Chapter Ten
December 16
Velvelig stiffened as the broad shouldered Arcanan stepped closer to the bars. The man was careful to stay out of arm’s reach from them, but he was doing something with one of the Arcanans’ bits of crystal. Velvelig himself had had very little opportunity to see any of the crystals in use, and his impassive countenance hid a sharp sense of interest and curiosity as he watched the small, quartz-like rock glow brightly. The Arcanan looked down into it for just a moment and touched it two or three times with a small stylus or rod—a magic wand, perhaps?—of the same water-clear rock. Then he looked back up as the crystal dimmed once more.
“Regiment-Captain Velvelig,” he said, and the words were perfectly clear, with what sounded preposterously like a Shurkhalian accent to Velvelig’s ear. They also obviously had nothing at all to do with the movement of his mouth. They were coming out of the crystal, Velvelig realized, and wondered why he wasn’t hearing what the other man was actually saying, as well.
“Yes,” he said flat-voiced, and the Arcanan seemed to wince slightly before the hard, unyielding anger in his tone. His level green eyes never left Velvelig’s, however, and he braced to attention and touched his chest in what the regiment-captain recognized as an Arcanan salute.
“Sir,” he—or, rather, the piece of rock in his hand—said, “Commander of Fifty Ulthar extends his compliments and asks you to forgive him for how long it’s taken to do anything about the shameful way you and your men have been treated. Hundred Thalmayr’s actions have dishonored the entire Union of Arcana Army, and the Fifty’s instructed me to tell you that he and Commander of Fifty Sarma are in the process of attempting to do something about that now.”
Velvelig’s eyes narrowed. The change was so slight that anyone except another Arpathian might have been excused for failing to recognize it, but to one of his countrymen, it would have been as good as shouting his incredulity. He recognized the name “Ulthar,” and his brain raced as it ran back over the handful of visits the wiry, red-haired ex-prisoner had paid to the brig since he and his senior surviving subordinates had been confined in it. He’d seen what could only have been anger, even fury, in the other man’s eyes. At the time, he’d assumed it was directed at the Sharonians, an echo of Hadrign Thalmayr’s; now he suddenly found himself wondering if perhaps he’d misinterpreted the reasons for those emotions.
“And who is Commander of Fifty Sarma?” he asked in that same, flat voice.
“Fifty Sarma has Third Platoon of Able Company,” Harnak replied. “Along with the half-squad Fifty Ulthar’s got, that’s less than a quarter of the total garrison.” The Arcanan grimaced in something that looked like shame. “I’m afraid that’s why it’s taken so long to do anything about your situation, Sir.”
This time, even a New Farnalian would have recognized the astonishment and speculation in Velvelig’s eyes. Preposterous though it might be, it sounded as if Harnak was suggesting that Ulthar and whoever the hells Sarma was were mutinying against Thalmayr. The regiment-captain glanced at the assigned guards, whose invisible bonds had been attached to the brig’s sturdy walls in some way, then back at Harnak.
“And what might Commander of Fifty Ulthar and Commander of Fifty Sarma have in mind to do about our ‘situation’ now?”
“As a matter of—”
The sudden, strident clangor of an enormous bell interrupted whatever Harnak had been about to say.
* * *
“Shit!” Jaralt Sarma snapped.
His left hand went to the bleeding gash Hadrign Thalmayr’s revolver bullet had torn through the outside of his left thigh. Fortunately, it was little more than a shallow furrow. The commander of one hundred had fared less well. The revolver thudded to the floor, still gripped in his right hand, and he screamed again, clutching the bleeding stump of his right wrist with his remaining hand as he fell back flat upon the suddenly blood-soaked bed. Sarma glared at him, then slammed the flat of his sword blade against the side of the hundred’s head.
Thalmayr collapsed, and Therman Ulthar jerked his utility crystal back out of his pocket. The UC’s spellware menu was on the general side, but it did contain a coagulating spell intended to both stop the bleeding, even from arterial wounds, and prevent infection. It was going to require the healing Gift to do more than that for Thalmayr, but at least he wouldn’t bleed to death in the meantime.
He’d barely activated the spell before the strident clangor of an alarm spell pounded over the fort.
“Oh, wonderful!” he snarled as he shoved Sarma roughly, turning him to apply the same first aid spell to his leg.
* * *
“Oh, dragon shit!” Javelin Traymahr Sahnger growled.
