Scepters (5 page)

“It’s
coming from everywhere, a little bit from everywhere,” observed Wendra. “I’ll
try it again, and you watch.”

As
Wendra charged another cartridge, Alucius observed.

“From
what I can feel,” he said, “you’re right.”

“So
that means you shouldn’t worry. Not too much. I’d wager that some of that
lifeforce regenerates itself within a few days, just like we do when we work
hard and get tired, then sleep and eat and feel better.”

Alucius
glanced at the lead nightram, but the flock had not spread too much. He looked
back, but the trailing ewes weren’t straggling that much, not yet. “But the
Talent-creatures sucked it right out of everything. Or they seemed to.”

“Could
that be because they’re not from Corus? They’re not linked to the land the way
we are, or the way anything that grows here is.”

“It
must be.” Her suggestion made sense, and he couldn’t think of a better
explanation. That also might be why there were so few ifrits. But the soarer
had suggested that there had once been far more, hundreds of them, if not
thousands.

Alucius
shivered at the thought of ifrits and the wild Talent-creatures from elsewhere
sucking the very life out of Corus. Yet… at the moment, what could he do? He
didn’t even know if there would be more of the creatures appearing in Corus… or
where that might happen. There was certainly no reason for them to appear on
the stead, not that he knew of.

“You
look worried.”

“I
was just thinking about the ifrits. Not that there’s anything we can do now.”
He looked forward, then stood in the stirrups. “One of the young rams has
headed off. You want to check the stragglers?”

“I’ll
take care of them.”

Alucius
eased the gray forward. Talk of ifrits and Talent-force would have to wait.

Tempre, Lanachrona

The
warm golden light of late afternoon poured through the west-facing window of
the Southern Guard headquarters building. Three men sat around a modest
circular table. The bare tabletop was inlaid with the design of a plumapple
flower, and the single central pedestal leg was of aged and golden oak. The two
older men wore the blue-and-cream uniforms of the Southern Guard.

The
third man, younger and stockier, wore a maroon tunic cut conservatively,
trimmed in black. His dark hair was smoothed back from his pale white face, and
his brown eyes looked from one officer to the other. “I had heard that there
has been… some unrest in Hyalt. When I heard that, I requested a few moments
with you.”

The
blond marshal raised his eyebrows. “You seemed to know of the… unrest in Hyalt
nearly as soon as we did, Lord Waleryn.”

“I
have my sources, Marshal.”

“And
what would you have of us?” asked the darker marshal, his right eye twitching
twice. “Congratulations on those sources?”

“Congratulations
on mere competence, Marshal Frynkel? That would be vain, would it not?” Waleryn
smiled ruefully. “No… you can believe it or not, but I am concerned about
Lanachrona. That is why I asked to see you both.”

Neither
marshal bothered to conceal a look of disbelief.

Waleryn
laughed. “You see? Now… if you most worthy officers have that view of my
concerns, how then would my brother the Lord-Protector feel about what I am
about to say? Assuming that he would even grant me an audience?”

“Under
the circumstances, perhaps we should hear your words first,” suggested Alyniat.
“If you would care to enlighten us?” The fingers of his left hand tapped slowly
on the wood of the conference table.

“My
brother is far more noble than I am. All know that. At times, he might even be
too noble.” Waleryn shook his head. “I am not going to suggest anything
ignoble. I do know that your forces are hard-pressed, and that the Northern
Guard can offer little help to the Southern Guard. Nor will increased recruiting
or conscription provide sufficient lancers and foot, not in time to deal with
the unrest in Hyalt. Nor are there any mercenaries trustworthy enough to hire,
even were there coins enough to pay them. Is this not true?”

“Generally,”
admitted Alyniat, “but should you repeat that, under the circumstances, we will
deny such.”

“I
am not playing with words, worthy Marshals. I do not intend to use words to
wound or to cause my brother or Lanachrona trouble. It has occurred to me that
there is a way to deal with the unrest in Hyalt that will not weaken our forces
defending Southgate and the southwest or those charged with defending Harmony.”

