Darknesses (12 page)

O
n
Tridi morning,
Alucius could barely move. He stood, bare to the waist,
in the small washroom he and Feran usually shared, looking at his chest and
shoulder, purple and black from his breastbone to one side and from his
shoulder to below his bottom rib. From what he had been able to tell from the
metal splashed across his nightsilk-covered undervest, he’d actually been hit
twice, almost at the same time. He suspected professional snipers, but he still
couldn’t account for why anyone would take the trouble. He was the most junior
captain in the militia. He’d made it more than clear he did not intend to
remain in the militia. He had no personal ties or influences to anyone on the
Council or among the senior militia officers—or to anyone of power.

Yet
someone had tried to ambush him outside his own stead, and someone—presumably
the Lord-Protector of Lanachrona or someone high in the governing councils of
Lanachrona—had tried two attacks on Emal.

Alucius
suppressed a wince as he began to wash up and shave, still thinking about the
attack of the previous day and what he had put in the report he had dispatched
to militia headquarters—and what he had not.

Again,
there had been little evidence on the bodies, which he had reported. But the
rifles and coins and the thirty captured mounts might help raise some funds for
Emal Outpost. As a detached company commander, Alucius did have the ability to
sell off goods captured in battle, although he had to account for the sale and
the use of the coins. He had not reported either the goods captured or his
plans for them.

He
frowned. Perhaps he had been targeted by the Lanachronans…but not in the way he
had thought. Perhaps they had sought out the most junior and isolated captain
so that they could demonstrate the weakness of the southern borders. If that
were so, though, that meant someone else had set up the attack outside Iron
Stem.

With
a slow sigh, Alucius dried his face. Either way, he had to watch himself. He
just hoped that he’d have a few weeks before something else happened. He needed
time to heal, and even though he had some healing Talent, it didn’t work that
well on one’s self.

Talent
never did.

N
othing
happened,
beyond the usual patrols and garrison requirements, during the
week and two days following the attack. There was no rain, and the roads got
dustier, and the local farmers complained. A few more bodies washed up along
the riverbank, and two more abandoned raider mounts were turned in,
surprisingly. Alucius suspected that there were more that would never show up,
but he couldn’t blame the finders. Emal and Tuuler were far from well-off
locales.

The
bruises on Alucius’s chest and upper abdomen faded into a dull yellow and
blackish purple. The worst of the soreness subsided, and there was no sign of
the “Deforyan” raiders. Nor were there any messages or dispatches or orders
from militia headquarters. Alucius did have to write reports on the five
militia troopers killed in the fight, and shorter entries in their files on the
six who were wounded. He did not make any notes about his own comparatively
minor injuries.

On
Quattri afternoon, he was crossing the courtyard after making an unannounced
tour of the company barracks, when he saw militia troopers—Fifth Company—riding
through the outpost gates, with Feran near the front.

Although
he wanted to know why Fifth Company had returned early, he did not approach
Feran, but retreated to the mess and the spring seasonal reports on each
trooper, reports that he had begun the day before. He was glad, still, that he
was left-handed, because he remained sore, and some of that soreness extended
down into his right hand, although the worst had long since passed.

When
Feran finally entered the mess, Alucius looked up from his reports, but did not
rise as he spoke. “I didn’t expect you back so soon. I thought they’d keep you
wandering around Fiente for at least a month so that the majer could tell the
Council how much the militia cared about its traders and their seed-oil works.”

“We
got word to head back here about three days ago.” Feran grinned. “They said
that the raiders had attacked Emal.” He looked around the mess theatrically. “I
don’t see any damage.”

“We
caught them crossing the Vedra at the shallows before dawn,” Alucius said
blandly. “I thought they might try something like that. So I had sentries out.
There were two companies. It was dark, but they showed up pretty well against
the river. We found ninety bodies, and the local people here have found another
fifteen washed downstream. So far.”

“You
don’t like leaving survivors, do you?” asked Feran.

“The
fewer survivors, the less you have to worry about fighting them again,” Alucius
pointed out. “Also, they were wearing Deforyan tunics and carrying Deforyan
rifles, but they were mercenaries. They even had a few snipers.”

“Are
all herders like you?”

“I’d
guess so.” Alucius paused. “You have something in mind, don’t you?”