Fifty Sarma had assigned his 3rd Squad to secure the stables while Hynkar Vahsk’s squad did the same thing for the armory, Sword Harnak secured the brig, and Sword Nourm and Tolomaeo Briahk’s squad secured the barracks occupied by the two platoons commanded by Fifty Brys Varkan and Fifty Dernys Yankaro. Nourm and Briahk had drawn the assignment for both barracks because there’d been only enough “special weapons” to equip a single squad…sparingly. Fifty Sarma and Fifty Ulthar had skimmed enough stun bolts off the top to give each of Sahnger’s men one of them, but all the rest had been reserved for 2nd Squad’s takedown of the barracks. That plan, however, had been predicated upon achieving surprise. Sahnger had no idea what somebody had been doing up and about to sound an alarm spell at this hour, but the fact that someone had suggested Nourm and Briahk might just have their hands full trying to secure their assigned objectives against someone who outnumbered them six-to-one.
He and 3rd Squad had carried out their own assignment with no fuss or bother, and this was where they were supposed to stay under the plan Fifty Sarma and Fifty Ulthar had worked out. According to Fifty Sarma, Commander of Fifty Sahrimahn Cothar, whose cavalry troop had been left behind to support Hundred Thalmayr, was no happier about the hundred’s brutality than they were, even though Cothar hadn’t heard the truth about the portal attack which had killed Magister Halathyn. In theory, that should mean his cavalry troopers were less likely to come boiling in here looking for their mounts than they might have been otherwise. Sahnger couldn’t count on that, but it was at least possible, and if Varkan and Yankaro’s men figured out what was happening quickly enough, there wasn’t any question that Nourm and Briahk were damned sure going to need help.…
“Maysak, you and Volmar stay here and keep an eye on those unicorns.” He jerked his thumb over his right shoulder at the stalled, restless cavalry mounts. “The rest of you, on me!”
Shield Maysak Uthsamo nodded sharply, and he and Lewak Volmar peeled off as the rest of Sahnger’s squad followed their javelin out of the stable and headed for the nearer barracks at a run.
* * *
“I think that’s part of your answer, Sir,” Evarl Harnak said to Velvelig through the translating spellware while the bell continued to sound.
“What’s part of the answer?” the Sharonian demanded, and Harnak scowled.
“I don’t have time to explain everything, Sir,” he said. “What matters right now is that the way Hundred Thalmayr’s been treating you is against the Kerellian Accords. That means it’s illegal under our military law. Fifty Ulthar and Fifty Sarma planned to place him under arrest and send word to higher authority, but the people they could count on to back them are outnumbered four or five-to-one, so they were trying to do it as quietly as they could. From the sound of that”—he jerked his head at the brig door to indicate the bell pealing deafeningly outside it—“something went wrong.”
Velvelig looked at him, his face giving no sign of the thoughts racing through his brain. That simple paragraph of explanation stood everything he’d thought he understood on its head. Of course, there was always the possibility the Arcanan was lying to him, although he couldn’t think of any same reason for the man to do that.
“So what happens now?” he asked.
“Sir, my orders are to secure the brig and hold it until Fifty Ulthar or Fifty Sarma tells me otherwise. It’s my job to look after you until one of them can get here.”
“Does that include letting us out of these cells?” Velvelig demanded.
“Nobody said anything to me about letting you out, Sir.” Harnak’s tone carried an edge of apology. “And, to be honest, even if Hundred Thalmayr’s been breaking the Accords, you’re still prisoners of war.”
* * *
“Move your arses!” Fifty Varkan shouted as the men who’d been turned out for inspection started grabbing helmets, sidearms, and arbalests. “Rokar! Take your squad and shag arse over to the admin block! Find out what’s going on there and then put yourself at Hundred Thalmayr’s orders!”
“Yes, Sir!” Javelin Shelmyn Rokar replied, then jerked his head at the eleven other members of his squad. “All right, you lot! Let’s go!”
“Jathyr, you get your arse to the brig and make sure the damned Sharonians are still there!”
“Yes, Sir!” Lerso Jathyr took long enough to salute, then turned for the barracks back door, the shortest route to the brig. The men of his squad followed him in a thunder of boots, most of them still buckling weapons harnesses as they went, while Varkan went on barking orders behind them.
* * *
“Oh, crap.”
Keraik Nourm, platoon sword for 3rd Platoon, A Company, saw the first man burst out the front door of Fifty Varkan’s 1st Platoon’s barracks. The man in question was in full combat gear, and he looked disgustingly wide awake. Worse, if he was up and about, then—
More troopers erupted from the same door, and Nourm glanced over his shoulder at Tolomaeo Briahk.
