Soarers Choice (76 page)

Still,
they charged forward up the gentle slope toward Mykel, their mounts moving
apart so that they would strike at him with their green-stained blades
simultaneously, one from each side.

At
least one bullet struck the one on the left, but he barely winced as he readied
his oversized blade.

Mykel
Talent-reached for greenness ... for strength.

Both
blades slashed toward Mykel.

Just
before both touched the
e.g.
of his shields, Mykel
grasped, with his Talent, something, an extra bit of Talent, a sense of
amber-green. His shields flared, and the blades rebounded, and exploded into
lengths of burning molten iron. In instants, both priests were human torches,
and both they and their mounts were flung sideways from Mykel, tumbling into
heaps that flamed skyward.

A
wailing groan rose from the remaining attackers.

Mykel
dropped back into his saddle, breathing heavily and watching as the Reillies
and Squawts broke, as what had seemed a single immovable mass fragmented ...
and then dissolved. Riders turned their mounts back toward the northwest, to
the west, anywhere there appeared to be no Cadmians.

“Third
Battalion! Hold! Hold position! Fourteenth Company! Hold!” Mykel tried to
project the last order through his clearly weakened and waning Talent.

There
was nothing more to be gained by chasing the survivors down, not when they were
scattering as individuals fleeing for their lives. The Cadmians wouldn’t catch
that many, and butchering fleeing riders, many of whom were little more than
youths, would only sow unnecessary hatred. The Reillies and Squawts had been
decimated enough to weaken them for a generation, if not longer, and that was
enough for Mykel. The slope and the flat below were littered with the bodies of
men, women, boys, and girls, hundreds of them, if not more than a thousand.

Equally
important, the Cadmians had taken enough losses already, and there was little
point in adding to them.

But
the feeling of greenness persisted, and Mykel was aware that the Cadmians near
him, indeed all of the survivors of Third Battalion, were turning to him. The
haze of greenish light intensified.

Then,
hovering beside Mykel, was a soarer. Sadness radiated from her, a sorrow that enveloped
him in melancholy.

The
towers have fallen. Ludar and Elcien and Faitel are no more.

“No
more?” Mykel realized his words sounded inane. “How? What did you do?”

We
did what needed to be done. The Ifrits are no more. The future is yours.

His?
Landers? What was he supposed to do?

Go
to Tempre. A wry undertone shaded the sadness behind her words.

“Tempre?”

But
the soarer had vanished.

The
air was still, and then the silence vanished, and Mykel could hear the sounds
of the aftermath of a bloody battle — moaning men, wounded mounts, cries for
help. He could smell blood and death. Dumbly, clumsily, he sheathed the sabre
he still held, the muscles in his left arm protesting and threatening to cramp
if he did not do so.

He
glanced around. Rankers were staring at him, many openmouthed. Others looked to
their comrades, questioningly. Mykel suspected that not all the men had been
able to see the soarer, but more than a few had.

Loryalt
was the first officer to reach Mykel. “Sir ... are you all right?” There was an
awkward pause. “What was that? Was it really an ancient?”

“It
was. She ... said that the ... alectors are gone.” Mykel had a hard time saying
that, but he could not deny the sadness or the truth that had accompanied her
words.

“They’re
gone.” Loryalt’s tone was between incredulity and disbelief.

“That’s
what she said.” Mykel gestured southward toward the steaming fog that still
rose from the Vedra. “They boiled the entire river. I’d hate to think what else
they did.” He straightened in the saddle. He needed some time to think. “I’m
all right. How is Seventeenth Company?”

“Eight
dead, seven wounded, sir.”

“Have
your men reclaim what they can from the fallen in ammunition and rifles and
blades. We’ll need every shell we can find.”

“Sir?”

“If
the Duarchy has fallen, ammunition won’t be easy to come by.”

“Yes,
sir.” While Loryalt’s face held the question of what the Cadmians were to do
next, he did not ask. “We’ll gather the officers later.”

“Yes,
sir.” Loryalt turned his mount, then looked back at Mykel, his expression one
of worry, awe, and fear.

