of the men in the courtyard were not sparing
and had made his way to the doldrums. “What in the Order's holy
name are you two doing?” he yelled as he approached. “This isn’t
some hen party. We’re not here to talk stitching or swap recipes. I
had better hear steel on steel by the time I get to you, or you’re
going to cross blades with me.”

Jaret stepped out from behind Yatier
and signaled to Commander Hanar. “It’s alright, Traeger. We’re just
discussing his man’s technique and will be back at it in a
minute.”

At the sight of Jaret, Traeger pulled
up and put his hand to his chest in salute. “My apologies, Warlord.
I didn’t realize you were with us today.” He said it with a wry
smile that Jaret knew all too well.

“
As I had intended,” he
called back. Traeger was the commander of the Legion and one of
Jaret’s closest friends, but he could hardly tolerate the man’s
insubordination sometimes. “And if you call me warlord one more
time, I’ll send you back to the Camp as a recruit and make you go
through training again. Now get your lazy ass back on your little
platform before you get hurt.”

“
As you command, Warlord,”
Commander Hanar smiled, saluted again, and bowed
slightly.

So much for remaining
inconspicuous
, Jaret thought and cursed
Traeger as he strode back to his place in the center of the
courtyard. Jaret had hoped to shed his mantle as the Empire’s most
senior military commander and be just another legionnaire for this
short period of exercise, but he should have known that anonymity
was a luxury too much.

The success in battle that had
propelled him to his position had also made Jaret a well-known
figure throughout the Empire, and even if the average man did not
know his face, the legionnaires certain did. He had founded the
Legion, selected his first members, and grown it into not only an
elite fighting unit but also an information and control mechanism
that was woven into every aspect of the Empire’s military
forces.

The Legion was critical to everything
Jaret did, so he spent an inordinate amount of his time with its
members. He trained with them, spoke to each new man personally,
and shared their tables more often than not. As a result, most felt
comfortable enough to joke with him, tell him bawdy stories, and
give him a good bruise if he didn’t keep his guard up. Yet he could
never truly be one of them, could never allow it. It was important
that the legionnaires respected him, but it was far more important
that they follow him, follow him without question or thought. And
that kind of loyalty required something more than respect. It
required reverence. It required him to be something more than just
another soldier no matter how much he longed to forget that he was
Imperial Warlord Jaret Rammeriz.

“
Shift!” Traeger yelled as
he strode to the platform.

It was the signal for the men to
change partners, and it brought the sparing to a sudden halt. The
men, who had been beating on each other a minute before, stepped
back to form two circles, bowed to each other, and then rotated one
position in opposite directions.

Yatier gave a sigh of relief and began
to bow. “Not you,” Jaret growled. “You are staying right here.” He
turned to the legionnaire that was shifting to face him. “Go
around,” he ordered.

The legionnaire, a veteran that Jaret
knew well – his name was Sorgé Paulitine, but the men called him
Pauli – gave a dry smile and stepped to the side. He knew what it
meant to have a special session with Jaret. A new man might think
it an honor. And it was, but a painful one. Yatier seemed to come
to that same conclusion. His half-smile was replaced by fright that
quickly transformed to resolve.

“
Begin! History!” With
those two simple words from Commander Hanar, the courtyard erupted
with the ringing clatter of steel on steel and the scattered
conversations of legionnaires, who were now discussing history
between blows and puffs of breath.

“
Well, Yatier, I hope your
knowledge of history is better than your swordplay.” Jaret scowled
as he brought his sword up.

Yatier took a deep breath and followed
suit. He took a probing swing. Jaret easily blocked it but did not
press the attack. He planned to let Yatier relax and gain some
confidence before humiliating him again. The first blow was
followed by a clever parry and thrust that Jaret almost admired,
but only because the man’s other attempts to this point had been so
far from admirable.