Stalking Darkness (47 page)

Examining this, he found three areas of bright metal on the shelf, as if whatever had sat there had kept it from tarnishing. The central mark was roughly circular and about the size of his palm. To the left was a smaller, but more perfectly round circle. To the right was a large square of silver, not so bright as the other two. Seregil recognized the last two outlines as those of the boxes holding the coin and crown, but what had the central object been? Judging by the relative lack of tarnish, it had been there the longest of the three, proving Alec’s supposition that Nysander had been guarding something long before they had brought him the disk.

Bending over the mark with his light, he touched the outline, tracing it with his finger

—his vision dissolved into a brief curtain of sizzling sparks, then darkness.

A single clear, attenuated note broke the silence surrounding him and for as long as it lasted he knew nothing else. It pierced him, bathed him, dancing along on the threshold dividing pleasure from pain. Gradually other notes joined the first and they had form, long heavy forms that gradually wrapped together like the strands of a great rope.

And he was one of those strands, twisted tight and drawn along with the rest toward some destination. It was not fear that shot through him now, but an horrific elation. Other sounds gradually filtered in from beyond the umbilicus, and these were different. Removed. Not of the flow. Countless black-feathered throats raising a deafening collective cry that swelled to a roar of diseased laughter, then faded away as the flow passed on. Human screams, voices crying out in every language of the world. The clash of battle. Impossible explosions.

He burrowed deeper into the umbilical bundle but the intrusive sounds followed, rising to an awful crescendo before they faded as quickly as they had come. Silence, gravid with a sense of immediacy.

At last another sound crept in between the strands; Seregil knew this sound and it inexplicably filled him with a greater dread than all the rest. It was the heavy rumble of ocean surf.

“Seregil?”

The sound of Micum’s worried voice broke through the vision, yanking him back to the cramped chamber.

“You all right in there?” Micum called again.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Seregil replied thickly, although suddenly he didn’t feel all right. He felt pissed as a newt.

Rising slowly, he staggered back to the opening and pulled himself through. Micum helped him to his feet, but his legs didn’t seem to want to support him just yet. Sliding down with his back to the wall, he rested his elbows on his knees.

“What happened in there?” Micum demanded, studying him with apparent concern. “You don’t look right.”

“I don’t know.” There had been something, a fleeting glimpse of—what? Gone, nothing.

Seregil scrubbed his fingers back through his hair to clear his head. “Must have been some residual effect of Nysander’s magic, or a pocket of bad air maybe. I just went a little light-headed. I feel better now.”

“You were saying something about a shelf in there,” said Micum. “Did you find something?”

“Just the marks. From the coin and the crown and the bowl.”

“What bowl?”

Seregil blinked up at Micum. “I don’t know. I just—know.”

For the first time since he’d learned of Nysander’s prophecy Seregil felt the faint, chill brush of fear, but it was tempered with a sudden burst of grim anticipation.

T
he blare of battle horns brought Beka up out of sleep just after dawn. Grabbing her sword, she ran from the tent. “To arms! To arms!” a messenger shouted, riding through the encampment. “An attack from the eastern hills. To arms!”

Shading her eyes, Beka looked across the small plain that lay between the camp and a line of hills a mile to the east. Even with the sun in her eyes she could see dark ranks of horsemen and foot soldiers in the distance, perhaps as much as a regiment. The Queen’s Horse was still at half strength; Wolf Squadron was patrolling the supply route that stretched back to the Mycenian coast twenty miles to the south.

Sergeant Braknil rushed up fully armed, his blond beard bristling. “What is it, Lieutenant?” “Look there,” said Beka, pointing.

“Damn! The scouts from Eagle troop said those hills were clear yesterday.” The edge of Plenimaran territory lay more than twenty miles to the east.

The rest of the turma scrambled from their tents in various stages of readiness.

“Full armor,” shouted Beka, dashing back to finish dressing. Outside, she could hear Portus, Braknil, and Mercalle barking at their riders.

“Lances and swords! Come on now, this is it!”

Minutes later all thirty riders were mounted and ready. Their chain mail, and the white horse and sword insignia on the fronts of their green tabards, showed bravely in the early morning light.

Beka gave them a satisfied once-over, then led the way to where Captain Myrhini and the troop’s standard-bearer were waiting. Lieutenant Koris’ Second Turma galloped up to join them.

Myrhini sat her white charger and barked out orders in a voice that carried over the general outcry of the camp.

“Commander Klia wants our troop to hold this far right end of the battle line. Commander Perris’ squadron will be to our left. Lieutenant Beka, I want your turma on our right. Koris, you’ve got the left. We’ll show these sneaky bastards that you have to get up earlier than this to catch the Queen’s Horse in bed on such a fine morning. Form up!”

Beka turned to her riders. “Sergeant Mercalle, you’ve got the center of our section. Sergeant Braknil, take right; Portus, the left.”

The three decuriae fell into formation, lances waving like the spines on a sea urchin. Watching their faces, Beka saw in them a mix of fierceness and elation. And fear.

They were a young group, among the youngest in the regiment and, despite all their hard training, they hadn’t seen any worse action than their skirmish with bandits weeks ago. This was just as unexpected as that had been, but a hundred times more daunting.

Thirty-three faces turned to Beka as she buckled on her white-crested helm. She knew as she looked at them that no matter how brave they were or how well they fought, there were bound to be some who wouldn’t live to see the sun set.

“We’ll show ‘em today, right, Lieutenant?” called Corporal Kallas, giving her a nervous, cocky grin.

She grinned back. “Damn right we will! Honor, strength, and mercy, First Turma.”

Waving bows and lances, they returned the cry.

The trumpet signal “canter advance” came down the line. Unsheathing her sword, Beka brandished it and yelled out, “Blood and Steel, First Turma!”