“I’d
always thought of herders as standing back, watching their flock, intervening
and protecting when they had to. You’re more like a lead nightram. You always
lead from the front.”

“What
else was I supposed to do?”

“That’s
what I mean. Herders don’t risk themselves that much. At least, that’s my
impression.”

“I
had to do something that would stop them from trying again.” Alucius waited.
“We can’t afford too many fights. Twenty-first Company is already too low on
ammunition.”

“The
supplies…the coin thing with the Council worries me,” Feran said slowly. “Have you
heard anything?”

Alucius
shook his head. “I made a deal with a factor coming through Semal. I sold him
all the Deforyan rifles we got. It wasn’t what you’d get in Borlan or Dekhron,
but I got sixty golds out of it, and another fifty for the mounts. With the
twenty golds’ worth of coppers and silvers we got on the battlefield”—Alucius
grinned—“the ones that some of the men didn’t get first, that should add
another month to what we have for payroll and supplies.”

“You…”
Feran laughed. “A herder and a trader. You could be dangerous, Alucius.”

“The
regulations say that an officer on detached outpost duty can dispose of
property acquired through the militia’s lawful duties, so long as he accounts
for its collection and use. I did keep the ten best mounts, though, for spares,
and replacements.”

“Have
you told the acting commandant that?”

“As
I recall…” Alucius said slowly, his eyes twinkling, “that is part of the
year-end report.”

“By
then, it won’t matter,” Feran pointed out.

“Would
you wish me to write a report at a time that is contrary to militia
regulations?”

The
older officer laughed. “How could I possibly insist on something contrary to
regulations?”

After
a moment, Alucius asked, “Have you heard anything about Majer Weslyn or the
commandant?”

“No.
The orders I received at Fiente were signed by Majer Weslyn, still sealed as
acting commandant, and the troopers who delivered them only knew that Colonel
Clyon remained very ill.”

“Before…he
was just ill.”

“I
know. It doesn’t look good.”

The
two exchanged knowing glances.

Borlan,
Lanachrona

E
buin
straightened his tunic
and stepped through the door into the small room.
He closed the door behind him and stood stiffly before the dark table desk and
across from the captain-colonel of the Southern Guard, who remained seated
behind it.

After
a moment, the captain-colonel gestured. “Sit down, Majer.”

Ebuin
sat, on the front edge of the chair, his eyes not quite meeting those of his
superior.

“Well?”
asked the captain-colonel.

“The
mercenaries made the attack two glasses before dawn the Duadi before last. They
reported no sign of the Twenty-first Company before they crossed the river. The
plan was to take the river road and move westward to the edge of town, station
snipers, and cut down the captain when the Twenty-first Company appeared, then
withdraw, unless engaged.”

“I
take it that the plan did not work as designed.” An amused tone colored the
captain-colonel’s voice.

“No,
sir. Less than a third of the mercenaries survived,” Ebuin reported.

“Fewer
than fifty out of a hundred and ninety? Exactly how did that happen?” asked the
captain-colonel. “If you would explain…?”

“Somehow,
he knew. He had his company waiting. It was almost pitch-dark. Neither moon was
up. His timing was perfect. They’d watered the bank, somehow, because the first
riders got slowed by the mud, and most of the rest got cut down in the river.
Only the last few squads escaped.”

“In
the river and in the dark, and they shot that many?”

“Yes,
sir.”

“You
had enough mercenaries for two companies…Two.” The captain-colonel leaned
forward. “How many casualties did Twenty-first Company take?”

“Less
than a handful. Two of the snipers claim that the captain was hit full in the
chest, twice, and it did not even slow him down.”

“He
is a herder. He was doubtless wearing nightsilk under his uniform.”

“Nightsilk
may stop a bullet, sir, but it does not stop its impact. He should have
suffered broken bones, as if he had been hit with an ancient lance in the
chest.”

“We
could use a captain like that.” The captain-colonel smiled, ruefully. “There
are so few.”

“What
else—?” began Ebuin.

“For
better or worse, this effort is over. The vulnerability of the southern borders
of the Iron Valleys has been shown.”

“Sir?”

“That
is an order from the Lord-Protector, Majer. What you did was not totally
successful, and not as successful as either of us would prefer, but it
accomplished what the Lord-Protector needed, and he is not displeased.”

“Yes,
sir.” Ebuin could not quite conceal the relief in his voice.

