Alector's Choice (48 page)

The second keg of
gunpowder stood behind it.

“Cadmians—to the west
wall!” ordered Dohark.

Carefully, Mykel
climbed up the bracing behind him. He could see a line of riders outlined against
the late-afternoon sun. He made his way down, then wrestled the barrel out the
gate and onto its side. Carefully, he rolled it around the embers and charred
wood of the wagon-ram and back onto the road.

He could hear hoofs,
even feel them through the stones, by the time he had the barrel in place a
good twenty yards out from the wall. He would have liked to have moved it out
farther, but didn’t know that he’d be able to get everything to work if he did.

Then he ran back to
the gate and grabbed the keg of power, lugging it back to the adapted barrel.
Once he was behind the big barrel, he poured almost half the ancient powder
into a pile and set the keg in the middle of the powder. Then he sprinted for
the gate and squeezed through. As soon as he did, the rankers pushed the wagon
bed back into place and began to rewedge braces into position.

Mykel stood there for
a moment, panting, before he scrambled back up the steps to the wall. He was
sweating, both from the heat, the exertion, and from thinking about what could
have happened to him had anything gone wrong with his device. ‘

The rebel bluecoats
were pouring toward the compound. Even some of the greencoats from the east had
circled around to join the attack.

“Open fire!” ordered
Dohark.

Mykel picked out one
of the riders in the fore and fired. The bluecoat went down, slowing those
behind him. Mykel fired again, and again. By then the bluecoats were within a
hundred yards of the barrel, but as a result of the heavy fire from the
compound, they had condensed into a more compact mass.

Mykel reloaded
quickly, waiting until the bluecoats were almost upon the ancient barrel,
sitting in the middle of the approach causeway to the compound.

Finally, he aimed at
the powder around the base of the keg—and fired. The barrel and the keg sat,
there, with the rebels almost upon them. He fired again. Still nothing. The
third time he fired, he willed the bullet home, willed it with power and heat.

After that shot,
Mykel ducked, not even knowing whether it hit but knowing something was about
to happen.

CRUMMPTTT! Before his
head was fully behind the merlon, the entire west wall of the compound shook,
and fragments flew above and against the wall. Then, pattering sounds like rain
followed as bits of things dropped onto the stones.

Mykel slowly peered
around the stone edge. A circle almost fifty yards across had been carved out
of the rebels, bodies and sections of bodies lay strewn everywhere. Beyond
that, mounts were rearing, many riderless.

Mykel swallowed,
hard, then ordered, “Full fire! Cadmians! Full fire.”

More rebels dropped.

The bluecoats and
greencoats began to turn, riding in almost every direction.

“Fifteenth Company!
To mounts! To mounts!” Mykel scrambled down the steps and raced toward the area
north of the south wall, where the mounts were supposed to be lined up and
waiting.

They were.

Then he had to wait
for his men.

When he finally rode
toward the east gate—a good fifth of a glass later—he only had about two-thirds
of Fifteenth Company, but he didn’t want to wait any longer.

The east gates did
open, but they shut quickly.

Mykel led Fifteenth
Company across the flat north of the compound, flanking the timber barricades,
until he saw that they had been abandoned.

A squad of bluecoats
turned, as if to form up, but when they saw that they faced a larger force,
several riders on the ends turned their mounts.

Mykel rode straight
for the squad leader, his sabre out and ready.

The squad leader
tried to lift his rifle.

Mykel dropped almost
flat against the chestnut’s neck for a moment, then swept in from the right.
His sabre cut was awkward—but effective enough that blood welled across the
other’s arm, and his rifle dropped onto the ground. Mykel kept riding, turning
toward the bluecoat in the second rank, who half raised his sabre. Mykel’s
momentum slammed his weapon aside.

In moments, there was
a melee, but within a fraction of a glass, half the rebels were down, and the
others were scattering. Fifteenth Company had gone through them like a newly
sharpened sabre through rotten cheese, leaving a half score dead.

Ahead, Mykel saw
another formation in one of the few small meadows on the south side of the
road. He sheathed the sabre, more slowly than he would have liked, and called
back, “Fifteenth Company! Ready for firing line!”

The rebels had
grouped into a tight formation and drawn blades, clearly awaiting a sabre
charge.

“Fifteenth Company!
Firing line and halt!”

Mykel almost couldn’t
believe what he saw, with the rebels standing flat, but he wasn’t in the mood
to be forgiving or charitable, not after poisonings, battering rams, and
ambushes.

He reined up and
slipped out his rifle, aiming at the squad leader. “Open fire!”