“Blood and Steel!” they roared back at her, shaking their lances.

The rumble of hooves and harness rang out on the morning air as the line advanced to meet the enemy cavalry. The trumpets sounded again, and the line sprang forward at a gallop across the plain.

Spring was creeping slowly up into Mycena and their horses kicked up clods of half-frozen mud as they ran.

As the two forces hurtled at each other, closing the distance to seconds, Beka felt only a deadly stillness as she marked an oncoming Plenimaran officer. Both sides set up a blood-chilling battle cry as the two forces collided—cries quickly swelled by the screams of horses and soldiers.

Myrhini’s troop was in the thick of it from the outset. By midmorning they had battled their way behind the enemy’s flank. Regrouping, they wheeled back to attack the rear guard, only to have the Plenimaran cavalry fade away like smoke before wind at their advance, leaving a line of archers and pikemen in their wake to meet the Skalan charge.

Bloodied to the elbows, Beka and her remaining riders heard the trumpets sound the advance again and rode down on the enemy line through a hail of arrows.

As she rode, Beka glimpsed soldiers falling and riderless horses veering wildly across the field. Sergeant Portus went down under his own horse, but there was no time to stop for him.

Plowing into the ranks of infantry, Beka’s turma fanned out, striking left and right with swords as they pressed their mounted advantage.

Hewing her way through the chaos, Beka caught a welcome glimpse of regimental standards on the far side of the melee.

“Look there,” she shouted to the others. “Second Turma’s with us. Close the gap!”

She was wheeling her horse for a renewed charge when an enemy soldier struck at her with a javelin, catching her a glancing blow across the front of her left thigh just below the edge of her mail shirt.

He struck at her again, aiming for her throat. Beka rocked back in the saddle and grabbed for the shaft, using the man’s own forward momentum to pull him off balance. As he staggered forward she struck him over the head with her sword. He fell back and disappeared under the crush of fighters surging around them.

Looking up, she saw Second Turma’s standard tilt drunkenly in the distance, then disappear.

Cursing, Beka called out new orders and spurred forward to aide Corporal Nikides, who was about to be skewered from behind.

The battle raged on into early afternoon as the two forces battered each other in repeated charge and melee. There was no quarter given to the dead or dying; those who weren’t carried from the field were trampled into the cold, reeking mud. Combatants on both sides were so filthy that it was difficult to tell friend from foe.

Though outnumbered, the Skalans refused to break and finally the Plenimarans gave way, disappearing back into the hills as quickly and mysteriously as they’d come.

Beka gritted her teeth and tried to concentrate on other things while the troop surgeon tugged the last stitches tight, closing the gash in her leg.

The hospital tent was crowded, the air rank with the stench of the wounded. Moans and cries came from all sides as the more seriously hurt begged for help, water, or death. A few feet away, a man screamed as an arrow was pulled from his chest.

Dark blood bubbled out ominously from the wound. When he cried out again, more weakly this time, air from his punctured lung whistled through the hole.

The gash on Beka’s thigh was a deep one and it hurt like hell now, though she’d hardly noticed it during the battle. No one had been more surprised than she when she’d fainted across her horse’s neck when the fighting was over.

“There now, that should heal nicely if it doesn’t fester,” Tholes assured her, laying his needle aside and pouring a bit of sour wine over the wound.

“Vinia will bind it up so you can ride.”

There was a stir at the door of the hospital tent as Commander Klia entered, flanked by her three remaining captains, Myrhini, Perris, and Ustes. All four officers were covered with the filth of battle and Beka noted that Myrhini was limping on a bandaged foot. Captain Ustes, a tall, black-bearded noble, wore his sword arm in a sling and Perris had a stained bandage around his brow. Klia alone appeared to have come off without a scratch, although word was she’d been in the thick of it the whole time.

Magic, Beka wondered, or just charmed skill?

Klia was a skillful tactician, to be sure, but it was her preference for leading from the front that made her so popular with her squadron. After exchanging a word with one of the surgeons, she moved off among the wounded, praising and encouraging them, and asking for details of the battle as the fighters had seen it.

Myrhini spotted Beka and hobbled over. “First Turma distinguished itself again today. I saw you break through the line. How’s the leg?”

Beka grimaced as Tholes’ assistant finished bandaging her thigh. Hauling her torn breeches up, she flexed her leg. “Not so bad, Captain. I can ride.”

“Good. Klia wants reconnaissance patrols out before dawn tomorrow. What state is your turma in?”

“Last I knew for certain, four dead including Sergeant Portus, and thirteen still unaccounted for. As soon as I get out of here I’ll round up the rest and let you know.” The truth was, she dreaded the final count. Lying here, she’d been unable to block the memory of young Rethus’ broken body trampled in the mud. He’d been the first to stand with her during their first fight with the bandits.

Myrhini shook her head grimly. “Well, you may be better off than some. Captain Ormonus was killed in the first charge, along with most of his second turma. All told, we’ve lost nearly a third of the squadron.”

Klia came over and squatted down beside Myrhini.

Beka made her commander an awkward salute from where she lay. Klia looked older than her twenty-five years today. Tired lines had sunk in around her eyes and mouth and creased the smooth brow below her dark widow’s peak.

“A force that large—” Klia growled under her breath, tugging absently at the end of her long brown braid. “A full regiment of Plenimaran cavalry and foot soldiers boiling down out of hills we’ve been patrolling for a week!”

She pinned Beka with an appraising look. “How do you suppose they managed that, Lieutenant?”

Beka looked out the tent flap to the distant hills visible beyond. “There are hundreds of little valleys up there. Anyone who knew the area could sneak small groups into them, keep quiet, no fires. When the time came, they’d send out runners with orders to mass at some central point.”