“So much for catching them in their racks!” he snarled. “Now we do it hard way.”
“Whichever way we have to,” the very dark-skinned garthan who was 2nd Squad’s javelin said grimly.
Like Nourm himself, Briahk had accepted the lies they’d been told about the Sharonians without question. And, even more than Nourm, the javelin had treated the Sharonians he’d encountered with brutality on more than one occasion when he thought Fifty Sarma wasn’t looking. Magister Halathyn vos Dulainah had been universally admired and loved by the garthan of every explored universe, and the news that he’d been shot out of hand by the Sharonians after he’d surrendered to them had been carefully and coldly calculated to fan the hatred of men like Briahk to a white-hot flame. Now, looking back at his own actions, he was bitterly ashamed of them…and even more infuriated by the way Magister Halathyn’s death had been used.
“Drop your weapons!” Nourm shouted at the emerging squad, and heads snapped around in their direction. “Do it now!”
* * *
Shelmyn Rokar had no idea what was happening. Like his fifty, he’d heard the sound of the Sharonian weapon and, also like Fifty Varkan, he’d automatically assumed the weapon in question had to be in a Sharonian hand. Now he saw a full squad of Arcanans coming at him in an ordered line with arbalests already locked and loaded, and that made no sense at all.
“What the fuck is going on?!” he demanded.
“Drop the weapons, I said!” the same voice shouted, and this time he recognized it. It was Keraik Nourm from that pain in the arse Sarma’s platoon.
“Like hell we will!” Rokar shot back as his men skidded to a halt and turned instinctively towards Nourm’s men. They didn’t know any more about what was happening than their javelin did. “We—”
* * *
“Take them!” Nourm barked, and 2nd Squad’s arbalests spat bolts.
Rokar and two thirds of his men went down like targets on a range, dropping without a sound as the stun bolts slammed into them. The other four gawked in disbelief, then turned and scrambled back towards the barracks door.
“Shit!”
Nourm glared after the escapees. The men who were already down would stay that way for at least twelve hours, but it was unlikely the rest of Fifty Varkan’s men were going to be returning fire with stun bolts of their own.
“Brysyl, suppressive fire on the windows!” the platoon sword snapped. “The rest of you, on me!”
Shield Brysyl Vahrtanak and the squad’s second section went instantly to one knee and brought their arbalests to their shoulders. The standard infantry arbalest was a heavy weapon, without the box magazine of the shorter, handier dragoon arbalest. It was also more powerful and longer ranged, however, and the spell assist stored in its integral sarkolis crystal allowed a trooper to span the powerful steel bow with a single stroke of the charging lever. The crystal was good for only sixty shots before it required recharging. After that, respanning the bow required six to eight throws and a hell of a lot more muscle, but until the spell was exhausted a trained arbalester could get off at least six aimed shots per minute. There were only two windows in the front wall of the barracks, and Vahrtanak’s section broke down into two three-man fire teams. Using sequenced fire, each section sent a stun bolt hissing through its assigned window every three seconds.
Unfortunately, each man had been issued only ten stun bolts. There’d been no way to draw more of them without somebody asking inconvenient questions. Which, given that there were fifty-four men in Varkan’s platoon and that not every shot was going to hit its target, meant there were far too few of them to go around.
There was an answer to that, however, and Briahk and the squad’s first section followed Nourm as they charged the barracks. Someone inside already had his act together and, despite the stun bolts sizzling through the windows several of Varkan’s men were getting shots off in reply. The fire was hasty and not very well aimed, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t deadly, and one of Briahk’s men went down with a cry of pain as a steel-headed bolt drove into him. At least 1st Platoon’s dragons were locked up in the armory right beside 3rd Platoon’s, so there were no lightning bolts or fireballs coming at them.
Nourm and Briahk reached the boardwalk in front of the barracks side-by-side and flung themselves down, rolling across the rough-surfaced planking until they fetched up against the wall itself, directly beneath the windows. The sword yanked the fist-sized grenade off his belt, twisted the arming knob, and heaved it through the window above him. He heard it thump and rattle on the wooden floor, heard someone shout in alarm, and heard Briahk’s grenade land a heartbeat after his own, and then the spells activated.
