Cadmians Choice (60 page)

“Seventeenth Company!
Fire at will!”

“Second Company! Fire
at will!”

Shots poured into the
tightly massed body of the guard troopers from three sides. Mykel watched,
seeing that the rear ranks of the Guard were beginning to turn their mounts.

“Fifteenth Company,
rifles away!” ordered Mykel. “Sabres ready! Forward!”

While he began the
charge, he let Fabrytal lead Fifteenth Company against the center of the
so-called Alector’s Guard.

The other two
companies followed.

Mykel remained on the
road, noting wryly that Fabrytal had ordered five troopers to cover and support
him. That was probably for the best, since he felt exhausted— and shouldn’t
have. He glanced at his shoulder and upper chest, both of which were sore, but
there were no holes or marks on his uniform tunic. He wasn’t certain he
believed it, but the only conclusion he could come to was that his efforts in
holding the shields to conceal his abilities had diffused the impact of a
bullet. The corollary was that doing so took a great deal of strength, and that
meant he still was vulnerable in a firefight, if less so.

He straightened in
the saddle, sheathed the sabre, then eased the roan forward to keep abreast of
Fifteenth Company, taking his rifle out once more.

In less than a glass,
the remnants of the Guard had scattered westward, across the fields of golden
wheat, leaving paths of bent and broken grain—and bodies and more bodies. The
sun had risen, casting long shadows across the carnage. From what Mykel could
see, well close to two hundred Guard troopers lay around the high road and in
the nearby sections of the fields.

Another half glass
passed before the three companies had returned and reformed before the way
station.

“Report!” ordered
Mykel.

“Fifteenth Company.
Two dead, five wounded.”

“Seventeenth Company.
Four dead, eight wounded.”

“Second Company. Five
dead, four wounded.”

Mykel surveyed the
company commanders. “This was the easy part. It will get harder. I’m certain
that the sub-marshal has something else in mind as well. Now... each of you
detail a squad to recover rifles and ammunition from the dead and wounded.
Disarm the wounded and bring them into the way station. Fabrytal... you send
scouts north, three vingts. Loryalt to the south. Matorak, your scouts go on
the back side of the hill behind us and another set on that ridge to the west
beyond the fields.... Once everything is set up, stand down, and get the mounts
watered and fed and your men rested.”

“Sir ... do we have
any orders?”

“We just executed the
orders we had. We were to take and hold this way station, and wait for the
submarshal to arrive with further orders.” That much was essentially true.
Mykel just wished he knew for certain what came next, although it was likely to
be some sort of attack on Tempre and, based on the fact that there had been an
unauthorized mounted force, one on the regional alector’s compound was likely. “Dismissed
to your companies.”

Later, after the companies
had completed the body details—for the moment, all two hundred and three were
laid out behind the stable—Mykel rode to the top of the hill behind the way
station. He reined up in the knee high grass and slowly studied the fields and
well-tended woods in all directions. There were close to twenty small steads,
but, not surprisingly, no one was out in the fields. He saw no flocks nearby.

He had the sinking
feeling that the massacre had been a setup, except he had no idea why, except
to undermine the moral authority of the Cadmians. Yet the dead majer had been
ready to order an attack. All the Guard troopers had been fully armed, and all
rifles—identical to the Cad-mian pieces—clearly used or ready for use.

That meant, at least
to him, that the outcome didn’t matter to whoever had set it up. If he and his
companies had been defeated, that would have undermined the Cadmians in one
way. By his effectiveness in ruthlessly attacking, he’d undermined the Cadmians
in another.

As his pteridon swept
in toward the way station south of Tempre, in the late afternoon’s shadowed
sunlight, Dainyl could make out the signs of a battle, even without the sense
of lost lifeforce that pervaded the area. The wheat fields to the west of the
high road had been trampled, and several locations, even from the air, showed
where men and mounts had fallen.

“North of the way
station, on the flat!” Dainyl called back to Hyksant. North... to the side of
the road...

The pteridon swung
west and then descended into the wind, flaring and settling onto the ground
already scarred by horses, then folding its long blue leathery wings. In turn,
the other four pteridons landed, each farther from the way station.

