The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) (19 page)

Every muscle in Sarovy’s body tensed.  A glint of gold caught his attention but he did not look, even though every instinct screamed at him to duck his head, to turn away from that awful gaze.  The pressure in his skull intensified, raising flecks of light at the fringes of his vision, but he stared fixedly until the horrid wide grin wavered and turned sneering, then sullen.  The ghastly eyes narrowed, then closed.

Sarovy’s sight swam with the sudden release.  Vertigo gripped him, and he clamped his hands on the table’s edge as subtly as he could.  He heard Linciard’s chair scrape back and willed his lieutenant not to interfere, and blessedly he did not.

When the world righted itself, Vrallek was watching him from across the table, his face its usual complexion, mouth closed, eyes slightly averted.  The florid anger had faded, leaving him sober.

Sarovy straightened slightly and exhaled a slow, steadying breath.  He had no idea what had just happened, but kept his hands where they were, lest they shake.

“
Scryer Yrsian,” he said without looking away, “do you require an escort?”

“
I’ll be fine, Captain.”

“
Very well.  Good day.”

No one else moved as the scryer swept up her winnings and made her way out the door.  Even after it clicked shut behind her, the gathered soldiers were silent.  Only when Vrallek gave a great grunt of annoyance and sat back down did Sarovy feel the tension subside.

He stayed standing, and swept the group with a slow, long stare.  They avoided his eyes but for Weshker and Linciard, who watched with nervous concern.

“
Ikas en-Senke’t
,” Voorkei mumbled.

Sarovy looked to the ogre-blood mage sharply.  He knew the term: ‘Eyes of Senket’, from Trivestes’ spiritist past.  A title reserved for the finest of archers, supposedly blessed by the Eagle Spirit.  When the mage did not return his gaze or comment further, he let it pass.

“None of you will behave like that again,” he said.

Houndmaster Vrallek growled low in his throat but did not look up.  The others made vague noises of agreement, and Presh leaned carefully to pluck up the cards and shuffle them back into the deck.

Sarovy forced himself to retake his seat, head still twinging from that bizarre vision.  The shakes had faded, leaving a pit in his stomach where worry could gather.

You knew that this assignment would be tricky
, he told himself.  The Special Platoon personnel files were full of strange terms and redacted passages, or else were generic and unhelpful like the scouts’.  In addition, there were three female Specialists—unheard of in the Crimson Army, where the only women were camp-followers and medics—as well as a full complement of hounds and a sergeant in the Archers’ Platoon with a foreign note appended to his file much like those of the Specialists.

And now he had a snippy little scryer to add to his collection of heretic mages.  A scryer who until last night had been sleeping with the General himself.

All he was missing were slave troops.

He still did not know what purpose this bizarre collaboration of platoons would serve.  The Crimson General had given him a promise that was also a threat: that he would not be mindwashed while he led this company.  He and his men would operate free of the conditioning that shackled the rest of the Army in their encounters with monsters and Dark magic, but what they would be facing and what would happen if they failed…

He did not care to speculate.  His nightmares were bad enough.

Sergeant Presh started dealing the cards again, and slowly the mood of the room tilted back toward equilibrium.  Conversation rekindled.  Sarovy restricted himself to listening and watching, and from Linciard’s significant looks, he knew that he would be fielding the lieutenant’s questions later.  But for now, at least, Linciard stayed quiet and pretended that all was well, while Sarovy observed his strange new subordinates.

Ruengriin
, the files called Houndmaster Vrallek.

Aenkelagi
, for Corporals Avran and Coyle.

He did not understand the words, but knew that these were no normal soldiers.  And though they did not look at him often, and never met his eyes, he knew that they were observing him as closely as he watched them.

*****

In the watchtower in Cantorin, Master Scryer Arloth wrung his hands anxiously while the argument continued in his scrying frames.  In one was the Madam Archmagus of the Hawk’s Pride, in her gold robe and runed mantle.  In another, the Crown Prince and Crimson General Kelturin Aradysson; in a third, Lord Chancellor Jashel Caernahon from the Imperial Palace.  The fourth had just gone blank, but had held Inquisitor Archmagus Enkhaelen himself.

None of them were happy.

“
Why in the name of the Light would you not submit your report?”
the Madam Archmagus was saying.  Her gaze was fixed to one side, undoubtedly staring at the Crimson General’s frame in her own sanctum.  For his part, the General seemed to be watching someone else.

“
I have not finalized it,”
the General said curtly. 
“Thus I have not put it in the Weave.”

“
The Thynbell report is from thirteen days ago.  Certainly you have had more time than that!”

“
It is not complete.”

“
You have put my people in danger—“

“
Now now,”
said Lord Chancellor Caernahon from his frame,
“let us not point fingers.  We must figure this out.”
  He was a thin man, with a pinched, pale face and age-whitened hair, and the white robe he wore did not help his sense of pallor, nor did the pale gold chains of his mantle.  His was the second most senior rank in the Empire, behind only the Risen Phoenix Emperor himself, and he was rumored to be a Master Archmagus though none knew his discipline.  Behind him in the hierarchy came Inquisitor Archmagus Enkhaelen, Field Marshal Rackmar, Sapphire General Demathry, Gold General Lynned, and finally the Crimson General.

“
What is there to figure out, Chancellor?”
railed the Madam Archmagus. 
“Crimson’s lack of communication put Gold in danger not only today, but in Thynbell and at the Imperial Road attack!  If my people had known about this Guardian spirit, we could have dealt with it effectively in the Thynbell palace and had it sent to you two weeks ago!”

“
While this may be true,”
said the Lord Chancellor,
“it is not the matter currently at hand.  I would remind you that we are not in private council, and that our first priority is to hunt down this spirit and imprison it.  Master Scryer?”