“Oh?”
Frynkel’s single word expressed great doubt. The tic in his right eye twitched
again.

Alyniat
did not bother to speak, but his finger tapping slowed.

“My
brother would not think of such, and you will see why when I explain. You may
recall a certain overcaptain of the Northern Guard… the one who defeated ten
thousand nomad barbarians with but five companies, taking over command when all
above him perished?”

“Overcaptain
Alucius? The Lord-Protector released him from duty in gratitude. He cannot be
called back.”

“What
you say is absolutely correct, Marshal. But… what if he were
requested
to return to duty? As a favor to the
Lord-Protector. Perhaps promoted to majer.”

“Why
would he do that?”

Waleryn
smiled. “Because… if the Southern Guard must deal with Hyalt, the defenses of
Lanachrona against the Regent of the Matrial will be weakened. Already, the
Northern Guard is hard-pressed. There are not enough young men left in the Iron
Valleys for more companies to be raised, not without weakening the merchants
and crafters and breaking the promises the Lord-Protector has made. Now… I am
not suggesting that the Lord-Protector break those promises. That would be most
unwise, for many reasons. But surely, someone could suggest to the herder
overcaptain that the Lord-Protector faces an impossible situation…”

Alyniat
looked to Frynkel. The junior marshal nodded slightly.

“All
we can say, Lord Waleryn,” Alyniat said, “is that we will consider your
suggestion. If upon consideration we find it has merit, we will bring it to the
attention of Marshal Wyerl.”

Waleryn
bowed. “That is all that I could ask, Marshals, and all I sought. I trust you
understand why I brought it to you. I wanted the idea considered on its merits,
not upon whether it was good or bad because of its source.”

“We
will consider it,” Alyniat repeated.

After
another bow, Waleryn turned and departed.

“What
do you think?” Alyniat asked after the door to the study had closed behind the
departing lord.

“I
worry about his sources. I would that we knew who they are.”

“You
think they’re the ones supplying information to the Regent of the Matrial?”

“They
might be. They might not be. We don’t know.” Frynkel shrugged. He placed the
edge of his palm against his right eye for a long moment. “And Waleryn makes a
crooked road look direct. That’s true. But… he’s right about our situation. If
anything, it is more difficult than he has said.”

Alyniat
glanced toward the window and the sun low in the west. “The other thing is that
Overcaptain Alucius is known to be not only an excellent commander, but one who
can train lancers well and quickly. We ‘ could perhaps include some partly
trained companies in his force…”

“You’d
have to give him his own company back. Under him, that is.”

“They’d
probably be happy to serve under him.”

“But
would he agree to serve? Even as a majer?”

“He’s
not stupid. If his choice is to protect the Iron Valleys by serving or let them
fall to the Regent, after what he’s been through, he’ll agree. He may not like
it, but he will.”

“What
about the Lord-Protector? How do we convince him?”

“We
don’t have to.” Alyniat laughed. “Wyerl has to. We just have to give Wyerl the
reasons to present to the Lord-Protector.”

Frynkel
laughed as well, but there was an ironic bitterness in the sound.

After
the trip that Alucius and Wendra had made into Iron Stem, another week passed,
ten long days on the stead, and Tridi dawned gray and colder than normal, more
like late harvest or even fall, with gray clouds swirling in from the north,
racing straight south from the Ice Sands and the Moors of Yesterday, clouds
filled with water thrown as spray against the Black Cliffs of Despair and
picked up by the winds. Only once had Wendra ridden out with Alucius, and the
end of summer and the beginning of harvest loomed less than two weeks away.

As
Alucius rode the gelding away from the stead and to the northeast up the long
and gentle slope of Westridge, he found it hard to believe that more than two
weeks had passed since he had seen the soarer. He had also not seen or sensed
any signs of sanders, and, according to Kustyl, neither had anyone else.

Not
only was he worried about what the soarer meant, but also about the dream he
had had. While he did not trust anything about the ifrits, the words of the
dream bothered him. Had he squandered time when he should have been doing
something? But what? He couldn’t very well have ridden across all Corus, using
his Talent to see if people were ifrit-possessed. He had neither the time nor
the golds to try such. It was not as though he possessed one of the ancient
Tables, even had he dared to risk its dangers.

