Scepters (29 page)

“Are
there any places from where you could mount an attack? “ asked Alucius.

“In
two places,” the scout added. “There’s a lower meadow to the east of whatever’s
dug into the cliff, and there’s an upper meadow to the southwest. You might be
able to come over the top of the hill, but then it’s like a cliff coming down…
have to do that on foot. They’ve also got a perimeter cleared on the west side
of the hill, posts every hundred yards or so. That was where I got seen.”

“Do
they have any walls or palisades?”

“Not
much. They don’t need them. They’ve got a gate across the road to Hyalt—think
it must be the road to Hyalt, anyway. It’s a good, wide, packed road… got walls
on each side of the gate for maybe a hundred yards. Beyond that, you’ve got
those thorn thickets and rough ground. If one doesn’t get you or your mount,
seems like the other would.”

“How
many lancers are there?” asked Feran.

“Couldn’t
say for sure, sir. I’d guess maybe two companies. Could be more if they’ve got
barracks in the caves. Couldn’t be too many more, though, because all the
mounts are stabled. Stables might hold three hundred.”

“We’ll
need to find out if they’ve got other outposts,” Alucius said to Feran. “Somehow.”
He looked at Waris. “Did you see many wagons?”

Close
to another glass passed before Alucius was satisfied that he’d learned
everything that he could from Waris. Even so, he suspected he’d missed things.

After
they finished debriefing Waris, Alucius and Feran walked to the hillcrest.
There they settled on two low boulders, slowly eating travel bread and hard cheese,
washing the heavy food down with swallows from their water bottles.

“Some
ways, this is worse than Deforya,” mused Feran. “There, we knew what we were up
against. Here…” He shook his head.

“The
more we discover, the worse it gets. Is that what you mean?” asked Alucius.

“That
charge… the lancers chasing Waris…” Feran smiled faintly. “He sounded like you.
Could be that’s what we need.”

Alucius
didn’t feel like pursuing that. Was the only solution to kill more than your
enemy? “We really need to know more. I hope the other scouts can find out more.”

“It’s
early yet, and we’ve gotten two back already,” Feran said.

“We’re
missing two, still. Elbard… and your other one…”

“Chorat.
He begged me to let him do it.”

“He
had the area to the south and east of Hyalt.”

“You
don’t think he’s coming back.”

“We’ll
have to see.” Inside, Alucius worried whether either of the remaining scouts
would return.

After
the two finished eating, Feran headed down to check on the burial detail and
Alucius walked the perimeter of the encampment, using his Talent, directing it
outward to sense if anyone might be stalking or scouting them. He found no
signs of outsiders to the east, south, or west, and a good glass later, he was
standing a full fifty yards below the crest on the north side of the hill,
trying to make sure that no one was sneaking up from the least obvious side,
but there was no one there. There weren’t even many rodents, and few enough
birds. He turned and began to walk back uphill.

He
looked up as a lancer hurried downhill. “Sir! Overcaptain Feran needs you, sir.
Elbard’s back, and he’s wounded bad, sir.”

“Show
me!” Alucius hurried after the young lancer, back over the hillcrest and
another hundred yards downhill.

Elbard
lay stretched on a ground cloth. A lancer Alucius didn’t know had bound the
scout’s shoulder and chest, and Feran stood there, his face impassive,
listening.

Alucius
let his Talent range over the wounded scout as he listened.

“…
one moment… was watching the town… next thing, I was… almost like sleeping… except
I was awake, but I didn’t hear anything… never heard the rifle… pain of the
bullet… guess broke the spell… just a boy… standing there… wore a sloppy maroon
uniform… must have walked up to me… no more… fifty yards… Shot… never heard
him… Hurt like… managed to get a shot off… didn’t miss…” A hollow laugh came
from Elbard. “Boy… he looked surprised. Managed to get to my mount… Suppose…
shouldn’t gone all the way to Hyalt… where the road led…”

Slowly,
the majer reached out with his Talent, strengthening the lifethread, and doing
what else he could to knit bones and muscles together. Alucius’s vision was
blurring by the time he finished.

Elbard
looked to be sleeping.

