Scepters (55 page)

“There
is another possibility. We do know that there was one company of Northern
Guards in the battle. This is the first time they’ve been sent south. We’re
fairly certain that we killed their commander.”

“What
does that have to do with the crystal spear-thrower? If anything?” Scorn
colored the Regent’s voice.

“Only
this. The first spear-thrower failed and partly exploded in the battle for
Soulend against the Northern Guard. They were the Iron Valley Militia then, but
there may be a lamaial among their officers. That was why we targeted the
officer at Southgate. Even if the spear-throwers were destroyed, we would not
wish to suffer a lamaial to live.”

“The
lamaials—always a lamaial.” The Regent glared at the marshal. “And the pieces?
What of them?”

“Both
weapons exploded into small fragments. The detonations killed almost ten
companies and cleared the areas where they exploded. Without the lancers, we
could not recover what scraps there were, but the reports we did receive
indicate that there were few fragments larger than palm-sized.”

“How
soon can we build another?”

“We
cannot. Not at present. The plans for the formulator assemblies were lost when
the engineer’s revolt failed.”

“One
section… we are missing the plans for one section, and you can do nothing.
Could not anyone have studied that section and created plans?”

“We
had two working spear-throwers. Had we tried to take one apart and determine
its construction, there was a good chance that we would have lost that one and
still not been able to determine how it was built.”

“I
will
get you those plans, Marshal. You
will
find an engineer to build another spear-thrower. And
you will make sure that we retain the ability to build others. Is that clear?”

“Yes,
Regent. Perfectly clear.”

“Good.
I am most tired of explaining the obvious time and time again.” After a pause,
the Regent gestured. “You may go.”

Benyal
bowed and turned, her face remaining impassive under the steel gray hair.

Alucius
shifted his weight in the padded chair. His eyes dropped to the heavy splint on
his right arm. He still hadn’t figured out how he’d broken his right forearm.
He remembered throwing up his left, sabre in hand, and being hammered out of
the saddle, Had he broken the right in falling?

The
healer had said that it had been broken by rifle fire against the nightsilk of
his undergarments. He could recall seeing all the rifles aimed at him. But why?
How had the Matrites even known he was there? Or were they shooting at all
commanders? Was that why there weren’t any bright ones left in the Southern
Guard? That sort of tactics would certainly explain many things.

He
tried to ignore all the aches. If he lay flat in bed, his ribs didn’t hurt so
much, but he had to cough and had trouble breathing easily. If he sat propped
up in the chair or in bed, his chest and ribs hurt more. No matter what
position he assumed, something hurt. In the end, he decided that he’d deal with
the pain of the ribs and use the chair as much as he could. He forced himself
to stand and walk around the room at least once a glass, but he was careful to
keep a hand on something to steady himself.

As
he had improved, Alucius had discovered that he—along with other wounded
officers—had been put in a villa that years before had belonged to a wealthy
factor. He was one of the few with a room to himself, one of the privileges of
rank, he had gathered.

He
was reading, or trying to read, a history of Southgate, but he found sometimes
he had to go over the words several times. That might have been because the
book had been written in Dramurian, which was related, but not too closely, to
Madrien. Outside the window, the sun was shining, the first sunny day he could
recall since he’d been truly awake after his injuries, and the window was ajar,
letting in a cool refreshing breeze that almost took away the sour smells that
drifted into Alucius’s room from the other rooms and halls.

He
concentrated on the words before him.

…
in the time of Seltyr Alijir, the harbor walls were strengthened and thickened.
The hills around the city, at a distance of fifteen vingts from the square,
were leveled at a height of thirty yards above the lands surrounding to the
west of the coastal high road and ten yards to the east…

“You’re
looking better,” observed Feran, moving into the small white-walled room.

“Better
than when?”

“I’ve
come by a few times, but you weren’t in any shape to remember.”

“That
was most of the first two weeks. Another week, and they say I’ll be able to
move to some sort of regular senior officers’ quarters.”

Feran
settled onto the stool across from Alucius. “They just want to get you out of
here.”

