Stalking Darkness (48 page)

Klia nodded. “That seems to be the general opinion. Myrhini tells me you’re a good tracker. If you learned any of it from your father and Seregil, then I know you’re better than most. I want your turma to go up into those hills tomorrow, see what you can find.”

“Yes, Commander!” Beka sat up and saluted again.

“Good. I can give you a few more riders if you think you’ll need them.” Beka considered the offer, then shook her head.

“No, we can move faster and quieter if there aren’t too many of us.”

Klia clapped her on the shoulder. “All right, then. This is like finding adders in the haymow, I know. Find what you can and send back word. Don’t engage unless you’re cornered. Myrhini, who else are you sending?”

“Lieutenant Koris is taking a decuria north into the steeper country. The rest of his turma will go up the central pass with me.”

“I’ve sent word to Phoria that we need reinforcements here,” Klia told them, rising to go. “With any luck the rest of the regiment will come up from the coast in a day or so. Good luck to you both.”

“Take care of yourself, Commander.” Myrhini grinned, thumping the toe of Klia’s boot with her fist. “Don’t go getting yourself gallantly killed while I’m gone.” “I’ll wait until you get back,” Klia shot back wryly. “I wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

“Sakor touched!” Myrhini muttered, watching her friend stride away. “Good luck to you, Beka, and take care.”

“Thanks. I will,” Beka said.

When Myrhini was gone, she got up and looked around for familiar faces among the wounded. She soon found some—too many, in fact. Ariani, a rider in Braknil’s decuria, beckoned to her from a back corner of the tent.

She was wounded but looked able to ride. Some of those with her hadn’t been so lucky. Mikal had taken a spear in the belly, and Thela had a shattered leg.

Next to her, Steb sat slumped against his friend Mirn, one hand pressed to a bloody dressing over his left eye. That wasn’t the worst of it, though.

The little group was gathered around the body of another comrade. It was Aulos, Kallas’ twin. A Plenimaran foot soldier had unhorsed him just before the retreat, then hacked his lower belly open. His brother had carried him off the field and now sat cradling Aulos’ head on his lap.

Beka felt her stomach go into a slow lurch. The surgeon had cut the remains of Aulos’ uniform and chain mail away, only to find that there was not enough of his abdomen left to stitch back together. White and panting, the young man lay staring mutely up at his brother, their faces mirrors of agony. They’d always been inseparable, Beka recalled sadly, equally quick to sing or fight.

“They gave him a draught, but he still feels it,” Kallas said softly as she knelt down beside him.

Tears were coursing down his cheeks, but he remained motionless, patient as stone. “Tholes says there’s nothing to do but to let him go. But he won’t! He hangs on.” Kallas paused, closing his eyes.

“As his kinsman, Lieutenant, I ask permission—to spur him on.” Beka looked down into the wounded man’s face, wondering if he understood what was going on. Aulos locked eyes with her and nodded slightly, mouthing. Please. “Find someone, Mirn. Quickly!” Beka ordered.

Mirn hurried off, returning a moment later with an orderly who quickly opened an artery in Aulos’ leg. The wounded man’s labored breathing slowed almost at once. With a last long sigh, he turned his face to his brother’s chest and died.

“Astellus carry you soft, and Sakor light your way home,” Beka said, speaking the soldier’s brief prayer for the dead. The others echoed it in a ragged chorus.

“Those of you who can ride, help Kallas bury him, then find the rest of the turma. The rest of you stay here and wait for transport to the coast. You fought bravely, all of you. Captain Myrhini’s proud of you. So am I.”

Accepting the murmured thanks of the others, she limped outside as quickly as her leg allowed, only to be met by the sight of scores of bodies lined up on the ground like bundles of harvested grain.

Syrtas was there, and Arna, Lineus, and Sergeant Portus. They lay looking up at the blue sky with empty eyes, like dirty, broken dolls discarded once and for all.

“Astellus carry you soft, and Sakor light—“

Beka’s voice failed her. How many more times would she have to say that parting blessing today? Wiping a hand roughly across her eyes, she whispered the rest.