By the time Fifteenth
Company had emptied its maga-zines at a distance of less than fifty yards, at least
a third of the rebels were down.

“Sabres ready!
Forward!”

Several of the rebels
tried to fight—not well. The others tried to flee, and a number were cut down
from behind.

Less than a glass
later, short of the river bridge, Mykel turned Fifteenth Company back. His
sabre was bloody, as was his uniform.

As they rode slowly
back to the compound through the growing twilight, Mykel saw bodies everywhere.
He could smell blood and burned flesh, and already the flies and nightwasps
were circling in on the ground around the compound.

He wouldn’t have been
surprised if a third of the rebels had died. With those wounded, and those
deserting, the seltyrs could have lost half their forces.

The east gates opened
just long enough to readmit Fifteenth Company, then closed with a dull thud.

Dohark was waiting at
the stables.

“Wasn’t that taking a
risk?” he asked after Mykel dismounted.

“The whole day was a
risk,” Mykel replied, adding, after a moment, “sir.” He took a deep breath. “I
thought they’d be disorganized. They were. We probably killed off another
company or so.”

“Do you think they’ll
be back?”

“Not soon. It’ll take
them a few days, maybe even several weeks, to regroup. After the men rest, I’d
suggest harassing them more, picking off stragglers and anyone else we can.”

“You’ve got the only
force that can do that.”

“Is that an
approval?”

“We’ll talk about it
tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The colonel might
want to know why you helped the rebels blow apart the gate,” said Dohark. “When
he returns.”

“He might.” Mykel
shrugged. “I was trying to use some powder to spread the burning oil to burn up
their ram. Things got out of hand.”

“You could put it
that way,” Dohark said. “I’m reporting that the kitchen oil that you used to
set the ram afire exploded.”

“That’s also true,
sir.”

“That’s the way it
is. That powder… it must have been misplaced when the rebel sympathizers took
the rifles last ear.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s one other
thing, Mykel.”

“Yes?”

“How in the Anvils of
Hell did you get that stuff to explode? It’s frigging near impossible to get
powder to burning shooting it with a bullet.”

Mykel managed to keep
from looking blankly at Dohark. “I guess I was just lucky. I don’t have any
other explanation.”

“Too much luck is as
bad as too little, at times.”

“I suppose so.”

“After you get your
men settled, get some rations and rest.” Dohark nodded and walked into the
dusk.

Why wasn’t Dohark all
that pleased with a battle that had urned a sure disaster into something
better, with a chance to wipe out the rebels in the weeks ahead? What was it
about command that turned officers into men more concerned about what methods
were used than about winning with the fewest losses? He stifled a yawn. He’d
worry about that later.

“Bhoral? Make sure
that they groom their mounts and clean their weapons tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mykel led the
chestnut toward his stall. He had to take care of those chores himself, or
before long, men would ask why he issued orders he didn’t follow. He couldn’t
have that. Not the way things were going.

Marshal Shastylt never
did return to headquarters on Quinti, and Dainyl finally left, much later than
he would have liked, after confirming arrangements with Quelyt and Falyna for
an early flight on Sexdi.

He and Lystrana ate
quietly, and did not say much of great import throughout the meal. Once the
girls had finished with the cleanup and had settled themselves for the evening,
Dainyl and Lystrana retired to their bedchamber. Each brought a goblet of the
golden brandy.

Dainyl sat on a tall
padded stool, sipping his brandy and watching as Lystrana, wearing a pale gold
dressing gown, brushed her shimmering black hair. Each stroke was smooth,
efficient, yet subtly sensual. Nevertheless, he could not totally concentrate
on her, beautiful as she was, close as she was.

“Something’s
bothering you. I can feel it.”

“You always can.” He
laughed softly.

“Tell me.” Her voice
was gentle.

“I don’t understand,”
he said quietly.

“Understand what?”

“I’m convinced the
marshal and the Highest fomented this revolt in Dramur, and, now, they want me
to put it down quickly. There wasn’t any urgency before, and now there is.”

“Too many things have
gotten out of hand,” she suggested.

“Why now? Because
we’re approaching the time when a decision has to be made on the master
scepter?” He shook his head. “The landers and indigens know nothing about that.
There are few of them who even have a trace of Talent.”

“How could they
know?”

“My Highest mentioned
that there had been a wild Talent in Hyalt, but I’ve never sensed that in any
lander. Do you think any of them really does? Or was that another situation
that got out of hand and the marshal claimed that it was caused by a wild
Talent?”

“Either is possible,”
mused Dainyl.

“Do you really think
so?” She laid down the brush and turned.

Dainyl just took in
her perfectly shaped oval face, her Form, and the deep violet eyes he could
look into endlessly.

