Stalking Darkness (52 page)

“You can see better now,” he told them, pointing down a gap. “This breeze that’s coming up should clear it off before long.”

From where they stood, Beka could see a road winding through the narrow cleft of a pass. There was a way station there, an old tumble-down log building, but the stable and large corral next to it were sturdy and new.

Rocky slopes rose steeply on both sides of the road, making it the only passable route of attack or escape.

“I’ve been watching the place,” Steb told them. “I’d say there’s no more than two dozen soldiers and a few wagoneers down there. Nobody’s ridden in or out since we found the place an hour ago.”

Judging by the activity in the yard, Beka guessed the wagoneers were getting ready to move out, though neither they nor their military escort seemed in any particular hurry. Many still lounged around the station door with trenchers and mugs. The breeze coming up the pass carried the tantalizing aroma of breakfast fires.

She studied the fog still shrouding the road leading up to the station. “If we move fast, we might get within two hundred yards of the enemy before they catch a good look at us.”

“And if we circle by this trail and come in on the road from the east, chances are they’ll think we’re friendly forces anyway,” whispered Braknil.

“Good idea. The Plenimaran cavalry columns travel at a canter in ranks of four. We’ll line up in the same formation. Put anyone who’s riding with Plenimaran tack in front in case they recognize the jingle of the harness.”

Sergeant Braknil raised an eyebrow, looking impressed. “Who taught you to be such a sly thinker, Lieutenant?”

Beka gave him a wink. “A friend of the family.”

Their ruse paid off. The Plenimarans scarcely looked up from their breakfasts as the turma came cantering toward them out of the mist. By the time they drew swords and broke into a gallop, it was already too late.

They thundered up to the station, whooping and screaming at the top of their lungs. A few of the Plenimaran soldiers stood their ground. Most broke and ran for cover in the station and outbuildings.

Galloping at full speed, the Skalans rode down the men who stood against them. The Plenimarans put up a brief, determined fight but were no match for the flashing swords and iron-shod hooves that mowed them down.

With the station’s one line of defense destroyed, Beka shouted an order and the riders split into decuriae.

Braknil spotted men running for the cover of the stable and chose that as his target. Wheeling toward the low-roofed building, he and his riders drove the would-be escapees into the stable, then tossed the Plenimarans’ own night lanterns into the straw piled outside the back door. Within seconds, screams rang out from the panicked horses stabled inside. Choking and cursing, those who’d taken refuge there came stumbling out again and were herded at sword point into the corral.

Rhylin and his decuria attacked the station building.

Dashing up to the door, the ungainly sergeant leapt from his horse and threw himself against the door, knocking it open just as the men inside were trying to thrust the bar into place. His assault was successful, but he was nearly trampled for his efforts as the rest of his decuria, led by Kallas and Ariani, stormed in to his aid. The soldiers and wagoneers inside surrendered immediately.

Beka and a handful of riders rode off in pursuit of the Plenimarans who had fled at the first sign of attack. Most of those on foot were easily overtaken, but several who’d gotten onto horses broke away down the east road. Beka and her group took off in pursuit, but their quarry had the advantage of fresh horses and a knowledge of the country. Cursing under her breath, she turned back.

The remaining Plenimarans had been gathered in the station building.

“I took count, Lieutenant,” Braknil informed her as she dismounted. “Nineteen enemy dead and fifteen taken, counting the wagoneers and stationmaster. Sergeant Rhylin’s got the prisoners under guard.”

Beka surveyed the bodies scattered between the buildings and the road. “Any losses for us?” “Not a scratch,” the sergeant replied happily. “Those little tricks of yours worked!”

“Good.” Beka hoped her relief wasn’t too obvious. “We don’t want to make the same mistake as our friends in there, so post lookouts on the road. Corporal Nikides!”

“Here, Lieutenant.” The young man rode over to where she stood.

“Get someone to help you check the wagons. Let’s hope we haven’t gone to all this trouble for a load of horseshoes and slop pails.”