“Hows
Fifth Company doing?”

“I’ve
got them back into a training routine. We’re doing the same thing with
Twenty-eighth and Thirty-fifth Companies. No one’s shifted command of them. I
thought it’d be a shame to see everything they learned lost.”

“I
see you share my high opinion of certain Southern Guard practices,” Alucius
said cheerfully, ignoring the twinges in his ribs.

“You
were too charitable, Colonel.” Feran snorted.

“What
now?”

“Nothing.
That’s the problem. They either ought to strike a peace of some sort with the
Regent or take Hafin and Salcer. That would cut their supply lines and make it
harder on the Regent.”

“It
also would put the most productive lands of Madrien in the hands of Lanachrona.”
Alucius frowned. “I wouldn’t blame the Lord-Protector, though. The Matrites
never would sue for peace or accept it on anyone else’s terms. I doubt that the
Lord-Protector has enough lancers to make another assault. Waris told me that
the casualty rates were something like fifty percent in the Southern Guard.”

“Higher
for some companies. Makes us look pretty good,” Feran said.

How
could his forces have the lowest rates by far with casualties running well over
thirty percent? “No one can keep fighting for long with those kinds of
casualties.”

“They’ve
been doing it for a couple of years, they tell me. Not so many big battles, but
smaller fights with those kinds of casualties.”

“That’s
going to hurt the Matrites more.”

“How
do you figure that?” asked Feran.

“They’ve
got more women in arms. Dead women don’t have children. Also means they’ll have
more trouble with men—and they’ll have to keep using those torques.”

“It
looks like a standoff to me,” Feran suggested. “The Lanachronans have to travel
farther and hold longer supply lines, and they’re fighting on less familiar
territory, but their lancer ranks fight better. The Matrites have a more
compact land to defend now, and they’re better marshaled and led, but their
lancers aren’t as good. Oh… and the Lanachronans are going to lose you when we
head home, and that won’t help.”

“They’re
losing you, too.”

“Everything
I learned… I learned from you.”

“That’s
hardly true, and I’m still making mistakes—like getting ambushed.”

“That
was stupid,” Feran said amiably.

“Very
stupid,” Alucius agreed.

“No.
Stupid of the Matrites. After the first volley, they were all set up like clay
targets. Don’t think one of those snipers escaped. They all got killed, and
that left them surrounded. Twenty-eighth Company butchered them. And you
survived.”

“I
wasn’t sure about that for a time.”

“No
one was, but I figured that if you could make it through the first days, you’d
come all the way back.”

“I
appreciate your confidence.”

“I
did take one liberty.” Feran looked down.

“Liberty?”
Alucius didn’t have the faintest idea of what Feran meant.

“Figured
that your being a herder and all, your Wendra’d probably sense you were hurt.
So we sent off a letter dispatch to her. Told her you’d been hurt badly, but
looked like you’d recover fully. Also told her you’d been made a temporary
colonel. Just hope it gets there.”

Alucius
smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I can’t tell you how much.”

“Knew
you were worried. Times you were talking to her, or about her…” Feran looked
sheepish. “You cared that much, all those letters you wrote… thought she ought
to know.”

“I
can’t thank…” Alucius yawned, in spite of himself.

“That’s
my signal to go.” Feran smiled and stood.

“Thank
you for coming by.”

“We
took turns.”

“Turns?”

“While
you were unconscious, first week, someone was here every moment.”

Alucius
swallowed.

“We
all know that as many of us made it through as did was because of you. Every
man does.”

Alucius
was speechless.

“Get
some rest, Colonel.” Feran grinned, then stepped out of the room.

Prosp, Lustrea

Waleryn
glanced at the image in the polished surface of the Table, his own image
looking back up at him, that of a Lanachronan lord in the uniform of a
Praetorian Engineer. His lips quirked into a crooked smile. He straightened and
waited.

Around
him, the recently cleared chamber was clean of dust and grit, but the walls and
pillars remained bare. Besides the Table, a workbench set against the wall, a
tall stool, and several wooden crates were the only objects within the
reinforced stone walls of the chamber.