“
Yes, Lord Chancellor,” said Arloth nervously.

“
Your aides, have they found any trace?”

“
No, Lord Chancellor.  We are in contact with the Gold team at the site of the assault, but we have not found the enemy on any new scry since the beacon was broken.”

“
And the Gold team, they reported a sudden mist?”

“
Yes, Lord Chancellor.”

In the frame, the Lord Chancellor shook his head slowly. 
“This is troubling.  The forest-wraiths do not normally intercede in our affairs.”

“
We had a similar incident in Corvish territory two days ago, Lord Chancellor,”
said the Madam Archmagus. 
“During the pursuit of the Corvish bandits involved in the road attack.  Our haelhene allies were approaching them when the mist rose and scattered the Corvish into the forest.”

“
The Forest of Night, yes?  Not the Forest of Mists?”

“
Yes, Lord Chancellor.  I will send you the report.”

“
Very good, Madam Archmagus.  But if the forest-wraiths are indeed mobilizing against us, we must alter our tactics.  They are not direct fighters.  Like the Corvish, they prefer ambushes, but unlike those wretched vermin, there are relatively few wraiths.  If we are to deal with them, we must concoct a way to draw them out and catch them, so that we might turn them over to the haelhene.  They will ensure that this problem does not reoccur.”

“
Yes, Lord Chancellor.  Shall I contact Valent and General Lynned?”

“
Do so.  Scry me when you have arranged a meeting.  For now, you are dismissed.”

The Madam Archmagus bowed her head, then her scrying frame went blank.  Arloth was left with the Lord Chancellor and the Crimson General, one wearing a faint frown, the other with face averted.  He wondered if he ought to end his scry before he heard something he should not.

“My Prince,”
the Lord Chancellor said,
“I am disappointed.  I fear I will have to inform your father.”

“
Pike my father,”
spat Kelturin, and his scry went blank.

The Lord Chancellor looked to Arloth, and the Master Scryer’s jaw locked in fear.  Though the old man’s expression was mild—almost kind—there was something about his eyes, even through the magic and distance, that made Arloth’s heart turn over in his chest.  Something indescribably awful.

“Please continue to watch all possible beacons,”
the Lord Chancellor said calmly. 
“Coordinate with the other watchtowers and the Hawk’s Pride, and make sure they observe the entire eastern edge of the Mist Forest.  We count on you, Master Scryer, to give us the swiftest warning so that we might capture this slippery fugitive.”

“
Yes, Lord Chancellor,” Arloth said breathlessly.

“
The Light be with you,”
said the Lord Chancellor.  Then his frame too went blank.

Arloth sat back and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.  Behind him, he heard the journeymen scurry back to their positions, but he did not have the strength to scold them for eavesdropping.  His hands shook as he disassembled the auxiliary scrying frames he had brought out for the discussion; their metal was hot under his fingers, a tribute to the length of the argument.

After stowing them and their basins in the bottom drawer, he hung the focal rings on a hook to drip-dry and pulled out the upper-right-hand drawer, where the contact foci for the other watchtowers were stored.  Frowning, he tried to remember which ones monitored the Mist Forest.

A shiver of energy ran through the room.  He halted with his fingers on the Silverton ring and looked over his shoulder just as the portal-frame activated.

“Who did that?” he cried, lurching to his feet.  His gaze snapped to his journeymen, but they were all at their stations, all staring at the portal-frame as strands of arcane power wove together between its sigils and hooks.

“
It’s being triggered externally, sir,” said one of the men.

“
It can’t be!  That frame is locked!”

But even as the blustery words left his mouth, the lattice of energy smoothed together and became a doorway.  Warm air gushed in, tinged with sulfur and embalming fluid, and for a moment Arloth glimpsed a low-ceilinged, weirdly-lit chamber full of what looked like mortuary slabs.  Then a dark-garbed figure stepped through, and the portal dispersed in his wake.

Arloth stood stock still but for his shivering.  The intruder needed no introduction.  He had been in the scrying conversation barely a quarter-mark before.

His eyes, the blue of glacial ice, took in the watch-chamber with a cool certitude, as if he could discern the use and linkage of every pin and ring and frame and person in the place with just a glance.  One black brow—the scarred one on the right—arched slowly, and he smiled his unpleasant smile.  In the brief time since he had left the conversation, he had changed from dark robes to decidedly non-regulation attire: a short coat, tunic, breeches, boots, gloves and a thick belt, all in black and subtly embroidered with silver in patterns and sigils Arloth could not decipher.  Though it was illegal for a mage to be without robes, Arloth dared not mention it.  Not to this man.

“Well,” said Inquisitor Archmagus Enkhaelen, “are you going to offer me a seat?  After all, I’m here to help.”

*****

Mid-day in the Crimson Army camp.

The rain had thinned, permitting messages to flick back and forth through the camp and further meetings to be assembled.  This time Captain Sarovy stood silent at the back wall of the General’s cabin to the left of the rune-covered door, his own damp oilskin cloak and several others folded over one arm.  As the most junior officer currently in the room, he was in the valet position, and listened while others spoke.

Or, rather, while two of them argued.

“
I do not understand, General, how you could come to the conclusion that the command structure should be sidestepped,” said Colonel Wreth.  He was a greying, grizzled old soldier, the commander of the Free First Brigade and a veteran of Gold campaigns as well as Crimson, and had been with the Crimson Army since its formation.  The willingness with which he opened his mouth was a testament to his rock-solid position.  “The good lieutenant—I’m sorry, the good
captain
—is competent, I agree, but mere competence does not make up for inexperience.  Mandating that he report directly to you, General, is—“