Because
stormy weather sometimes emboldened the sandwolves, Alucius had taken two
rifles with him, using the double saddle case he hadn’t used more than a
handful of times since he’d left the Northern Guard. He hoped he didn’t have to
use the rifles, but he’d rather carry them than worry because he hadn’t brought
them.

Once
more, he studied the Plateau, then the lower hills to the north. So far, the
wind was little more than a mild breeze, but the dark clouds moving in from the
north suggested that before long that would change. Still, it was summer, and
he couldn’t afford not to graze the nightsheep, not when they needed the
quarasote to produce premium nightsilk.

The
wind continued mild, even after he had the flock on the eastern downslope of
Westridge and headed due east through the section that had not been grazed for
nearly a month. He kept the flock moving until they had covered another four
vingts from the eastern edge of the long, low ridge. All the time, Alucius
checked the clouds—and the wind—both with his senses and his Talent.

The
flock had not been grazing the more recent, if not fresh, quarasote shoots for
more than half a glass when the lead nightram lifted his head. Alucius could
feel the animal’s apprehension and eased the gelding forward. The gray picked
his path carefully through the widely spaced quarasote bushes. While the shoots
were flexible enough, the spikes at the base of those shoots could rip through
hide and flesh.

Another
nightram raised his head, as did several ewes. The subordinate males eased
forward, shoulder to shoulder, to stand beside the leader, ready to lower their
horns. The ewes edged in behind the rams, nudging the lambs to the center.

A
gust of colder wind swept in from the north, then died away, but the calm
lasted for only a few long moments before the chill gusts resumed, and the sky
continued to darken as the clouds massed overhead and thickened.

Should
he have turned back? Usually, Alucius could sense storms as violent as this one
promised to be. Had he misjudged the incoming weather because of his concerns?
Or was it just a Talent-spawned freak storm?

A
low, almost bugling call issued from the lead ram.

Alucius
could feel the presence of the sandwolves, the grayish violet rising from the
south, as solid to his Talent as the wind upon his face. He turned the gray
southward, toward the rear of the flock. A sudden gust of wind swirled gritty
dust at the herder, but Alucius eased the gelding onward, back toward the
stragglers at the rear. He slipped out the top rifle and cocked it as he
continued to survey the land to the south and east.

Behind
the swirling dust and grit, more than a half vingt to the east, the shifting
shadows that were the sandwolves edged through the quarasote bushes as if it
were twilight or dawn rather than just midmorning. Their long, crystal fangs
glittered, even though there was no direct light.

Stop
! Alucius threw the command out toward the nearing
pack.

Several
of the animals seemed to shiver, and one whimpered, dropping flat beside the
silvered leaves of a third-year quarasote.

The
pack leader slowed, but continued to move toward the flock. After a moment, the
others followed, if more cautiously.

Danger! Stop!

Alucius
could sense a whimper somewhere, as if his order had caused pain, but the pack,
eight animals in all, continued to close on the night-sheep.

A
young ram appeared, interposing himself between one of the flanking sandwolves
and a ewe, and, without even pawing the ground, charged the sandwolf. Caught
off guard by the unexpected move, the sandwolf—a younger animal than the pack
leader—tried to dodge, but he was too slow, and the razored black horns of the
nightram slashed deeply into his chest. The sandwolf staggered, and his legs
collapsed.

In
the moment of silence, Alucius lifted the rifle, sighting in on the pack
leader.

Crack
! The bullet slammed into the lead wolf’s chest.

Crack
! The second shot took another sandwolf, and Alucius
recocked the rifle and aimed toward the next most visible stalker.
Crack
!

The
third sandwolf dropped, then rolled and tried to struggle to its feet.

A
wave of hatred, bloodlust, rage, fear—all those feelings and more—surged around
the herder. The gray gelding sidestepped, then
whuffed
,
then took a step back.