Soarers Choice (20 page)

“Rifle
out, too.”

“Don’t
see anything ...”

Mykel
was only halfway back along the column, passing third squad, when a dark form
charged from what seemed open ground, yet Mykel had not seen it a moment
before. His rifle was up, and he fired immediately, willing the shot toward the
creature.

The
sandwolf shuddered, and slowed, but only for a moment.

“Column
halt! Fire at will!” Mykel followed his own orders with another shot, as did
several of the rankers in fifth squad.

The
creature collapsed less than a handful of yards from the last rider, but more
than a score of the sandwolves appeared on both sides of the column, converging
on fifth squad. Not only could he see them, but he could sense their
gray-violet auras as clearly as he could the auras of either alectors or the rankers
around him.

Even
as Mykel aimed, and fired, aimed and fired, taking down one sandwolf, and then
another, he could sense something else, the reddish violet auras, but those
were coming from the front of the column. He could only hope that Loryalt could
handle whatever menace had appeared there.

The
short and continuous barrage of fire that had flowed from fourth and fifth
squad died away as the remaining sandwolves broke off their attacks and then
seemingly vanished. Mykel thought he had sensed one death, but for all he knew
that could have been one of the sandwolves. He could see one trooper having an
arm bound.

“Reload
and keep a sharp eye out!” Mykel turned the roan and reloaded once more while
he rode forward, back toward the head of the column.

Ahead
of him, scattered shots continued for several moments before becoming
intermittent and then ceasing.

Loryalt
and first squad had ridden forward toward where the scouts had been. As he
neared the undercaptain, Mykel saw two mounted scouts and two riderless horses
ahead of Loryalt. When he had ridden within thirty yards of the scouts and
Loryalt, he could make out two Cadmians sprawled on the sandy soil, one on each
side of the trail. They were dead. Neither had an aura.

Mykel
reined up beside Loryalt. “What happened?”

“I...
I never saw anything like it, sir.” The undercaptain gestured to the unmoving
forms. “Two creatures like stocky little men appeared out of the ground. Each
of them dragged a trooper right off his mount. They held them for a moment, and
then they vanished. I think the men are dead.”

“You’re
right.” Mykel managed not to swallow. He’d seen the creatures before — in
Dramur. He just hadn’t equated them with the sanders that Croyalt had
mentioned.

“What
were ... those things, sir?”

“They’re
called sanders. Outholder Croyalt warned me about them. They killed a lot of
troopers in Fourth Battalion. He said they were best avoided. We didn’t seem to
have that option today.” He paused. “Strap them over their saddles.”

“Yes,
sir.” Loryalt turned. “Mysaelt, Sedryk ... get them over their saddles.” He
looked to Mykel.

“Once
we deal with the casualties, we’ll follow the trail around to the northeast
road back to Iron Stem,” Mykel said. “That’s quicker than retracing the way we
came.”

“Sir?
In the rear?”

“Oh...
sandwolves. More than a score. I didn’t wait to learn casualties, but I got the
impression that there were more wounds than fatalities.”

“There
aren’t even any livestock near here.” Loryalt sounded almost aggrieved. “We
didn’t attack anyone.”

“We’re
interlopers,” Mykel pointed out. Both to the sandwolves and the outholders, he
thought. “Get a report on casualties, and let’s get riding.”

“Yes,
sir.” Loryalt turned his mount. “Company, order! Squad leaders, report!”

Mykel
glanced out over the low rolling hills toward the plateau, then to the
southeast along the stock trail.

Had
the sanders set the sandwolves on the rear of the column to draw Mykel away? Or
was that a coincidence? How smart were the manlike creatures? Or had both been
directed by the soarers? But why? The soarer had as much as told him that the
alectors were the enemy of landers and indigens and especially of the soarers.
Cadmians weren’t an enemy of the soarers. So why had the soarers let the
sanders attack the Cadmians? Or were there tame sanders and wild sanders?