“I
think he’ll make it,” Alucius said hoarsely. He looked at the lancer who had
bound the wounds. “Let me or Overcaptain Feran know when he wakes.” Yes, sir.

Alucius
began to walk slowly back uphill and away from the group around Elbard.

Accompanying
Alucius, Feran looked back at the scout, then to the majer. His voice was low
as he spoke. “That takes a lot out of you, doesn’t it?”

Alucius
debated denying it, then shrugged tiredly. Feran already knew; he’d known for
years, even if they’d never spoken of it. “I can only do one or two a day, if
that, and nothing else. It’s useless in a battle.”

“They
say… you can’t heal yourself, can you?”

“No.
I think I heal a little faster than most people, but Talent doesn’t work that
way.”

“Why…”

“Because
he’s a good scout. Because we need to know what else he found out.” And
because, Alucius had to admit to himself, he felt guilty for sending Elbard out
into trouble. “What he ran into—it sounds like… some kind of Talent. I’ve never
heard of anything like that, though.”

“Nothing
herders can do?”

“Not
that I know of,” Alucius admitted.

“That
would explain why none of Frynkel’s scouts got back.”

“It
might.”

“You
think there’s more?” asked Feran.

“I
don’t know, but…”

“They
wouldn’t send us—or you—unless it was something tough,” Feran pointed out.

“There’s
one thing that doesn’t make much sense. Weslyn was totally opposed to my being
sent here.”

Feran
laughed. “That makes perfect sense. When you were a herder, you were out of the
Guard. Now, you’re a majer. You pull this out, and you’re the Lord-Protector’s
favorite. Even I can tell that Marshal Frynkel despises Weslyn, and—”

“We’d
better think more about how to pull this off,” Alucius said quickly. “Tomorrow,
we’ll send a messenger back to the last manned post, letting the marshal know
about it.” He could hear the reluctance in his voice. “We’ll also have to
request more ammunition.”

“You
don’t like that,” observed Feran.

“No…
but he and the Lord-Protector should know.”

“Elbard
was the only one who felt this. Are you sure
…
?”

“We
sent out four scouts. One hasn’t returned. Two got chased back, and one of them
got Talent-spelled and wounded. Frynkel sent at least a few. None of them got
back. What does that tell you?”

Feran
offered a bitter chuckle. “They got some sort of Talent watching over them. Is
that what you’re thinking?”

“What
else could it be?” After a moment, Alucius added, “Unless it’s something worse.”

“You
know of anything worse?”

“The
return of the True Duarchy.” Alucius forced a wry dryness into his voice.

Feran
nodded.

“Let’s
get the captains and go over the maps.” Alucius turned and headed back toward
the tielines and his mount, and the saddlebags that held the maps.

As
he walked, he went over the questions in his mind.

The
rebels knew where he and his force were—at least in general terms. They might
not know exactly where, since there had been no survivors of the attack, but he
had one missing scout, presumably dead, and one who had been wounded and one
who had left a trail of bodies. If he kept the three companies where they were,
he’d need to have them dig in, and the hillside wasn’t that suited to digging
in. On the other hand, he knew far too little about the land and the people,
and who controlled what—and how. Every move, every ride, was into the unknown.
But… he reflected… from what he’d seen, the rebel lancers weren’t that good.
They were only fanatics. Only?

He
laughed softly to himself.

He
knew more about attacking than defending—a great deal more. His forces would
have to move on.

Alustre, Lustrea

The
man in the silver cloak and matching trousers walked up the stone steps of the
ancient covered arena toward what had once been the Duarch’s box. Beside and
behind him were two quints of guards, wearing silver-gray trousers and tunics.
Each of the ten guards bore a brace of two-shot pistols and a gladius. The
covered arena was dimly lit, the only light coming through the arched windows
that were covered with grime.

A
stocky man in dark blue stood beside a device that resembled a cannon, save
that what would have been the barrel was composed of crystals set in holders
and connected by silver wire and that the armored square body, three yards long
and slightly less than two wide, rested on four ironbound wheels, rather than
the two wheels and trunnion mounting used for cannon. He bowed. “As you
requested, all is ready, Praetor.”

“How
does it work, Waleryn?”

“Very
well, Praetor.” The stocky figure smiled, drawing his lips into a pleasant
expression belied by the coldness in his eyes.