“You’re not thinking
about my question.” She laughed softly.

“I wasn’t,” he
admitted. “I was thinking that this was our last night for a while, perhaps a
long while.”

“If you think about
it, more quickly, it might settle your thoughts, and then we might have more
time to get on with what else you have in mind.” Her lips curled into a playful
smile. Then, she took a sip from her goblet.

“There are landers
with Talent—at least potential Talent. I’ve run across a Cadmian captain who
has the potential. He doesn’t know, and I hope he never learns. He’s one of the
better junior officers. I’d hate to lose him.”

“Competent landers in
positions of responsibility are hard to find, but… the way they breed, we can’t
afford to have all that wild Talent loose. You know that. You know what a toll
that would take on Acorus.”

“He doesn’t even have
a consort, and he’s not the type to spend himself on other women, or not much.”

“That’s not all
that’s worrying you, dearest.”

“No. There’s Colonel
Dhenyr.” Dainyl shook his head.

“He’s polite. He’s
well-mannered. He has a long, but not terribly distinguished record in the
Myrmidons. His Talent is limited, and he has no real grasp of what is happening,”
suggested Lystrana.

“Exactly. You’ve met
him?”

“I’ve never even seen
a report on him,” she replied.

“That’s the way you
would have appeared when they made you colonel.”

Dainyl winced.

“Why do you think
they made you colonel? Why do you think we worked so hard at concealing the
full extent of your Talent?”

“They don’t want
someone looking into what they’re doing.” He laughed ruefully. “I don’t see
that it matters. Who could I tell who could do anything?”

“You could tell the
Duarches.”

“I could, indeed. And
then what? Do you think that the High Alector of Justice would exactly allow
himself to be disciplined? Or the marshal, after what he did to Tyanylt? We’d
have a revolt among alectors. That’s if I’m right. If I’m wrong…”

“You’re not wrong,”
she affirmed.

“I can’t chance
destroying everything. I have to find a better way.”

“You will.”

“How?” Dainyl
shrugged, conveying frustration and helplessness with the position in which he
found himself.

“Resolve the problems
in Dramur. Then, once you’re back here in Elcien, there will be an
opportunity.”

He took another sip
of the brandy. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Then… is there
anything you can do about it tonight?”

“No…” He laughed. “I
suppose not.”

Lystrana set aside
the goblet and stood, letting the dressing gown slide away.

On Sexdi, Mykel
reported to Overcaptain Dohark right after his breakfast of field rations.

Sitting behind the
study desk, Dohark no longer looked at all greenish, just exhausted, with
deeper circles under his eyes.

“They killed Majer
Herryf,” Dohark said, without preamble.

“When?”

“The night before
last. There was a squad of bluecoats waiting for him. They had tied up his wife
and children. They shot him as he came in the door, then rode off.”

Mykel wasn’t totally
surprised. From what he had seen, Herryf had never understood fully what was
happening in Dramur, and because he had identified with the people of Dramur,
he had thought they would believe him one of them rather than an outland
Cadmian. To most people, even his own family, he suspected, a Cadmian was a
Cadmian, and Cadmians were tools of the alectors and Myrmidons. “Does that
leave you in command?”

“Not really. He
reported directly to Colonel Herolt in Elcien.”

“For the time being,
Meryst and Benjyr might accept your command.”

“Meryst might. No
one’s seen Benjyr.”

“You think he’s with
the rebels?”

“He might be. He
might be up at the mine compound. Or he might be dead.”

“What about the
mine?”

“I sent a squad up
there a glass ago. It’ll be a while before we hear. What have your scouts
found?”

“Dead bodies, more
than four hundred, from the looks of it,” replied Mykel. “That doesn’t count
the wounded who won’t make it, and the deserters.”

“You still want to go
after the rest of them?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll need
today to put together the supply wagons and ammunition.”

“You’re not going to
operate out of the compound, I take it,” said Dohark.

“They’ll stay away
from here for a while. We need to go where they are, while they’re still not
organized.”

“You’ll do anything
to get away from the dirty work.” A faint smile creased the corners of Dohark’s
mouth.

“Dirty work?”

“Those four hundred
bodies have to be buried, in addition to the ones of ours that still aren’t in
the ground. There’s also a gate that got rammed and exploded that needs
repair.” Dohark paused. “Oh, and the armorer said that you never got a
requisition for all the ammunition.” His smile broadened. “I told him you’d
have it to him today.”

Mykel inclined his
head. “I’ll take care of that immediately.”

“I’d suggest one for the
cooking oil as well.”