Mykel
forced a wry smile.

Chyndylt
rode toward Mykel, reining up. “Sir?”

Even
if he had not seen what had happened, Mykel would have known what the senior
squad leader’s presence meant. “Undercaptain Fabrytal?”

“Yes,
sir. They got him on that first big charge. He took out a bunch of them.”

“I’m
sorry.” Mykel was sorry, knowing that, in a way, he had contributed to
Fabrytal’s death, merely by the example of his own actions. Few Cadmians had
Talent, and Mykel had survived too many ill-advised excesses in battle only
through his Talent — and that had set a poor example, even if he had cut more
than a few battles short with his efforts. “You’re undercaptain now, Chyndylt.”

“Yes,
sir.”

“As
I told Loryalt, have your men collect every scrap of ammunition they can and
every weapon ...”

Mykel
gave the same orders to Zendyr, the senior squad leader of Thirteenth Company
who would have to take Dyarth’s place, and to Culeyt, who was the last of the
officers at the battle to report. Then he sent off a messenger to find Rhystan
and request that the senior captain rejoin the main body. He could only hope
that Sixteenth Company had not suffered casualties from the steaming water of
the river.

As
he watched his men pick up the fallen weapons and ammunition, take care of the
wounded, and seek spoils from the fallen Reillies — trying to ignore the looks
from the rankers whose eyes seemed to linger on him — Mykel sat tiredly in the
saddle, looking out across the carnage, knowing that there were close to a
thousand bodies lying on the winter-tan grass, staining it with dark splotches
that would vanish under the winter snow that would fall in the days or weeks to
come.

In
one year, or in ten, would anyone know that hundreds had died on the hillside
because of... what? Because the alectors of Corus had wanted order, no matter
what the cost, and the hill people wanted the absolute freedom to kill and
pillage?

The
soarer had said that the Ifrits were no more. What had the ancients done? How had
they destroyed Elcien and Ludar? And Faitel, his own home? What had happened to
his family? Sesalia and her children — and Viencet? Could the soarer have lied
to him?

He
shook his head. For whatever reason, the soarers did not lie.

But
why had the soarer appeared to him? In front of everyone? And directed him to
Tempre? Then, where else could they go? Nothing in the Iron Valleys would
support even the reduced Third and Fourth Battalions. Nor would Borlan.

He
continued to watch over the quick and the dead, and those who were living and
would not survive that much longer.

Link
to the world. Change or you will die... Link to the world... Change or you will
die ... As Dainyl grappled with the web of the ancients, trying to orient
himself, those words rang through his mind. Never... never had he really
believed that the ancients had that much power... even though he had felt the
certainty behind them ... and the sadness... that incredible sadness.

In
the dark amber-green of the web, he forced his sluggish thoughts back to what
he had to do. He had to get to Dereka. He had to ...

He
struggled and fumbled, his thoughts freezing once more when he realized that
some Table locators were gone — the white of Elcien, the brilliant yellow of
Ludar, the brown of Faitel. He finally extended a Talent probe, one of pure
green, green without his even trying, toward the web node that seemed to be
closest to the crimson-gold locator that was Dereka.

For
a timeless moment, nothing happened, and then he began to move. As he neared
the node, he could feel that the Tables were ... dead.

Not
exactly dead... because they still held energy, but it was as though each
locator existed independently. Instinctively, Dainyl understood that the Tables
were now little more than portals for the deeper web, and each held a residual
purple sliminess that he had never sensed until the Archon had begun to
transfer the Master Scepter. The translation tube that had linked them, once
lying on top of the web like a parasite, was gone. So was the long tube to
Ifryn — except it should have been the tube to Efra now.

He
extended a Talent probe upward, away from the inert Table, trying to leave the
web. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he could feel himself moving upward until...

...
he found himself on the library level of the recorder’s building. Papers were
stacked neatly on the tables — except for one pile half strewn across the green
and gold marble floor. Beside the papers was a set of shimmersilk garments —
recorders’ greens — and a pair of boots.

