Cadmians Choice (72 page)

He slipped up and
fired again, seeking yet another of the rebels, then ducked back down. He felt
he’d missed, because he had not concentrated enough.

Only a few flashes of
light followed his shot.

Jasakyt appeared,
running along behind the wall, then slipping into place beside Mykel. “Sir,
Fifteenth Company’s on the west side. We got the wall, but there were about
five of them with those weapons to the northwest. We lost near-on a squad, but
they’re all dead. Chyndylt ran one down with his mount. We’ve got the rest
pinned inside. Undercaptain wants to know if you have any orders, sir.”

“Keep them pinned. If
you hit them enough times, they die, just like we do. We’re getting rid of the
ones guarding this door. Once it’s clear, we’ll move in.” Mykel hadn’t realized
that would be his strategy, but it was clear that he had few choices—as Rachyla
had predicted. He could either take the building and somehow seal off the door
to the Table, or he could withdraw and leave Tempre. Anything else would kill
Cadmians for no result. But then, retaking the building might do the same.
Except... somehow, he knew that taking the building was what needed to be done.

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell
the undercaptain.” With that, the scout turned and hurried back along the wall,
keeping low.

Mykel reloaded, and
then concentrated on the building. One of the windows on the main level was
open. It had not been before. He watched, waited, then aimed, concentrated, and
fired.

He saw nothing, but
he felt that an alector had died.

He ducked just before
another barrage of lightbeams raked the wall. The odor of more molten stone
rose in the hot and damp air.

As the beams passed
and died away, Mykel eased back up and fired twice, dropping back behind the
wall, and reloading while he waited for another reaction. There wasn’t one.

Keeping his head
down, he moved back to the eastern end of the wall, moving behind the crouching
Cadmians of Second Company. He came to a halt just short of the granite post
that marked one side of the ungated entry to the paved plaza. He eased himself
up behind the post, trying to get a feel for how many alectors remained.

As he stood, blocked
from attack by the granite, he heard firing begin in the rear of the building,
coming from both east and west. He could only see a scattering of bluish
lightbeams, and those died away. Mykel smiled

grimly. The rear exit
hadn’t proved effective for the alectors, either.

He studied the front
columns. From what he could sense, three alectors remained.

Once more, he lifted
his rifle, aiming and willing.

After two shots, the
third alector scrambled into the building. If Mykel had had just a little more
time ... but the deliberated, Talent-aided shots took longer.

“Matorak!” Mykel
reloaded again, glad he’d worn the ammunition belt.

Within moments, the
undercaptain was by Mykel’s side.

“They’ve withdrawn
inside. Right now, they don’t have a defense. Designate a squad to follow me
in.”

“Yes, sir. Second
squad.” Matorak turned his head. “Jorust! Second squad! Over here!”

As the squad
gathered, Mykel studied the building, watching for a window to open. As he’d
suspected, one did, on the upper level. He raised his rifle and fired.

This time a body
twisted forward, falling out the floor-to-ceiling window and hitting the
pavement with a dull thud.

Mykel took a moment
to reload. He wanted a full magazine going back into the building.

“They’re ready, sir.”

Mykel turned. The
squad crouched in a line behind the wall. He raised his voice. “We’re headed to
the building. As soon as we clear the wall, spread out. Don’t get close to
another Cadmian until we get inside the front pillars. We’ll regroup there.”

He looked back to the
building. He’d probably lose some men, but now was better than waiting. The
rebels could get reinforcements, from wherever they did, anytime. He wondered
if they had come through the Table, but pushed the thought aside. “Matorak,
send messengers to Fifteenth and Seventeenth Company. Tell them we’re
assaulting the building, and not to fire into it, just at any rebel who tries
to leave.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Second squad!
Forward!”

Mykel sprinted from
behind the granite gate post, trying to see and sense if anyone fired at them.
Only a handful of lightbeams flashed toward the scattered Cadmians, but one,
possibly more, took their toll. Mykel knew that stopping and trying to shoot
would only make him a greater target.