Majer Mykel had
hurried out of the way station even before Dainyl’s pteridon touched down, and
stood waiting, less than fifteen yards away.

Dainyl dismounted and
stretched. His legs ached. He still wasn’t used to flying all day, and wondered
if he’d ever regain that ability. He doubted it, since, once he finished the
Hyalt-Tempre campaign—or it finished him—the pteridon would be taken over by
another Myrmidon, and he would go back to headquarters in Elcien. He studied
the majer. For better or worse, the lander had tighter shields than before,
much tighter. To Dainyl, he almost felt like a diminutive alector, except his
shielded Talent was gray-green, rather than grayish purple. Still. . . from a
distance, most alectors might not know.

Finally, Dainyl
stepped toward the majer, leaving his gear on the pteridon. “You had a battle
here.”

“Yes, sir. Three
companies of something called the Alector’s Guard appeared at dawn this
morning. They opened fire first.”

Dainyl sensed Mykel’s
grimace as much as he saw the expression.

“It was a slaughter,
or close to it. We took out about two-thirds of their men. The others
scattered. I’ve had scouts out as far as seven vingts, just short of the
outskirts of Tempre. We haven’t seen any sign of other forces. We haven’t seen
any traffic on the high road south from Tempre. There have been some spirit
merchants from Vyan and Krost heading into Tempre, but no others on this
section of the high road.”

“You said they opened
fire first. Did they have rifles?”

“Yes, sir. We
collected all the rifles and ammunition from the wounded and the fallen. The
rifles are Cadmian issue, but they don’t have serial numbers. The ammunition’s
the same, too.”

First Dramur and now
Tempre—Dainyl couldn’t help asking himself just how many unauthorized rifles
had been manufactured and where they all had ended up. “Have you found out anything
from the wounded?”

“Not much. The
officers were either killed or fled. The rankers were told last night that they
would be riding out after Squawts in Cadmian uniforms who had crossed the Vedra
and were threatening Tempre. According to the majer in command, this Alector’s
Guard was formed to offset the threat of the Squawts.” Mykel laughed harshly. “That
was hard to believe, since the Cadmians pretty much wiped them out in the
southern Westerhills. The majer said we had no business entering Tempre. I
reminded him that the Cadmians had the freedom of the roads anywhere in Corus.
His answer was to start shooting.”

“How many men did you
lose, Majer?

‘Twelve dead, sixteen
wounded. Two of the wounded are having a hard time of it. We lost one earlier.
We counted something like two hundred six bodies, and we’ve got thirteen
wounded captives left—all rankers.”

Dainyl found himself
both amazed and appalled.

“Sir... this was a
setup. We were set to lose either way.”

After a moment,
Dainyl understood. “Either you Cadmians are ineffective or bloodthirsty tools
of the Duarches?”

“That’s my guess,
sir.”

Unfortunately, the
majer’s assessment made all too much sense. “Then, we might as well be
bloodthirsty for a reason. Let me get things settled with the Myrmidons, and
then I’ll be back, and we’ll go over the plans for tomorrow’s attack. Our
objective is to take total control of the administrative center of Tempre.”

“Yes, sir. You want
me to wait here?”

Dainyl laughed. “No.
Get something to drink. Is there a table in the way station where we can spread
out some maps?”

“There are several.
One’s better.”

“Wait for me there.”

Mykel nodded and
stepped back, then turned and walked briskly toward the way station.

Dainyl watched him.
He was fairly certain that the majer had told the truth, but it was getting
harder to read the lander, much harder. He shook his head, then started back
toward the pteridon for the maps.

As Dainyl neared the
pteridons, Hyksant approached. “Sir... the majer... perhaps I’m mistaken, but I
thought I sensed Talent there. With the majer, I mean.”

“He has some
untrained Talent,” Dainyl replied. “Landers occasionally do. While it isn’t
something that we encourage, or would normally accept, it is to our benefit.”
He paused. “For now. Only for now. That is another reason why I’ve been given
this mission.”

Hyksant nodded
slowly. “I had wondered.”