“Engineer?
The Praetor will be here shortly.”

“I
await him with pleasure,” replied Waleryn, turning from the Table.

Two
of the Praetorian Guards stepped into the Table chamber. The taller walked
around the Table and opened the drawers in the chest, closing them after his
inspection. The shorter lifted the tops of the crates, one by one, replacing
them. Their inspection complete, they stationed themselves on each side of the
door.

Waleryn
continued to stand by the Table, waiting.

A
quarter glass passed, then another quarter, before the sound of boots announced
the arrival of more Guards and the Praetor. Two more Guards entered the Table
chamber, followed by Tyren, wearing a black cloak trimmed in silver, over the
shimmering silver tunic and trousers of the Praetor.

“I
trust this will be worth a detour, Engineer.” Tyren’s voice was curt. “Show us.”

“If
you would step forward and behold the Table, most honored Praetor,” offered
Waleryn, “I can show you what is happening this very moment at any locale in
Corus.”

“Perhaps…
no, a wise man does not look too deeply into his personal life.” Tyren laughed.
“Such temptation, but one best resisted. Show me something of the so-called
Council of Five in Dereka. If you can.”

“That
can be.” Waleryn looked into the table, and the silver reflection of the two
men vanished, to be replaced by swirling ruby mists. Immediately, the mists
vanished, replaced with a view of an audience hall. On the dais at one end of
the hall was a table in the shape of a semicircle, and on the arced side sat
five men in high-backed gilt chairs, facing two lancer officers in ornate gold
and crimson uniforms.

The
view showed the backs of the officers and the faces of the Council. All five
faces radiated displeasure.

“They
are not happy.” Tyren sounded pleased. “And they should not be, not with our
legions marshaled in Passera to begin the campaign once the worst of the snows
on the Spine of Corus melt.”

Dampness
formed on Waleryn’s forehead as an unseen set of purpled arms rose out of the
Table and slowly embraced Tyren.

“What…”
Tyren fell silent.

“They…
the Council… is threatening some sort of punishment. That is clear,” offered
Waleryn. “It may be that they do not believe the reports of your legions.” He
glanced at the immobile form of the young blond Praetor, whose hands and arms
were knotted, gripping the edge of the Table. “Then… they may be looking for
someone to blame for their own foolishness.” More sweat beaded on Waleryn’s
forehead.

The
figure of the Praetor remained unspeaking… although his face contorted, moving
rapidly from expression to expression, and his eyes appeared close to bulging
from his forehead.

“They…
they are letting them depart… Yes… as you request, Praetor,” Waleryn spoke. “An
image of the Lord-Protector… In a moment, for it takes time to displace one
image and seek another.”

Suddenly,
the Praetor’s face smoothed, and a wide smile appeared. “Yes… we should see
that image, Engineer. You should follow the Lord-Protector closely. After
Dereka, Tempre will be our next conquest.” The hearty laugh that followed
carried a chill undertone. “And… you shall come with me, so far as Vysta, where
you will proceed to Norda. You will have all the supplies you require to
rebuild yet another Table.”

“Yes,
Praetor.” Waleryn bowed his head, concealing the smile of triumph.

Alucius
sat in the armchair in front of the window, overlooking a rain-slicked stone
courtyard. Outside, the sky was leaden gray, much the way he felt. His eyes
dropped to the history in his lap.

“Colonel…”

Alucius
looked up to see Alyniat standing in the doorway. “Marshal. I hadn’t expected
you.”

“After
my last comments, under the circumstances, I imagine not.” A crooked smile
crossed Alyniat’s lips.

“Or
after mine,” Alucius admitted.

“Yours
were deserved. Mine were not. I have to admit that I was wrong, Colonel,”
Alyniat said, a trace of a smile still hovering at the corners of his lips. “That’s
a hard thing for marshals.”

“Sir?”

“The
stories of your exploits have crossed the entire Southern Guard. You walked
through the crystal spears… you single-handedly killed five companies of
Matrites… it took an entire squad of Matrites firing at you from point-blank
range to bring you down…”