A shattering blast of light and sound erupted inside the barracks. A stun bolt’s spellware had to physically contact its object to take effect. Area spells with the same basic capabilities were possible, but their radius of effect was broader than the range to which the average trooper could throw them, and intervening obstacles offered whoever had thrown them no protection against their paralysis. Flash-bangs, however, were designed to incapacitate without actually rendering their targets unconscious. The sheer intensity of the flash of light they released was sufficient to stun and temporarily blind anyone who encountered it, and the disorienting effect of the accompanying blast of sound was guaranteed to disable anyone who encountered it. While they were classified as nonlethal weapons, they could cause permanent damage to anyone too close to one of them when the spell detonated, and Nourm knew Fifty Sarma and Fifty Ulthar had hoped they wouldn’t be required.
Hope didn’t win very many battles, however.
He heard voices raised in anguish—probably from men who’d been farther away when the flash-bangs went off, although the barracks bay was too small for anyone to have been very far away—and nodded at Briahk.
“All right, you lazy bastards!” the javelin barked to the men of his section. “Let’s get in there before they figure out what hit them!”
* * *
Traymahr Sahnger heard the flash-bangs go off inside 1st Platoon’s barracks. Varkan’s platoon had been Sword Nourm’s first target, and Sahnger supposed he was happy for the sword, since detonating flash-bangs had a tendency to settle people down in a hurry. Unfortunately, there’d been only six flash-bangs available, and they’d all been issued to Nourm’s squad, since they’d been the ones tasked to deal with the other two platoons.
Which meant Sahnger and his men would have to do it the hard way.
His shoulder slammed into the second barracks building’s rear door, bursting it open, and he and the eight men with him went through it in a rush. Unlike Fifty Varkan’s platoon, the men of Commander of Fifty Dernys Yankaro’s 3rd Platoon, B Company had been sound asleep until the alarm spell sounded. They were still rolling out of their bunks, reaching for their trousers, wondering what the hells was going on, when Sahnger and his men erupted into their midst.
“Just sit where the fuck you are!” Sahnger bellowed.
“Who the hell are y—?!”
The shouted question ended in a grunt and the thud of a body hitting the floor as one of Sahnger’s troopers hit the loudmouthed 3rd Platoon javelin center of mass with a stun bolt. At that short range, even a stun bolt could do significant physical damage from an infantry arbalest, but it was unlikely to kill anyone. It did incapacitate its target quite handily, however, and Yankaro’s surprised men froze in shock.
“Every one of you back in your racks right the hell now!” Sahnger snapped, taking advantage of the moment of silence. Some of the 3rd Platoon troopers automatically obeyed the bark of command. Others looked at one another with varying degrees of confusion and building anger, and Sahnger nodded to Taswan Slokyr. The burly trooper took one step forward and slammed the butt of his arbalest none too gently into the back of one of the dawdlers.
Slokyr’s victim hit the floor flat on his face with a shout of anguish. It was entirely possible, even probable, that he’d acquired a broken shoulder blade in the process, but Slokyr was back in his original position, arbalest in a hip-high firing position, almost before the other man landed.
“I’m not going to tell you again,” Sahnger grated.
For just a moment, he felt it hovering in the balance. He and his eight troopers were hopelessly outnumbered by 3rd Platoon’s forty-eight men, but none of their opponents were armed and none of them had a clue yet as to what was actually happening. If they’d been willing to rush Sahnger’s squad, they probably could have swarmed them under anyway, but they weren’t willing to take the casualties. Not yet. Not without at least some idea of what was happening. And so the moment passed and 3rd Platoon’s men sank sullenly back onto their bunks, glaring furiously at Sahnger.
* * *
Ulthar and Sarma heard the flash-bangs as well as they hurried out of the administration building, leaving Hathnor to keep an eye on the immobilized Thalmayr and Bahbar.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Sarma remarked.
“Could sound a hells of a lot worse, unless you think there’s some reason for Vargan or Yankaro to’ve issued flash-bangs at their men,” Ulthar pointed out.
“There’s that,” Sarma acknowledged. “Me to the barracks?”
“And me to the brig,” Ulthar agreed.
The fifties separated, running in almost opposite directions.
* * *
Javelin Lerso Jathyr heard the flash-bangs go off behind him and swore vilely. He had no clue what the hell was going on, but Fifty Varkan’s orders had been clear enough.
Two of his men braked to a stop, looking back over their shoulders, and he swore again, this time at them.
“Get your arses back in gear!” he snapped.
“But, Javelin—” one of them began.
“The Fifty told us what to do, and we’re going to do it!”
He glared at the rest of the squad for a moment, then jerked his head and all eleven of them started running again.