“Yes, Lieutenant!” Grinning, he snapped a salute and rode off again.

Inside the station, the Plenimarans sat packed together at the far end of the building’s single narrow room under the watchful eyes of Rhylin’s guards. Six of the captives were wagoneers; the rest wore black military tunics displaying a white castle emblem.

Rhylin snapped Beka a smart salute as she entered. “We’ve searched the prisoners and the buildings, Lieutenant. Nothing of note found. It looks like a routine supply train.”

“Very good, Sergeant.”

Beka’s long red braid fell free over her shoulder as she removed her helmet. The prisoners exchanged glances and low murmurs among themselves at the sight of it. Several stared at her boldly and one spat sideways onto the floor.

Gilly moved to avenge the insult, but Beka stayed him with a glance.

“Who’s the ranking officer here?” she demanded, not bothering to sheath her sword. The prisoners simply stared back at her, silent and insolent.

“Do any of you speak Skalan?”

Again the blank silence. The Plenimarans’ disdain for female soldiers was legend, but this was her first exposure to it. A trickle of sweat inched down her back as all eyes turned to her.

Rider Tare, a young, red-haired squire’s son with the solid build of a wrestler, stepped forward with a respectful salute. “By your leave, Lieutenant, I speak a little Plenimaran.”

“Go on, then.”

Tare turned and addressed the prisoners haltingly. A few snickered. None replied.

Well, I’ve got the badger by the hind leg, as the saying goes. Now what the hell do I do with it?

Beka thought, racking her brain. The thought of Seregil’s sly, lopsided grin brought her inspiration.

With a careless shrug, she said aloud, “Well, they had their chance. Sergeant Rhylin, see that they’re securely bound. Sergeant Braknil, your decuria is in charge of burning the place.”

A few of her own people exchanged worried looks, but the sergeants obeyed without question.

One of the wagoneers whispered excitedly to a grizzled soldier next to him. The man went an angry red, then hissed something back. Rising on one knee, the wagoneer bowed awkwardly to Beka.

“A moment, Lieutenant, I speak your language,” he said in passable Skalan. “Captain Teratos says he will parley with your commanding officer as soon as he arrives.”

Beka favored the Plenimaran captain with an icy look. “Wagoneer, first tell this man that I am the commanding officer here until the rest of our troop arrives. When my captain arrives, she will have less patience with him than I do. Then inform him that Skalan officers do not parley with those they have defeated. I will ask questions. He will answer them.”

The wagoneer quickly interpreted Beka’s words for the captain. The man stared at her for a moment, then spat wetly between his feet. This time Beka made no move to stop Gilly as he brought the flat of his sword down on the man’s head.

“My men don’t approve of his discourtesy, wagoneer,” Beka went on calmly.

“Tell him that we’re hungry, and that the roasted flesh of our enemy is more succulent than pork. Sergeant Braknil, fetch the torches.” Turning on her heel, she strode outside.

Braknil followed her out. “You don’t really mean to burn those men?”

“Of course not, but we don’t want them to know that, do we? Let’s give them a few minutes to consider their situation.”

Syra ran over to her just then, clutching a strip of salted fish and a cup of beer. “Lieutenant, Corporal Nikides sends you breakfast with his compliments,” she said, handing them to Beka. “There’s barley meal, too, but he said to tell you ‘no slop jars.’”

Beka took a swallow of warm beer. “That’s a relief. Spread the word; each rider is to take as much fish and meal as they can carry. We’ll have to leave the beer. As soon as everyone has what they need, burn the rest. Sergeant Braknil, see that Rhylin’s riders are relieved as soon as yours are supplied—“

She was interrupted by the sound of a horse coming in from the west. It was Mirn, who’d been sent out as a lookout.

“Enemy riders headed this way!” he shouted to her. “Cavalry column, two score riders at least.”