“Not
as pleased as he should be, but not displeased. Do you understand?”

“Yes,
sir.”

“I
am not totally pleased, either, Majer, but I believe we were both most
fortunate, and we should count ourselves well acquitted. At times, it is best
to let the soarer queen reign.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Both
officers nodded, if for different reasons.

A
lucius
and Feran had just finished
their uninspiring and overcooked mutton
supper when the duty guard knocked on the doorframe. “Captains, messengers for
you.” After a moment, he added, “Looks bad, sirs.” Then he was gone.

Feran
looked at Alucius. Alucius shrugged. They both walked out into the courtyard,
filled with shadows cast by the late-afternoon sun. Two troopers had just
dismounted. They wore the green sashes of messengers, but the sashes were crudely
trimmed with black.

Alucius
had no doubts about what message they brought.

The
shorter trooper stepped forward. “There are two for each of you, Captains.” He
extended the missives, first to Feran, and then to Alucius. “From militia
headquarters.”

One
of the missives was edged in black, and sealed on the outside in black wax as
well. Alucius opened it, aware that he was being watched from a number of
places around the courtyard, as was Feran. The main text of the carefully
written note was short.

It is with great sadness that
the militia announces the death, after a lingering illness, of the commandant,
Colonel Clyon. The colonel devoted his entire life to the Iron Valleys Militia,
to its success in safeguarding the peoples under its care, and its efforts to
ensure the full and free flow of trade to and from the Iron Valleys. In tribute
to this remarkable officer, a month of mourning is hereby declared for all
militia outposts. All officers will wear black mourning bands.

The
signature was, of course, that of Majer Weslyn as acting commandant.

Alucius
looked up from the missive. “Thank you, troopers. We will miss the colonel.” He
nodded to Longyl, who had eased his way toward the group. “If you would see to
the messengers, Longyl. They’ve ridden a great distance with tragic news.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Neither
Feran nor Alucius spoke until they were back in the small mess, alone.

“We
knew it was coming,” Feran said. “Doesn’t make it any easier.” He looked at the
second, unopened message. “Hate to even think about opening this.”

So
did Alucius, but they both looked down, then opened the missives they held.
Alucius read slowly and carefully.

The past few years have been
difficult and trying times for the Militia of the Iron Valleys. The efforts it
has taken to obtain coins, provisions, ammunition, and other supplies required
to maintain the militia have been enormous, and Colonel Clyon accomplished much
against odds that were overwhelming, it can be stated without exaggeration.
This struggle has taken its toll, both on the colonel, and upon the militia and
the people of the Iron Valleys.

The officers and troopers of the
militia continue to face such odds with honor and with the ability for which
the militia is justifiably known throughout all of Corus. One company, although
out-manned by well-armed attackers with more than twice its numbers, recently
repulsed an attack and did so with minimal casualties. That attack came less
than two months after another attack of similar intensity. These attacks
illustrate that we live in an unsettled time, and, because we do, once more, as
the new commandant of the militia, I must call upon you and your troopers to
maintain the high standards and unending vigilance that have been the militia
tradition throughout the generations.

I look forward to working with
you to continue that proud tradition.

Alucius’s
message was signed by Weslyn as colonel and commandant. Below the seal and
signature, in the different hand that had signed the message, presumably
Weslyn’s, another brief line had been written: My commendations on a job
well-done! Twice!

The
younger captain refrained from snorting. At least, Weslyn knew Alucius had done
something. Alucius waited until Feran had finished reading his own message
before asking, “Did you get the ‘honor and tradition’ message?”

“Oh,
that was clear enough. The part that bothered me was about the toll taken.”

Alucius
nodded. “A hint, you think?”

“More
than a hint.” Feran shook his head. “And there’s nothing I can do, not with
five years to go before even a short-coin stipend. You can get out in less than
a year.”

“If
they let me,” Alucius countered.

“They’ll
let you. They don’t want to pay anyone any longer than they have to.” Feran
laughed.

Alucius
laughed as well, but he had his doubts. Still, there was little that he could
or should say, in anything that might get back to Dekhron. He had a message
already written to send to Wendra, but he decided against dispatching what he
had written. Instead, before the messengers departed in the morning, he’d write
a much shorter note, merely conveying his love and the news of Colonel Clyon’s
death. He had no idea who might be looking at what in the days and weeks ahead.