Jathyr grunted in approval, even though a part of him wondered if he was doing the right thing. The automatic response would have been to head back into the barracks to find out who was throwing flash-bangs around, but that might well be exactly the wrong thing to do. For all he knew whoever had used the first two flash-bangs had a dozen more of the things, just waiting for him to walk back into range before taking out his squad, as well. On the other hand, where the hells would Sharonians have gotten flash-bangs from in the first place? And if it wasn’t a bunch of Sharonians attacking the fort, then who the hells was it?
Either way, he told himself, his squad would be more useful—and probably safer—doing exactly what Varkan had told him to do.
* * *
Keraik Nourm did a quick count of the stunned, groaning men sprawled around the barracks and swore. They were short by at least one full squad, even counting the men they’d stunned on the parade ground. Somebody must have gotten out the back, but where the hells were they?
* * *
Senior Sword Barcan Kalcyr rolled out of his bunk even before his sleeping mind had identified the sound of the alarm spell’s clangor. The thunderclap eruption of detonating flash-bangs followed, and he scrubbed sleep from his eyes with one hand and reached for his trousers with the other in pure spinal reflex while his brain fought its way up to speed.
He heard voices now, shouting from the infantry barracks. There were a lot of them, and they didn’t sound happy, but all of them seemed to be shouting in Andaran. If this was a Sharonian attack, where were the Sharonian voices? And if it wasn’t a Sharonian attack, then who the hells—?
His jaw tightened as a preposterous thought ripped through him. He’d warned Fifty Cothar there was something going on with that lily-livered bastard Sarma! But had his own fifty listened to him? Of course he hadn’t!
As Kalcyr buttoned his pants and stamped his feet into his boots he reminded himself he didn’t actually know a damned thing about what was going on. He might very well be jumping to conclusions…but he might not be, too. And if he wasn’t, then what the hells should he do next?
He reached for his tunic and his jaw went tighter than ever as he realized he didn’t know the answer to that question. Hundred Worka had quietly warned him that he’d peeled off Fifty Cothar’s B Troop to support the Fort Ghartoun garrison because Cothar clearly didn’t have the stomach for what needed to be done. Personally, Kalcyr couldn’t imagine how any member of the 9th Seignor Light Cavalry could have any doubt about what the Sharonian bastards deserved. Their regiment was the one which had discovered the fire-seared bodies of the troopers who’d been assigned to protect Rithmar Skirvon and Uthik Dastiri while they negotiated with the Sharonian “envoys” at Toppled Timber. They knew the Sharonians had shot down at least twenty-one of those troopers in cold blood, then left the bodies behind to burn in the forest fire they’d set. And if there’d been any question about who’d been responsible for that massacre, the bullet which had blown out the back of Dastiri’s skull damned well should’ve put them to bed. The shot had been fired from so close the wound between his eyes was surrounded by a dark powder burn! And gods only knew what the murderous bastards had done with Skirvon and the three troopers they hadn’t left to burn!
But Cothar didn’t seem to see it that way. He’d actually complained to Hundred Worka about the way Kalcyr had made sure the Sharonian Voice he’d been sent to deal with here in Thermyn wouldn’t be sending any messages to anyone else. There was only one way to be sure a Voice didn’t get a message off—Five Hundred Neshok’s briefings had made that clear enough! And what the hells did it matter if the Voice in question was a frigging civilian? The Sharonians sure hadn’t shown any special consideration for civilians when they murdered Dastiri and vos Dulinah, had they? From where Barcan Kalcyr sat, that meant they didn’t have any kick coming when the boot was on the other foot, so why bother to drag the bastard all the way back to the fort before cutting his frigging throat? But did Cothar see it that way? Hells, no, he didn’t! He’d been on Kalcyr’s case for killing a civilian as if putting down a mad-dog Sharonian “Voice” to keep the freak bastard from warning anyone else the Army was coming was some kind of crime!
No wonder the Hundred had detached Cothar from the rest of the company. And he’d left Kalcyr, the company’s senior noncom, here to keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t give Hundred Thalmayr any of his grief. Kalcyr had done his best to do just that, but Cothar had been spending entirely too much time mind hobnobbing with Sarma and Ulthar. Kalcyr had picked up on plenty of indications that those two had their panties in a wad over Thalmayr’s supposed violations of the Kerellian Accords. As if the Accords applied to Sharonians! He’d thanked all the gods they weren’t his fifties, but what if they’d decided to do something genuinely stupid and sucked Cothar into it right along with them?
