Alector's Choice (52 page)

For the first time,
Mykel looked uncertain. He did not answer immediately.

Dainyl waited.

“If… if Third
Battalion were up to full strength, I’d keep pursuing until we wiped them out
or until they made a stand.”

“So would I,” Dainyl
said. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do. Two Myrmidons with skylances will
help.” He studied the captain. His Talent was still intermittent and unfocused,
and he might not even be aware of what he was doing. Dealing with the captain
could wait. The rebels could not.

Late on Novdi
evening, Mykel sat on a sagging and backless pine bench outside yet another
grower’s stable—where, this time, Mykel had taken the tack room with its single
narrow bunk for his own. This grower had been on his lands, and he had
explained that he had not backed the rebels and wanted no trouble. He had been
telling the truth, and Mykel had told the man that he wanted no trouble either,
just fodder and some food and shelter, and that Fifteenth Company would be
leaving in the morning.

Mykel looked from the
dark main house, its shutters fastened tight despite the warmth of the evening,
toward Bho-ral, who sat on a sawed-off log set on end across from his captain.

“Colonel—the
Submarshal—talked to you for a long time,” observed the senior squad leader.

“He did. We’ll be
getting messengers regularly now. He might even drop messages by the
pteridons.”

“Glad to see that
they finally decided to use the Myrmidons,” Bhoral said.

“I have the feeling
that the Submarshal wanted to all along,” Mykel replied. “He said he was
recalled, and that there had been some changes made.”

“Made him Submarshal
for one.” Bhoral shifted his weight on the log. The planks underneath creaked
slightly. “You think his plan will work?”

“We don’t have to do
anything but what we’ve been doing.”

“Not until we get
them all bunched up. If they gather their forces. You think they will?”

“That part seems
likely,” mused Mykel. “We’ve already proved that they can’t stand against us if
they’re separated. Once they’re together, the Myrmidons can fly in.”

“They have to know
that—after this afternoon.”

“They might, but who
will tell them? I didn’t see any survivors,” Mykel pointed out. “We could have
burned the bodies.”

Bhoral pulled at his
chin. “Don’t know as I’d count on it.”

“What else can they
do?”

“They could hide and
wait.”

Mykel laughed, a
sound ironic and rueful. “You and I could hide and wait. The seltyrs have based
everything on their power. They can’t wait, not if they want to remain
seltyrs.” He couldn’t help but think of the legacy he had left in Jyoha. There,
the people had learned exactly what could be done against arrogant and
unprepared power. Mykel hadn’t meant to teach them that, but he had, however
inadvertently, and that was something else that might change the future of
Dramur—one way or another.

“They could still dig
in someplace, where there are caves, holes, rocks, and make us come get them,”
Bhoral said.

“The Submarshal
expects that. He thinks that, if we push them in the right way, they’ll move
into the rocky ground some twenty vingts north of the mine. There’s a forest in
front, with big pine trees, the kind that the Myrmidons can’t use those flame
lances through, but the trees are far enough apart for mounts underneath. They
can retreat upslope to a cliff with caves.”

“We’re going to do
that, with one company?”

“He’s going to put
Rhystan in charge of an oversized i company, what’s left of Fourteenth and
Sixteen Companies. They’ll push from the south.”

“We’ll still have to
lose men digging them out.”

“The Submarshal says
that he and the Myrmidons can take care of that part. Our job is to whittle
them down and get them into the open or into the caves.”

“Coldhearted bastard,
isn’t he?”

“You could say that.”
Mykel didn’t see that Submarshal Dainyl was any more coldhearted than Mykel
himself had been recently—or than the seltyrs had been more than a few times.
“Better coldhearted than hotheaded.”

“Suppose so. I still
don’t like it.”

“Neither do I, but
it’s better than what we faced without the Myrmidons.” Mykel stood and
stretched.

“We going to push
tomorrow?”

“No. It’ll take
Rhystan another day to get far enough north. We’re supposed to move west and
north some, and make sure that we’re seen—and not get ambushed or lose any men.
If there’s a small group or company, and I think we have a solid edge, we can
attack.” Mykel snorted. “That’s not likely.”

“No, sir. Everyone
knows we’re here. Either find five companies on our doorstep, or none in a half
score of vingts.” Bhoral yawned and rose from his log stool. “Going to check
the sentries. See you in the morning, sir.”