“Lieutenant Beka?” It was Zir, calling to her from the next hospital tent. He appeared to be unhurt, but his face was deathly pale. “It’s Sergeant Mercalle—She’s in here.”

Squaring her shoulders, Beka followed him back into the stinking dimness.

The surgeons must have given Mercalle something for pain, for she smiled sleepily up at Beka. Both arms were splinted, and one of her legs. There were bandages wrapped tightly around her chest and rib cage, as well, and blood had seeped through these below her right breast and on her left side.

Beka knelt and rested a hand lightly on the sergeant’s shoulder. “By the Flame, what happened to you?”

“Damned horse—“

Mercalle rasped, shaking her head slightly. “When I heal up, I’m joining the infantry.”

“She got thrown and trampled,” Zir whispered. “Corbin was carrying her off the field when they both got hit with arrows. He was killed. I got her on my horse and brought her in. Tholes expects she’ll live.”

“Thank the Maker for that. Where are Kaylah and the others?” Beka asked.

“She’s out looking for the missing ones, Lieutenant. You saw—” Zir nodded in the direction of the bodies outside, and she saw tears glistening in his eyes.

“We’d just fought our way into the open, and thought we’d have a moment to collect ourselves. But there were Plenimaran bowmen there, too. By the Flame, Lieutenant, they hit us hard! Arna, Syrtas, and the others-they were in the lead and didn’t have time to turn their horses.”

Beka clasped his hand. “Go on. Find Kaylah and the rest. I’ll be along soon.”

“Lieutenant?” Mercalle’s eyes were bleary, but she fixed Beka with a direct look. “You were fine on the field, Lieutenant. Real fine. And you’re fine with them off the field, too. But you can’t care too much, you know? You’ve got to care for them, but not too much. It’s a hard thing to learn, but you won’t last if you don’t.”

“I know.” Beka sat a moment longer with her, realizing how much she was going to miss the older woman’s presence in the turma. “When you get back to Skala—if you need anything—my father is Micum Cavish, of Watermead near Rhiminee.”

Mercalle smiled. “I thank you for that, Lieutenant, but I’ve got a couple daughters back home. I’ll try and get word to your folks, though.”

There didn’t seem to be much left to say after that. With a final word of thanks, Beka left the tent and limped past the corpses in search of the living.

The Plenimarans had mown through the encampment, destroying tents, wagons, and anything else in their path. Soldiers were at work everywhere now, trying to salvage what they could from the tangled wreckage.

Beka was just wondering which direction to try first when she heard her name called again and saw Corporal Rhylin waving to her from atop an overturned sutler’s wagon.

“Praise the Flame!” he exclaimed, jumping down. He was taller than she by nearly a head and had an awkward, storklike quality when on foot that belied his prowess as a horseman.

“We didn’t know what to think when you disappeared at the end,” he told her. “There’s been all sorts of rumors. Someone claimed Captain Myrhini went down.”

“She’s fine and so am I,” Beka assured him, though the stitches felt like burning claws in her skin, “Where is everybody?”

“Just over that way.” Rhylin waved a hand back beyond the line of hospital tents, adding glumly, “What’s left of us, anyway. You’d better take my horse.”

“We’ll ride double. I want everyone together.” Rhylin swung up into the saddle and extended a hand.

Gritting her teeth as another hot rope of pain pulled taut across her thigh, Beka climbed up behind him and gripped his belt.

“What can you tell me?” she asked as they set off.

“There are about a dozen of us accounted for who aren’t too badly wounded. Sergeant Braknil’s in charge of them. Mercalle’s hurt badly and Sergeant Portus—“

“I saw him go down,” said Beka, hearing the sudden strain in the man’s voice. Rhylin had been Portus’ corporal.

“Anyway, Sergeant Braknil sent some of us out looking for you. The others are scouting up food and gear,” he told her.

Thank the Flame for that at least, Beka thought gratefully, imagining the stocky, blunt-spoken sergeant striding through the wreckage to whip things into order again.

“That’s good. Mim, Kallas, and Ariani will be back later. Steb and Thela are out of it for the time being—“

“Aulos?” Rhylin asked, and Beka felt him tense again. He’d come into the regiment with the twin brothers. They were from the same town.