He buttoned his tunic, strapped on his breastplate, checked the sarkolis crystal in his thigh pocket, and reached for his saber. By The Book, he should be hunting for his company CO, but under the circumstances, this time he’d better start somewhere else.
* * *
Movement caught Thermyn Ulthar’s attention and he cursed inventively. Whoever that was, it wasn’t any of Sarma’s men, and he knew where all of his were already. There was at least a full squad of them, though, and they were running hell for leather towards the brig…just like he was.
Fortunately, he was closer than they were, and he dashed straight towards the door, shouting his name as he came and hoping to Shartahk that Harnak could get it unlocked in time.
Harnak did. Ulthar actually heard the cross bolt shoot back through its mounting clips an instant before his shoulder slammed into the thick, heavy panel. The impact was enough to spin him sideways as he came through the opening, and it slammed shut again almost before he was clear. The bolt racketed back into place, and Shield Sarkhol Gersmyn caught him before he could fall.
“Got a squad right on my arse, Evarl!” he gasped out, and the sword gave him a choppy nod.
“On it, Sir,” he said. “Only got one stun bolt apiece, though!”
“Use them first,” Ulthar panted.
“Yes, Sir.” Harnak looked at the others. “You heard the Fifty.”
Acknowledgments were still coming back when the first arbalest bolt drove halfway through the barred door. Lamplight gleamed on the sharp, edged wickedness of its head and Ulthar tried not to think about what one of those would feel like driving through one of his men, instead.
Marsal Hyndahr and Jyrmayn Yanthas had one of the brig’s two front windows. Gersmyn and Javelin Rohsahk had the other one, and he heard the thump of a discharging arbalest. He peeked through the small, barred window in the heavy door and saw one of the oncoming infantrymen go down limply. From his companions’ angry shouts, it didn’t sound as if they realized he’d been hit by a stun bolt instead of something more lethal.
More arbalest quarrels slammed into the brig’s walls. One came sizzling in through a window and he heard a Sharonian—it sounded like Velvelig—shouting for the prisoners to go flat. The spellware Harnak had activated was still up, translating the Sharonian words into Andaran, and Ulthar darted a look over his shoulder.
“Stay down!” he barked. “And stay out of the windows’ line of fire as much as you can!”
“And what about the cell window if they get around behind you?” Namir Velvelig shot back in a preposterously calm voice, and Ulthar’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t thought about that!
He looked back through the window in the door and swore again, even more inventively, as he saw three or four men disappearing around the brig’s solid northern wall.
“Shit,” he said, and grabbed the massive key ring off its hook beside the desk.
“I know all of you are pissed off, and you’ve got a right,” he said quickly, fumbling through the keys to find the one he needed. “If I leave you in that cell, you’re going to be sitting ducks for whoever’s coming at us. But if I let you out and you screw with us in the next few minutes, all of us are likely to get killed.”
The Sharonian officer bared his teeth in an expression with only a passing resemblance to a smile.
“Hell of a choice, isn’t it?” he asked. Their eyes locked for just a moment, then Velvelig shrugged. “All right. Let us out and you’ll have our parole at least until the fighting’s settled. Good enough?”
“Good enough,” Ulthar replied, hoping to Seiknora he wasn’t about to make the worst mistake of his life.
He shoved the key into the lock, turned it, swung the door wide, and stood to one side as Velvelig and his subordinates flowed out of the cell in a tide which somehow kept from jamming solid in the opening. It took them several seconds, and while they were doing that, Ulthar snatched up one of the arbalests the original guard detail no longer needed. As soon as the Sharonians were out of the cell—the last four of them supporting a staggering Golvar Silkash and carrying Tobis Makree bodily—Ulthar charged into it.
Before he could reach the window, an arbalest bolt hissed past him. He swerved, dodging the follow-up, then shouldered his newly acquired weapon and squeezed the trigger.
The cell’s window was higher above ground level than above the level of the cell floor, and someone cursed loudly as the return fire came close enough to clip a lock of his hair. Whoever it was dropped down below the window sill for cover, and Ulthar plastered his back against the interior wall to one side of the opening and worked the cocking lever.
“Shit!” someone grunted, and he looked up to see young Yanthas clutching at the arbalest bolt which had suddenly appeared in his left shoulder.
“Idiot!” Hyndahr barked. “Told you to keep your stupid head down!”
The demoted sword had been Charlie Company’s senior hand-to-hand and swordsmanship instructor, but he’d been a marksmanship instructor in his time, as well, and Ulthar heard a shrill scream from outside the brig as he sighted quickly and then fired. Hyndahr, at least, was obviously out of stun bolts, the fifty thought grimly.