“In the morning.”
Mykel continued to look out into the darkness, taking in the corral fence and
the sentries beyond. While Selena had risen earlier, it had vanished behind the
clouds to the east, providing only a faint glow behind them. Asterta hung, a
miniature circle of green, above the MurianMountains, reminding Mykel of the
ancient soarer—who had also hovered above the mountainside and told him to find
a talent that allowed him to look beyond, as if he even knew where to start.
And when had he had time for that? The only talents he seemed to have time to
find and use were being able to shoot a rifle with lethal effect under almost
any conditions and finding more effective ways to kill rebels.

Somehow, he didn’t
think that was what she had meant.

Was there a link
between her and the ancient dagger? Alone in the darkness, he slipped it out
from the slot in his belt. The blade shimmered greenish in the darkness, yet in
a way that shed no light, cast no shadow. Why was he still carrying it?

Because not to would
be worse. That he knew, even if he üdn’t know why. He slipped the miniature
dagger back into its slot.

Then he turned and
headed for the door to the tack room.

Decdi morning was
pleasantly warm, if drier than Dainyl preferred, when he left the officers’ mess
after breakfast, now back to cooking normally, and walked to the stables. There
he watched as Captain Rhystan mustered the bulked-up Sixteenth Company and
headed them out. Four supply wagons brought up the rear as the Cadmi-ans rode
out the west gate.

Once Sixteenth
Company was well down the road, and the rebuilt gates had closed, Dainyl strode
across the courtyard to the headquarters building. Early as it was, the
building was empty, except for the squad leader on duty, who sprang to his feet
as Dainyl passed.

“Carry on.” The
Submarshal smiled and kept moving.

Once in his study,
Dainyl walked to the window and looked out into the courtyard, far emptier than
on previous days. How long would it take for the two Cadmian companies to herd
and prod the seltyrs into gathering their forces? What if they remained
separate?

A cold smile
appeared. If they remained separate, between the pteridons and Captain Mykel
and Captain Rhystan, soon there would be no sizable rebel forces left.

Dainyl still pondered
over why the marshal and the Highest had armed the seltyrs and fomented such
disorder in

Dramur. The unrest
clearly reduced lifeforce, both through the actual deaths of higher life forms
and through the disruption of guano deliveries to the mainland. Why would they
want that, particularly at this time?

Still having no
answer, he turned to the rack set against the inside wall and picked up the map
of the area north of the mine. He needed to study it before he had Falyna fly
him over that terrain later in the day. It wasn’t the best of maps, but it was
what he had, and he systematically committed the major terrain features to
memory.

Sometime later, there
was a quiet rap on the door. Dainyl looked up.

“Sir?” Meryst stood
in the study doorway.

“Yes?”

The captain held up
an envelope. “A messenger delivered this to the guards on gate duty a little
while ago. It’s addressed to you.”

Dainyl took the
envelope. The outside bore the inscription “Colonel Dainyl.” He broke the blue
wax seal, unfolded the parchment, and began to read the flowing script.

Colonel Dainyl,

Dramur and its people
are not and will not be mere counters or tokens in a game played by a handful
of alectors who appear only when they wish to take something. On behalf of
those who have entrusted their futures to our leadership, we urge that you
leave Dramur to its people and their traditional leaders, for we cannot and
will not submit to the rule of outsiders who have neither understanding nor
appreciation for our ways.

If you do not choose
to leave, and to take your Myrmidons and Cadmians with you, you and they will
suffer. We will not surrender, and alectors will never rule Dramur, for you can
never be a part of the land and the world upon which it rests.

At the last words of
the message, Dainyl barely managed keep from frowning, recalling what Lystrana
had pointed it earlier. How had the seltyrs known that? Were they guessing? Or
had they just used flowery words and come up with that phrase? There was no
signature, only a seal, set in the same blue wax.

“Sir?” asked Meryst.

“We have been told
that we will suffer, and that they will never surrender. I didn’t expect
something in writing, but I understood the message without a formal
declaration.” He extended the missive so that Meryst could see the seal. “Do
you recognize this seal?”

“No, sir.”

About that, the
captain was telling the truth, and his puzzlement seemed genuine.

“Why do they think
they can defy the Myrmidons? Do ou have any idea, Captain?”

“Sir… the seltyrs
have always felt they are the true and ightful rulers of Dramur. So long as no
one interfered in what happened on their lands, they paid token allegiance to
the Duarches.”