“Then
proceed to show us, if you will.” The Praetor turned to look
At
the center of the arena, where several battered statues
had been placed. Armor had been strapped on two of the horsemen. In addition to
the statues, there was a shield wall, looking as it might in battle, except
that the shields had been fastened together rather than held by soldiers.

Waleryn
stepped up to the device and drew down a lever. The faintest humming sounded,
thin, high, and intense enough that several of the guards stiffened. After a
moment, a line of blue-green fire—or light—flashed from the crystal barrel,
light so intense that the Praetor was forced to close his eyes.

When
Tyren could see again, the center of the arena contained nothing except an oval
of rough glass from which rose heat waves, as in the southern deserts.

The
Praetor hid a swallow. “Very impressive. How far will it reach? “

“At
the moment, this one has a range of just less than a vingt—say, eighteen
hundred yards.”

“How
often can you use it?”

“It
takes about a tenth of a glass to recharge, but if I adjust the aperture, it
could destroy a line of troops three hundred yards across and fifty deep.”

“What
makes
it work? And keep the explanation simple this
time.”

“The
essence that supports the Talent… it infuses all of Corus, all of the oceans
and the air as well. It is a force, like fire, except it cannot be seen but through
its manifestations.” Waleryn took the white leather gloves that he held in his
right hand and gently used the fingertips to brush away a fleck of something
that had appeared on his lower left sleeve. “The crystals inside the tube
barrel concentrate and refine this essence into elemental force, call it a
fire, that will burn anything.”

“Anything?”
The slender Praetor laughed, a cool and mocking sound. “That is claiming much.”

“Oh,
there is more to it than that. Because it draws and concentrates this essence,
it can reduce the power of those with the Talent who might oppose you and your
forces.”

“How
many of these can you fabricate?”

“The
materials are most costly, as you know.”

“You
had said it would be easier after the first few.”

“Easier,
yes… but not that much less costly.”

“Hmmm…
fabricate another five. That way we will have two for each force crossing the
Spine of Corus.” The Praetor smiled. “I am sure that you can manage that,
Lord
Waleryn.”

“Your
Mightiness is too kind.” Waleryn bowed again, his gesture nearly as mocking as
the words of the Praetor.

“If
these devices prove their worth in the campaigns ahead, you can look to great
rewards, perhaps even, shall we say, the prefectship over Lanachrona.” Tyren
nodded and turned.

Two
of the guards remained flanking Waleryn for several moments, until the Praetor
had entered the ancient tunnel that led back to the underground carriageway.
Then, they too departed, leaving Waleryn standing beside his weapon.

The
eyes of the Lanachronan lord flashed purplish for a moment, watching the
departing guards, but he said nothing at all, before tapping the bell beside
the projector to summon his engineers-in-training.

At
dawn on Septi, the three companies were on the move, headed westward and
following the road that Rakalt had scouted the day before. From the maps and
from what the scouts had discovered, Alucius was fairly certain that the one
rebel camp was to the east of the road they traveled, perhaps by as little as a
vingt, certainly no more than two. If the maps were correct, he noted to
himself from where he rode at the head of the force, beside Feran.

Elbard
was better, although he was riding in one of the supply wagons, and he had told
Alucius and Feran more about Hyalt itself—a town rather than a city, and one
that had seemed half-deserted, but with maroon-clad armsmen seemingly on every
street, at least of those that the scout had seen from his hilltop vantage
point before he’d been Talent-spelled. Alucius didn’t like the thought that the
rebels had enough men to place so many in the town itself, and he had to wonder
from where all of them had come. To that question, like so many others, he had
no answer.

Alucius
had worked with Feran and the fifth squad of Fifth Company the night before,
with cloth taken from the downed rebel lancers and some of the gunpowder from
the Southern Guard wagon. While gunpowder exploded, it also burned, and that
was what Alucius had in mind. He’d decided against sending a messenger north
immediately, because, once he’d thought about what he could report and request,
he determined that no one would believe him, and, even if they did, they wouldn’t
understand the danger that he could explain—and he couldn’t explain about the
ifrits. That was something no one would believe, especially since he had not
seen a one, just their influence and traces.