Someone moved closer at hand, and his eyes narrowed as he saw Velvelig shoving his way back into the cell carrying another of the original guards’ arbalests. Ulthar was none too happy to see the weapon in Sharonian hands, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to be choosy. He started to offer some quick instruction, then shut his mouth firmly as Velvelig pulled the cocking lever and nocked a quarrel as expertly as if he’d been using an arbalest all his life.
His surprise must have shown, because the Sharonian grinned at him again, much more warmly this time.
“Couldn’t afford a decent rifle when I was growing up back home,” he said. “Nice piece, though. Cocks really easily, doesn’t it? More of that ‘magic’ of yours, is it?”
Ulthar started to answer, then paused as the Sharonian whipped around and sent the steel-headed bolt back out through the window. An explosive grunt answered his shot, and he jerked back to press his back to the wall on the opposite side of the window.
“Your turn next,” he said as he pulled the cocking lever again.
“Fire in the hole!” someone else shouted, and Ulthar looked back just in time to see Sarkhol Gersmyn snatch up the grenade someone had gotten through the window. The wiry garthan’s arm whipped forward, throwing it back the way it had come, but its spell activated just as it cleared the window. The outer wall absorbed most of the fireball’s fury, but enough of it blew back through the window to sear the Scout’s hand to the bone.
He went down, clutching his wrist, jaw muscles standing out like iron as he bit down on a scream of agony, and Company-Captain Silkash shoved himself shakily to his feet. He staggered across to Gersmyn and grabbed the Arcanan’s arm, forcing it straight so that he could peer at it through his swollen, blackened eyes. The Sharonian surgeon’s own hands were already bloody, Ulthar realized, and another Sharonian, one of Velvelig’s senior noncoms, knelt beside Yanthas, putting pressure on the improvised dressing which had somehow appeared.
“We have to keep them out of throwing range of the windows!” he shouted. “If they get another of those things in here we’re all cooked!”
* * *
“Mother Jambakol!”
Lerso Jathyr watched the grenade detonate outside the brig and wondered how the hells the bastards in there had managed to get it back through the window in time. They hadn’t gotten it clear by much, but close didn’t count when there was a solid wall between the grenade and its intended target. Worse, he only had three of them left. Of course, he wouldn’t have had any of them, if Bersal Darnaiyr, one of his more idiotic troopers, hadn’t tucked them away under his bunk in violation of about five dozen regulations “just in case I needed them.”
Well, maybe not that much of an idiot, at that, the javelin thought. Under the circumstances, at least! And at least he hadn’t squirreled away any dragon charges to keep ’em company.
In the meantime, he’d already lost three of 3rd Squad’s twelve men, and he had no idea how many opponents they faced inside the brig. Or, for that matter, when somebody else might come running up their backsides.
“All right,” he said, raising his voice just enough for the five men on this side of the brig to hear him. “We’ve got to get close enough to pop another one in on them. Darnaiyr, toss one of them to Tymkara! His arm’s at least as good as yours. Lets see if we can’t get both of you close enough to give the bastards two of them to deal with.”
* * *
Keraik Nourm left Briahk to secure the stunned, disoriented members of Brys Varkan’s platoon. The commander of fifty was as singed looking as anyone, but he’d recovered enough to curse Nourm up one side and down the other. He was just getting around to all of the capital offenses the sword had already committed while one of Briahk’s troopers used a binding spell to immobilize him, but Nourm had other things to worry about at the moment. He and Brysyl Vahrtanak, Briahk’s squad shield, were already headed for the second barracks and Fifty Yankaro’s men. If Yankaro’s platoon got loose with weapons in hand—
He slid to a halt as Traymahr Sahnger shoved his head out one of the windows.
“We’ve got this!” Sahnger shouted.
“You sure?” Nourm shouted back, raising his voice to carry above the still clanging bell. Sahnger was supposed to be sitting on the unicorn stables, but under the circumstances, the sword was disinclined to pick any nits about it. “One of Varkan’s squads got out the back way.”
“Shit! Which way did they go?”
“Damned if I know. How many men do you have?”
“Nine, counting me.”
“Okay. You take a section and head for Admin. I’ll—”
“Belay that,” another voice commanded, and Nourm turned to see Fifty Sarma striding towards him, prodding Fifty Yankaro along at sword point. Yankaro’s hands were obviously spell bound behind him, and if looks had been spells, Sarma would have been a corpse.