“Damn!” Motioning the others to silence, she listened intently for a few seconds; no sound of the approaching riders yet. The mist was still with them, but the smell of the burning stable would carry for a mile. “Spread the word, Mirn. Everyone grabs an extra horse and food and heads east. If anyone gets separated, they’re to circle back and head for the regiment with word of what we found. Go!”

Rhylin came running out of the station with his people. “What about the prisoners?” “Leave them. Get out of here!” The staccato rumble of the approaching column was audible now. Leaping onto her horse, Beka galloped to the wagon and yanked out the first sack her hand fell on.

An arrow sang over her head as she slung the bag over her saddlebow. Another shaft thudded into the side of the wagon as she wheeled her mount, galloping down the eastern road just as the first of the Plenimaran outriders burst out of the thinning mist.

Hoping the fire at the station would halt at least some of the enemy, Beka led her riders deeper into Plenimaran territory.

I
t was silent and dark under the water. Seregil could see the bright silver surface wavering above him as he struggled, but something in the depths below gripped his ankle, holding him just out of reach.

A tall, dark figure loomed over him, distorted by the surface refraction. It saw Seregil floating helplessly below and beckoned to him.

With a final, frantic kick, he managed to get his face above water just long enough to fill his bursting lungs. As he did so, he looked up into the face of the man standing over him. The lips moved as he told Seregil what he must do.

He couldn’t understand the words, but they filled him with such horror all the same that he cried out and water poured into his mouth as the unseen force below pulled him under again—

“Seregil! Seregil, wake up, damn it.”

Gasping for air, Seregil focused on Micum’s worn, freckled face, the ship, the open sea around them. The ship. The open sea.

“Oh, shit, not again,” Seregil groaned, pressing his fingers against his throbbing temples. Over his friend’s broad shoulder, he saw a few sailors gathered nervously nearby, craning their necks for a glimpse of him.

“Did I—?” Micum nodded. “They heard you clear back to the stern this time. This is the third time.”

“Fourth.” In the week since they’d set sail, the dream—whatever it was, since he couldn’t recall it when he woke—had come more often. Worse yet, he was beginning to nod off at odd times during the day to have it, this time in broad daylight right here at the foot of the bow platform.

“Any man with time on his hands can report to me for extra duty,” barked Captain Rhal, scattering the knot of gawkers as he stumped up the deck.

Reaching Micum and Seregil, he lowered his voice to a growl. “You said you’d keep to your cabin after the last time. The men are beginning to talk. What am I supposed to tell them?”

“Whatever you can,” Micum replied, helping Seregil to his feet. “Those two who were with you on the Darter, can they still be trusted?” Seregil asked.

“I’ve told them to keep their mouths shut about that and they will.” Rhal paused, still frowning. “But Skywake’s muttering about you being a jinx, a stormcrow. He knows better than to say it outright but the others are starting to sense it.”

Seregil nodded resignedly. “I’ll keep out of sight.”

Micum followed as he headed for the companionway. “By the Flame, you’ll get us pitched over the side for certain if you don’t mind yourself,” he muttered.

“These sailors are worse than soldiers when it comes to anything that looks like an omen.” Seregil ran a hand back through his lank hair.

“What did I say this time?”

“Same as before, just ‘no, I can’t’ over and over until I got to you. I suppose I shouldn’t have left you when I saw that you’d dozed off.” Entering their cabin, Micum dropped onto his bunk.

“Did you remember any of it this time?”

“No more than before,” Seregil sighed, stretching out on his own bunk with a flask of ale. “I’m drowning, and I see someone looking down at me through the water. That’s all I can ever recall, but it scares the hell out of me. The closer we get to Plenimar, the worse it feels.”

“I’m not so happy about it myself,” Micum said with a wry grin.

Since rounding the southern tip of Skala two days before, they’d spotted half a dozen enemy vessels in the distance, and outrun two of these. This was another point of contention with the crew; there would be no bounty to divide up if they didn’t engage.