“He was the first to
discover the rebels. Had he not...”

“Ah ... yes, sir.
Landers can be useful.”

“In their place,
Undercaptain. In their place.” What is their place? What is ours? As he
considered those questions, he realized that less than a year before he would
never even have entertained such self-inquiries.

Mykel stepped out
into the darkness, this time on the south side of the way station, since the
Myrmidons and their pteridons had taken the hillside to the north, leaving the
way station and stables to Mykel and his Cadmians. In the darkness above, both
Selena and Asterta shone brightly, and as close together as he had ever seen
them, near the zenith. The night wind from the west was light, still warm, and
carried the mixed odors of ripening wheat and death. To the north, he could
sense the Myrmidons and their pinkish purple energies, and the gray cloudiness
over those energies that represented the submarshal’s shields.

The submarshal’s plan
to take Tempre was straightforward enough. Basically, Mykel’s three companies
would ride north on the high road, and the five pteridons would use their
skylances to clear any large forces or barricades. The Cadmians would have to
deal with snipers or individuals hidden where the skylances would not reach.
Once the courtyard around the compound was secured the submarshal and one other
alector would use the skylances to blast open the main door—assuming that the
regional alector did not surrender. Then two alectors and a squad under Mykel’s
direct command would begin taking the structure, corridor by corridor. The
submarshal had been very direct—Mykel would lead the force designated to subdue
the interior of the complex.

According to the
submarshal, there were roughly twenty alectors, half of whom were Myrmidon foot
guards. The others, including the regional alector, were functionaries who
supervised and directed the tasks of regional administration. The Cadmians were
not to approach any alectors closely, but they had leave to fire on any who did
not immediately surrender.

Mykel paused. That
wasn’t quite what the submarshal had said. He’d said that Mykel had leave to
fire on them, as did any Cadmian. The implication was clear enough ... and
boded ill for Mykel’s future. Yet he still had the feeling that deserting would
be far worse ... so far.

Submarshal Dainyl
wanted control of the regional alector’s compound. But why? It had something to
do with Hyalt. That much was certain, but Mykel didn’t believe for a moment
that the purpose was merely to interdict supplies to Hyalt—or that such was
even the primary reason. Whatever it was, it was clearly vital, because
submarshals didn’t run company-level operations, even in the Myrmidons—unless a
great deal was at stake.

Mykel turned and
looked to the northwest, toward Tempre. After receiving the announcement of
Rachyla’s move to Tempre as the resident chatelaine for young Amaryk, whatever
a resident chatelaine might be, Mykel had thought about how he might visit
Rachyla, but Cadmian majers just didn’t ride close to two hundred vingts for a
visit to someone who might well not even wish to see them. Yet when he had
asked the soarer about that “coincidence,” the ancient had cryptically mentioned
“forces within” Mykel and refused to say more.

Were there forces
within Rachyla as well?

He shook his head.
The more he discovered, the more questions he had.

He’d once believed
that, when he attained more rank and responsibility, he would have more latitude
and freedom, but from what he’d seen since Dramur, he had less. Or was it that
now, as he learned more, he saw how few true choices of any wisdom were open?
Or was he just deluding himself, being afraid to step outside the structure of
the Cadmians?

After a time, he
turned and walked slowly back toward the way station. He needed some sleep—or
rest, if he couldn’t sleep.

Less than a glass
after sunrise, Mykel’s three companies were already five vingts north of the
way station and within two or three vingts of the outskirts of Tempre. The
terrain had become slightly more hilly with each vingt they had ridden, and the
fields and meadows had given way to orchards. The trees looked to be pears and
apples, although Mykel was no grower. In smaller fenced fields between the
orchards were occasional flocks of sheep, smaller than those Mykel had seen in
the northlands and fatter than those near Hyalt.

For the last two
vingts, the high road had risen ever so slightly to climb a large and gradual
ridge. At the top of the ridge was an eternastone turnout for wagons,
presumably to rest draft horses after the long climb. Beyond the turnout, the
high road began an even more gentle descent toward Tempre, spread out before
the Cadmians.