“I just came from Thalmayr’s office by way of the BOQ,” the fifty continued. “Nobody passed me on the way here. I’m guessing that means they headed for the brig, instead. Is First Platoon secured, Keraik?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“All right. Traymahr, leave half your men to keep an eye on Third Platoon. Send the other half to take over from Tolomaeo. Keraik, you and I will take all of Second Squad to relieve the brig. Come on, boys—let’s move!”
* * *
Barcan Kalcyr found himself wishing—briefly, at least—that he was in the infantry. Or that he was wearing infantry boots with their soft, skid-proof soles, at any rate. Riding boots made the gods’ own racket trying to creep across a wooden veranda! Fortunately, the godsdamned alarm spell was still making enough noise to hide almost anything.
He’d seen Ulthar and Sarma—he hadn’t gotten that good a look at them, but he was damned sure it hadn’t been Varkan or Yankaro—rushing out of the admin block. One of them had headed for the brig, while the other dashed across the parade ground towards the officers’ quarters beside the barracks. Obviously, his darkest, most paranoid apprehensions had fallen short of the reality, and his face was grim as he contemplated what he was probably about to find. They wouldn’t have gone rushing off that way if Hundred Thalmayr had been in any condition to make problems for them.
He’d almost gone after the traitorous fifties himself. Unlike anyone else in Fort Ghartoun, he was armed with a daggerstone. Strictly against regulations, of course, but Hundred Worka had left it with him. It was charged for only four shots, and it was much shorter ranged than any arbalest, but it was also far more deadly and Kalcyr was sufficiently Gifted to use it when the opportunity arose.
His hand twitched around the stone as he watched Sarma disappear between the barracks assigned to Varkan and Yankaro’s platoons. Unfortunately, the fifty was already far beyond daggerstone range. Besides, he had to make sure of what had happened to Hundred Thalmayr before he did anything else.
He peered cautiously around the edge of the open doorframe and his eyes narrowed as he saw the orderly—Bahbar, his name was, if Kalcyr remembered correctly. The shield was seated in his chair, obviously kept there by a binding spell, but his head was free and he’d clearly seen Kalcyr. He kept his mouth shut, but he jerked his head urgently, using it to point in the direction of Hundred Thalmayr’s personal quarters.
Kalcyr’s heart rose. Bahbar wouldn’t be relying on head gestures unless there’d been someone close enough to hear him. And the bastards wouldn’t have left anyone behind unless there was someone alive to guard. And that meant…
He held a finger across his lips, warning Bahbar to go right on keeping his mouth closed, and eased his way into the office space. The door to Hundred Thalmayr’s quarters stood ajar and he sidled towards it as silently as he could.
But not silently enough. His boot scuffed the floor and the door jerked open.
Kalcyr didn’t know the infantry sword who came leaping through the door, but the short sword in his hand—held low and deadly in a practiced grip—left no doubt about the man’s intentions. Kalcyr was a cavalryman, accustomed to fighting from unicornback, not on his own two feet, and the mutinous
sword came at him with a balanced lethality which left him in very little doubt about how things would have worked out in a straight up fight. Unfortunately for the mutineer, what Kalcyr held in his hand wasn’t a sword.
Kalcyr never knew if the sword had realized what he was carrying. Perhaps he had, given how quickly he tried to close. But he couldn’t close quickly enough, and a silent concussion shook the orderly room as the cavalryman triggered the daggerstone.
* * *
It was Ulthar’s turn to take the shot. The area behind the brig was darker than Shartahk’s riding boots, but he caught a flicker of half-imagined movement and sent an arbalest bolt sizzling toward it. Somebody swore in a high, falsetto—the tone of a man who’d been scared spitless by a near miss and not of someone who’d been hit, unfortunately—and he fell back from the window to respan his weapon.
“Watch it!” someone shouted from the office.
Another fireball erupted in the night, but this one hadn’t made it through the window, praise Hali! From the sudden smell of smoke, though, it had ignited the brig’s cedar shingle roof.
“There, beside the water trough!”
“Got it!”
An arbalest fired and someone shrieked. Which was all very well but wasn’t going to help them very much if the brig burned down around them.
* * *
Jathyr snarled as another of his men went down, but his eyes glowed with baleful satisfaction as he watched the flames beginning to leap from the brig’s roof. Not much longer and the bastards would have to come out where he could get at them or fry—them and the damned Sharonians with them! In another minute or so—
Fortunately for Lerso Jathyr and his remaining men, Tolomaeo Briahk’s squad still had almost a dozen stun bolts left.