Mykel understood the
reasons for that, even though the cooks probably could have cared less about a
requisition for cooking oil, so long as they got replacement casks.

Dohark looked hard at
Mykel. ‘The seltyrs are people, Mykel.“

“I know, sir. So are
we, and they’re trying to kill us. They’re also willing to kill anyone who
doesn’t meet their standards. They shot prisoners who wanted to escape. They
wiped out almost all of Seventeenth Company. They sent more than a thousand
troopers across the mountains and against the compound—and we never did
anything against the western seltyrs. All that suggests that it’s them or us.
I’m doing my best to make sure we’re the ones still standing—or riding—when the
smoke clears.”

Dohark said nothing.
He merely nodded.

“Are you suggesting
that I remain here, sir?” Mykel finally asked.

“No. The Cadmians
need you to do what you’ve proposed. I wish there happened to be another way. I
don’t see it.”

Neither did Mykel, at
least not a way that would result in any chance of survival for what was left
of the Third Battalion.

“Is that all?” asked
Dohark.

“That’s all, sir. By
your leave?”

The overcaptain
nodded.

Mykel left the
headquarters building at a quick walk. He still had one other problem for which
he had no answer, and that was Rachyla. Should he see her first—or later? He
decided on sooner. She might offer some insight. Then again, he reflected, she
just might not.

He walked toward her
cell. There was still only one guard on duty, although a different Cadmian.

“Sir? You need to
talk to the prisoner.” I

“If she’ll talk,”
Mykel replied.

The guard unlocked
and opened the cell.

In the dimness
within, Rachyla sat at the desk, one forearm resting on the edge. She did not
turn until after the door had clunked shut.

“How are you
feeling?” Mykel asked.

“Better. The food
isn’t helping. If you can call it food.”

“Those are field
rations. No one wanted to trust the cooking after a third of the Cadmians died
from poisoning.”

“A third?”

“Something like
that—around a hundred and fifty.”

“It is too bad it
wasn’t more.”

“It was enough.”

“All the firing
yesterday—what was that all about?”

“The eastern and
western seltyrs attacked the compound. We killed almost half of them. They’ve
scattered everywhere.”

“They won’t give up.”

“No,” Mykel agreed.
“Not until they’re all dead.”

“And you, brave
captain, will see to that?”

“If I have to. They
seem determined to kill all of us. The only way to stop that is to kill them—or
their men.”

“You must be very
good at killing.” Rachyla looked at Mykel evenly.

“It would be better
if I didn’t have to be.”

“So noble…”

Mykel forced himself
not to take a deep breath in exasperation. “You might explain why the seltyrs
are so determined to attack us.”

“If they do not
attack, they lose everything they have built. They lose it without honor.
Without honor a seltyr is nothing more than a fat grower.”

“I don’t understand.
What are they losing? The only thing they’re being asked to do is not to create
personal armies with contraband weapons.”

“An unarmed seltyr is
without honor.”

“You said that
before, but the weapons they want are banned by the Duarches. If the Cadmians
are not the ones to disarm and defeat them, then the Myrmidons will turn their
estates into ashes and dust.”

Rachyla shrugged.
“You asked. I have told you before. The Duarches will not be here forever. We
will be. They do not belong. Those who do not belong will vanish as if they had
never been.”

“Who told you that?”
Mykel should have asked that before, but he wasn’t used to questioning people
like Rachyla.

“All in Dramur know
that. We have since the times of the ancients. It will not be long before they
vanish. If not in my life, then in the life of my children, or their children.”

Were most of the
Dramurans secret followers of the An-cienteers? Or of something similar? “The
alectors have been here as long as we have.”

“It matters not. We
belong. They do not.”

What Rachyla said
made no sense. She was an intelligent woman, but she was uttering sheer
nonsense. Even a fully trained Cadmian battalion could not stand against a
squad of Myrmidons—or even a pair with their flaming skylances.

“They may not belong,
but it takes more than honor and belief to stop pteridons and skylances… or
even Cadmians and rifles. What do they have to stand up to those?”

“What will be… will
be.”

“Could you explain a
bit more, give me an example?”

“You will see when
the time comes, Captain. That is all I know and all I can tell you.”

Mykel could sense
that she fully believed what she said and truly did not know more.

“Good day, Captain.”

He inclined his head.
“Good day, Rachyla.”

He walked to the door
and rapped on it for the guard to let him out.

He still had to write
up two requisitions and work with Bhoral and the squad leaders to organize the
supplies for the coming campaign of attack and harassment.

But… he wished he
knew what Rachyla had really meant and why an intelligent woman could believe
something so impossible.