“Dead,” she told him. There was no use glossing it over, she thought, feeling weary for the first time that day. Like Mercalle had warned, death was something they’d all better get used to, and quickly.

As expected, Braknil had things well in hand. Food had been salvaged from somewhere, a few tents were up and, best of all, a dozen or more horses were hobbled nearby, a good many of them sporting Plenimaran tack.

A cheer went up as the others caught sight of them riding up.

“What’s the word, Lieutenant?” Braknil asked as the others gathered anxiously around. He had a bloody rag wrapped around one forearm, but it didn’t seem to be slowing him down.

Beka counted fourteen in all, plus the sergeant.

“The word is we got caught with our britches down,” she replied wryly. “Commander Klia isn’t too happy about that, but she thinks that First Turma can help make it right. What do you say?”

Another cheer went up, mingled with angry shouts of “Let’s raid the bastards!”, “Blood and Steel!”, and “Lead on like you did today, Lieutenant, we’ll follow!”

Beka eased herself down on a crate and motioned for silence. “It looks like two decuriae will have to do for now. Rhylin, I’m making you sergeant of Second Decuria. Who do you have left?”

Rhylin looked around. “Nikides, Syra, Kursin, Tealah, Jareel, and Tare.”

“Braknil, what about First Decuria?”

The sergeant waved at the two exhausted young men beside him. “Just Arbelus and Gilly, so far.”

“And us,” called Steb, who’d just arrived with Kallas, Ariani, and Mirn.

“You’re missing an eye!” Braknil said gruffly.

“I’ve still got one left,” Steb replied, though it was clear he was in pain. “Come on, Sergeant. There aren’t enough of us left to spare me. I can fight.”

“All right, then,” the sergeant said with a shrug. “Corporal Kallas, you’re still sound?” Still deeply shaken by the death of his brother, Kallas nodded grimly.

“So that makes seven in each decuria so far,” Beka observed, counting them up. “All of you who were with Sergeant Mercalle, step forward. Tobin, Barius, you go into Braknil’s decuria. Marten, Kaylah, and Zir, you’re with Rhylin. As soon as we’ve got horses and gear sorted out, we have orders to head up into those hills as scouts.”

“We couldn’t make a worse job of it than Eagle troop,” Kaylah muttered. Others growled angry agreement.

“Never mind that. The Plenimarans pulled a good trick this morning, it’s true. It’s up to us to make sure they don’t do it again. We’re going to poke our nose down every gully and snake hole until we find out where they’re hiding. They can’t conceal that many men and horses for long now that we know what they’re up to. Sergeants, see that everyone scrounges up a decent horse, patrol gear, and a week’s rations. Stow your tabards again, too. Maybe we can pull a few surprises of our own, eh? We ride out at dusk.”

Beka sat where she was for a moment, watching the remains of her command bustle about. Most were sporting minor wounds. It was probably a mistake to take Steb, but as he’d pointed out, they couldn’t afford to spare anyone who could still ride.

Twelve riders and two sergeants lost in a single day’s fighting, she thought, and half of those dead. It was a lucky thing they had a mission to take up their thoughts tonight.

A
white linen pavilion had been erected for the Oreska dead. As Seregil and Micum passed by it the next morning, they heard soft chants and the weeping of those preparing the bodies for pyre or grave.

Farther on, the enemy corpses lay under the open sky. Judged by their clothing, they could have been laborers or thieves, but most of them had the build and scars of soldiers. A Scavenger cart stood ready nearby. Untended and unmourned, they would be hauled away and burnt without ceremony.

“Valerius said that after the attack was over, any of Mardus’ men who weren’t already dead just dropped in their tracks,” Micum mused as he and Seregil walked around the bodies, seeking faces they’d seen with Mardus in Wolde all those months ago. “You figure the dyrmagnos did that?”

“Probably,” Seregil said. He was still wearing his baggy borrowed clothes and looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week. Micum knew for a fact that he’d sat awake with Nysander all night. They both had.