Power
as wielded by an alector comes in many different forms. There is the power of a
weapon, a skylance or a lightcutter. There is the power of law, as enforced by
the High Alectors of Justice. There is the power of structure, as demonstrated
by the cities created and ruled by the Archon. There is the power of example,
and the power of tradition.

Whatever
the form of power, it can be used only in two fashions, either as a tool for
creation or preservation or as a means of destruction. The forms of power can
be employed constructively in a myriad of fashions, as all intelligent alectors
should know, but the most dangerous and self-deceptive use of power consists of
those instances where an alector employs power for the sole sake of
demonstrating that power.

If
a demonstration of power is required, then the alector who conducts or orders
such a demonstration has already failed in the constructive use of power, or he
is attempting to create an image of greater power to the end of instilling fear
or greater respect from others. Those who are weaker will indeed bow to that
demonstration of power — but only so long as they are weaker — and those who
are more powerful will act to reduce the power of one who undertakes such a
course.

Demonstrations
of power are useless. A demonstration that does nothing constructive and is
undertaken for display wastes lifeforce, energy, time, and resources. Better to
plan a constructive use of resources that will herald power and accomplishment.

If
destruction of an enemy is necessary, do so without warning. If such is
impossible, an alector should not posture, but bide his time until he can act.
Posturing can only reveal weakness and invite contempt and attack....

—
Views of the Highest Illustra W.T. 1513

Sharua
slowed the Myrmidon duty coach well before the team reached the entrance to the
portico at the Duarch’s Palace, then brought the coach to a gentle halt
opposite the passenger mounting blocks.

“Very
smooth,” observed Dainyl as he stepped out. “Thank you, sir. You’ll need me to
wait for you?” asked Sharua, looking down from the driver’s seat.

“If
you would, please. It shouldn’t be that long.” Dainyl hoped it wouldn’t, but he
had no
i.e.
how many questions the Duarch might ask
or where they might lead. He hoped that Khelaryt didn’t press him on the green
shading to part of his aura.

“I’ll
be waiting, sir.”

Dainyl
strode past the columns of the portico and through the archway, past the two
armed guards. Once more, the slender Bharyt stood waiting.

“Marshal,
it’s good to see you.”

Dainyl
thought the feeling behind the words was genuine, but in the Palace of the
Duarch, who could tell? “You’re looking good, Bharyt.” He smiled. “You always
are pleasant. Don’t you ever get tired of escorting alectors to see him?”

“Some
days are longer than others, sir, but serving the Duarch is a pleasure.”

Bharyt
meant that, also, and Dainyl hadn’t sensed any Talent restraints.

“We’d
best go, sir.” Bharyt started down the hallway between the goldenstone marble
columns.

Close
to the end of the east wing corridor, Bharyt halted and knocked on the study
door.

“Have
the marshal come in, Bharyt.”

Faint
as the words were, blocked by the heavy oak, Dainyl could make them out, but he
waited for his escort to open the door. This time, Bharyt merely stood outside
and closed the door behind Dainyl.

Khelaryt
was standing beside his desk and had apparently been studying the books on the
inside wall shelves. “So many volumes, it seems, and yet they are but a
fraction of what has been written and lost. It represents the tragedy of
alectors, in a fashion. We seek knowledge and strive for beauty, and in our
striving, must leave behind so much of what we have created, time after time.”

“That
is a tragedy,” admitted Dainyl, not knowing what else he could have said.

The
Duarch turned directly toward Dainyl, radiating, as always, his Talent with
such force that it was almost a pressure. His deep violet eyes were friendly.
“We should sit.”

Dainyl
waited and then took the corner seat after the Duarch had settled himself.

“The
High Alector of Justice was insistent that you brief me on recent developments,
Marshal. Most insistent.”

“He
was rather insistent,” Dainyl replied dryly.

“That
is less than favorable, and it would be wise to ask what agenda he pursues.”

“His
agenda is always to have someone else do what is difficult, whenever possible.”

“You
sound critical of your High Alector. So soon after you have become marshal?”

“I
did not say that it was necessarily a bad strategy, sir, but for me not to
recognize what is almost invariably leads me to greater self-deception.”