Was that the reason
for the marshal’s plot? But… if that vere so, why would the seltyrs have
trusted any emissary vho was an alector? Or had they just pretended to trust to
obtain the weapons? Or had someone else acted as an inter-nediary? “That speaks
poorly for everyone.” Dainyl’s vords were dry.

“Yes, sir, but that
is the way they have felt.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Meryst nodded, then
turned and left.

After a moment,
Dainyl walked across the corridor to the smaller study, where Overcaptain
Dohark stood at the window.

The overcaptain
turned. “Sir?”

“The seltyrs have
declared war to the death, or some such,” Dainyl announced, holding up the
missive. “They actually sent a message. Almost touching, their belief in their
power and the rightness of their ways.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You sound doubtful,
Overcaptain.”

“Not doubtful, sir. A
Cadmian finds out soon enough that every man feels his ways are the right ways.
Otherwise, he couldn’t face the next day. Most wouldn’t declare that they’d
fight to the death. Fewer would.”

“You don’t think the
seltyrs will?”

“They will. Some of
their men will.”

“And the rest? What
will they do?”

“They’ll go home and
do what they must.”

“Even if that means
following the next seltyr?”

“If that’s the only
choice, and it will be for many.”

“I fear you’re right
about that.” Dainyl nodded. “I’ll be out flying for most of the morning. It
could be longer.”

The Submarshal
returned to his study, where he reclaimed his flying jacket from the study and
made his way out of headquarters and into the courtyard, striding toward the
square that held the duty pteridon. Falyna was waiting. “Just recon today,
sir?”

“Just recon—unless we
happen to see a massed force of rebels in the open.”

Dainyl thought that
most unlikely, and, from her expression, so did Falyna.

Under the midmorning
sun of a warm Duadi, Mykel blotted his forehead, then leaned forward slightly
in the saddle to look at the half score of houses that lay five hundred yards
ahead down a barely perceptible incline.

Over the past few
days, following the Submarshal’s orders, Mykel had slowly moved Fifteenth
Company westward and northward. While they had occasionally seen the
tioofprints of the rebels’ mounts, the prints had been at least a day old, and
all were headed in a westerly and more northerly direction.

Gerant cleared his
throat. “Sir, roads and lanes look clear.”

Mykel shifted his
eyes from the small hamlet back to the scout reined up beside him. “There’s no
one out in the hamlet?”

“No, sir,” replied
the scout. “Saw me coming, and every door and every shutter slammed shut, quick
as a lightning bolt. A couple ran and shut up their stables.”

“We’re not exactly popular,”
Mykel said.

“No, sir. Not as
though we shoot women or children.”

“Or poison people,”
Mykel added dryly. “We’ll ride through, but with rifles ready.” He doubted that
they would need the rifles, since he couldn’t sense any real danger, but there
was always the chance that his senses wouldn’t pick up all dangers.

He straightened in
the saddle. “Fifteenth Company! Rifles ready! Forward!”

“First squad,
forward!” repeated Gendsyr^

Mykel studied the
hamlet as they rode closer. The fields on each side of the road alternated
between sunbeans and pastures where grass alternated with bare soil. The
grasses that had been green throughout Dramur a few weeks earlier were showing
signs of tan and gold as the days continued to warm.

Small orchards grew
behind most of the small cots, but Mykel had no idea what the fruit might be.
He’d thought the people who lived in the north Westerhills had been poor, but
they were well-off compared to the peasants in small hamlets in Dramur. Yet the
seltyrs lived like rulers—they were cepted it. They not only accepted their
poverty, but they seemed to be against anything that would make the seltyrs
more accountable. From what he could see, the young men willingly joined the
ranks of the rebels, even while the seltyrs were bleeding their families and
parents.

“Quiet.” Bhoral
pulled his mount alongside Mykel’s. “Every hamlet has been like this. You think
they fear us that much?”

“I don’t know whether
they fear us, or they fear what we might do, or they fear not showing fear
because of what the seltyrs and growers will do once we’ve left.”

“You think things
will be that bad?”

“Oh, there will be
new seltyrs, and some growers will become seltyrs, but these people will stay
poor. For them, nothing will change.”

“I suppose not. My
folks still live in the same house in the same village outside of Hafin as my
grandparents and their parents did.”

Mykel’s parents lived
in the same house where his grandparents had. Was it like that for most people?
Was that why so little changed? Mykel’s lips tightened as he considered the
thought.