Jonyst?
Or Whelyne? Dainyl swallowed. Lystrana! Could that have happened to her? He had
to get to the regional alector’s!

He
glanced around the library. It was empty. He hurried down the staircase to the
Table chamber, almost stumbling, as something caught at his boots. He steadied
himself on the oak door frame and surveyed the chamber. The only signs of
alectors were four sets of shimmersilk garments and matching boots.

He
turned and started to take a step back up the stairs. He stumbled again,
because his trousers had slipped enough that his boot heels had caught them.
His shimmersilk greens, which had been snug before, were loose, and too long,
although his boots seemed to fit. He tightened his belt, rolled up the jacket
cuffs and the trouser cuffs to keep from tripping on them, and then climbed the
steps again.

He
hurried down through the building, seeing no one, only scattered sets of
shimmersilks and boots, lying in rooms, in the corridors, but the building was
empty of anyone, including landers and indigens.

How
many more? Had any alectors besides himself been able to survive? Where were
they? Could Lystrana have survived? She knew about the possibility of linking.
He’d talked to Lystrana about the ancients’ warning, about linking directly to
the world. He could only hope that she had remembered. She had to have
remembered.

When
he went down the last ramp and out through the main entrance, he found that the
rotunda was empty of the coach or any drivers. Certainly, he could walk south
to the RA’s complex. He took a deep breath and followed the stone-paved side
lane toward the boulevard, but before he was more than a few paces away from
the rotunda, as he turned the corner, the late, late afternoon sun struck him
full in the eyes. It was so close to setting behind the mountains that its
normally white orb had shifted toward the orange.

After
a moment, when his eyes readjusted, he realized that the space west of the main
boulevard was filled with landers and indigens. Some were shouting. He thought
he heard some cheers. Quickly, tired as he was, he shielded himself with Talent
as he moved toward the east side of the boulevard. He still needed to get to
Lystrana — and Kytrana.

As
he neared the boulevard, he could see that most of the indigens still remained on
the west side, away from the section reserved for riders and coaches, although
Dainyl saw neither. His Talent concealment shield seemed to be working, because
no one noticed him. If they did, no one said anything.

He
turned south and picked up his pace. He’d walked less than a hundred yards when
he realized that his boots were loose. Not badly, but they were slipping on his
feet somewhat. He concentrated on walking — and listening.

“...
closed the counting house ...”

“...
be back ... all too soon, if you ask me ...”

“...
tell you. They’re all gone.”

“Syphia
said that when the ground rumbled and the air turned green, then the one she
worked for, she vanished, turned into dust, and her clothes fell to the floor.
Ha! Good cloth. Leastwise, she brought it home ...”

“...
see that big fellow there ... he’s gone now ...”

“...
don’t look for what isn’t there, Fharyd. You might find it.”

“...
still say ...”

Dainyl
kept walking, as fast as he could. He thought about running, but the RA’s
complex was too far, and he’d end up walking before long anyway.

He
glanced to the west side of the boulevard once more. Some few shops were
closed, but they might have been anyway, since it was Decdi and some crafters
and merchants weren’t open on the end-day. But if all the alectors — or most of
them — had vanished, why wasn’t there more unrest, more disturbance?

He
shook his head. Why would there be? Even in Dereka, there weren’t more than a
hundred alectors, if that, and outside of tariff collection overseers and a few
handfuls of supervisors, how much direct contact did indigens and landers have
with alectors?

In
Elcien and Ludar, things would be different...

He
almost stopped walking, because he doubted that there was anything left of
Ludar. The city had been disintegrating before him when he’d escaped, and there
was no Table left. That suggested the Tables in both Ludar and Elcien had
exploded, and they were used enough that the explosion might well have leveled
everything for hundreds of yards. The landers and the indigens there wouldn’t
have escaped.

Ahead,
on his left, he could see the open gates to the RA’s complex, the ironwork
showing a hint of orange from the setting sun. He hurried toward them, then
turned and walked across the paved courtyard toward the main entrance. The
sound of his steps echoed in the courtyard.