“So
practical you are, Dainyl. Do you believe in nothing of a higher nature?
Destiny? Fate?”

“I’m
not certain either destiny or fate, should they exist, represent a higher
nature.”

Khelaryt
shook his head slowly, but a faint smile appeared. “What are you here to tell
me?”

“First,
that the Cadmian Third Battalion has reinforced Fourth Battalion in Iron Stem,
and that they did so by moving directly there from Hyalt without returning to
Elcien. Their commanding officer may have latent Talent, but given the
difficulties with the ancients and the Reillies, it seemed best to exploit that
possibility, rather than remove Myrmidons from Elcien.” Since Khelaryt might
well have received information indirectly from Captain Lyzetta, Dainyl felt
that there was less risk in addressing the issue. It also meant that Zelyert
could not use the information against him. “Second, I have transferred Seventh
Company from Dulka to Tempre, at least for several seasons, in order to
preclude any more Myrmidon officers being suborned by the High Alector of the
East.”

“I
had heard of the majer’s possible Talent,” replied the Duarch. -”Even a latent
lander Talent can be dangerous. They can breed like rodents,” Khelaryt pointed
out. “Are you willing to take that gamble, on behalf of all alectors?”

“He
is a young majer, and correct in his manner. He has neither wife nor lady
friends and is unlikely to produce offspring in the next season or so. That, I
would judge, is a lesser risk than employing Myrmidons. There is also the
possibility, since he tends to lead his men, that he may not survive this
deployment. If he does, then I will deal with the situation.” Exactly how,
Dainyl didn’t want to dwell on, not yet.

“You
like this lander. That is dangerous.”

“I
cannot say that I like him. I respect him, and he has been effective —
extremely effective — when other officers have not. I do not feel that I can
sacrifice effectiveness on the grounds that he might develop full Talent and
have offspring.”

“You’re
flying close to the storms, Marshal.”

“We
all are, sir.”

The
Duarch glanced toward the study door, then back at Dainyl. “What else are you
to convey?”

“The
High Alector also said to mention that the numbers of unauthorized long
translations from Ifryn continue to increase.”

“By
how much?” The very air around the Duarch seemed to darken.

“He
would not tell me. He said he would have exact figures for you shortly.”

“No
wonder he was insistent.” Khelaryt’s laugh was grim. “Is that the real reason
he wanted you here?”

“Knowing
that he thinks of multiple uses for everything and everyone, possibly, sir.”

“In
this time when we await the arrival of the Master Scepter, that is not totally
undesirable,” mused the Duarch, his face twisting slightly, as if he were being
precluded from thinking or considering some aspect of the Master Scepter.

Dainyl
swallowed. He might not have another opportunity, and he would not refuse to
say what was obvious to all any longer. “It would appear that the Master
Scepter is being transferred to Efra, sir.”

Talent
surged and solidified. Darkness swirled around the Duarch. “That cannot be. It
must not be.” A blast of Talent flew toward Dainyl.

Somehow,
he deflected it, but that deflection shredded his shields down to nearly
nothing.

“From
those fleeing Ifryn,” he said quickly, hoping to forestall another Talent
blast, “we have learned that many of those closest to the Archon have already
translated there. The guards at the Tables on Efra are slaughtering scores
every day — “

Even
with all his remaining Talent in his shields Dainyl found himself flung against
the inside wall bookcases.

“You
dared tell me this?” demanded Khelaryt, striding from behind his table desk.

Yet
as Khelaryt advanced, Dainyl sensed that the Duarch’s Talent had diminished. He
was probably more Talented and stronger than Dainyl, especially with the
punishment Dainyl had just taken, but he was no longer the colossus of Talent
that he had been.

“No
one else would,” replied Dainyl, straightening himself and standing, facing
what might well be his end.

Khelaryt
halted and offered a sad smile, so at odds with his rage of a few moments
before. “They did not dare. Not for the reasons you might think, however.”

“The
artificial infusion of Talent?” guessed Dainyl. “Was it tied to the shadowmatch
only until you knew where the Master Scepter would be transferred?”

“That
was part of it.”