He was panting hard
when he scrambled up the granite steps and behind the first line of pillars,
rifle ready. The space between the columns and the archway was empty, except
for tunics and trousers and boots. He half-shook his head. It took getting used
to—that when alectors died, they turned to ashes and dust within moments.

“That rebel... he
fell out of the window ... nothing left but his uniform. Saw him hit...”

“We’ll worry about
that later,” Mykel stated. “However they die, they’ve got those lightguns, and
they can kill, and we need to get rid of them before they can call in
reinforcements. I need two flankers. If anyone pops up, shoot them in the
chest. That’ll knock them around enough that they’ll have trouble aiming.” He
moved toward the double doors, one of which had been left ajar.

The rebels weren’t
used to fighting, not grind-it-out fighting, and that would help. Standing so
that the door shielded him, Mykel eased it open.

The entry hall was
empty, but he could sense someone behind the archway on the right.

Mykel smiled, then
reached back, and motioned. “Hand me one of those boots.”

A ranker passed it
forward. “Feels slimy, somehow.”

Mykel tossed the boot
into the hall, then raised his rifle in one motion.

With the clunk of the
boot on the marble floor, the rebel peered out. Mykel concentrated and fired.

The alector in blue
pitched forward, and the lightcutter skittered across the marble tiles.

“Frig .. .”

Mykel ignored the
muttered expletive, trying to locate any other alectors. Then he slipped inside
and kept to the left wall, moving quickly, then stopping short of the archway
to the right, on the east side.

From the outside, on
the north side, came another barrage of rifle fire.

Mykel dropped to his
knees and took a quick look down the corridor. He caught a glimpse of blue at
the corner, and raised his rifle and fired.

The rebel spun out
and sprawled on the floor, then scrambled to his feet. He almost made it back
to cover when Mykel’s next shot took him down.

The sound of boots on
stone, and the diminishing purple aura, indicated a retreat.

Mykel turned. “Jorust.
Take half the squad. Stay here, and be ready to sweep the corridors in both
directions. The other half comes with me.” He hurried through the archway and
moved quickly down the corridor, past doors closed when he had last checked the
building, sensing no one in the studies.

When he reached the corner,
he stopped, then took a quick glance. The next corridor heading to the rear of
the building was also empty, but he could still hear the sound of distant
boots. Were they heading for the lower level, and the Table? Trying to retreat
while they could?

Mykel forced himself
to move methodically, checking the studies on each side of the corridor, using
his men to cover his rear, but, in less than a half glass, it was clear that
there was no one on either the upper floor or the main level, and the shooting
from outside had died away some time back.

With some
trepidation, he moved to the open doorway that led below. Absently, he noted
that the lock remained missing. He smiled, briefly. Exactly who would have
repaired it? Somehow, he doubted that the rebel alectors would have. They
seemed far too arrogant to stoop to that.

“You wait here, until
I get to the bottom.” Mykel did not sense anyone on the stairs. Still, he moved
slowly down the dimly lit steps.

Just as he stepped
onto the main floor, the slightest rustle came from his right. He jumped back
toward the cover of the archway, trying to strengthen what he thought of as
shields, but too late. Bluish-flame angled past his left shoulder, clipping his
tunic and part of his upper arm, with pain so intense that he nearly dropped
the rifle.

“Frig . .. frig ...”
His eyes watered, but he was at least out of the line of fire.

He hadn’t sensed a
thing. Not a thing.

The same frigging
thing had happened in Dramur. He should have learned.

“Sir? You all right?”

“I’ll be fine. There
are some rebels down here. Hold a moment.” Mykel lowered himself to his knees,
then eased forward to the edge of the stone casement of the archway, waiting.

Another blast of
light flared past him well over his head.

He kept waiting.

It seemed like a
quarter of a glass before a third—and weaker—blast struck the wall beyond the
foot of the stone stairs, but it was doubtless far less than that. Even before
that, Mykel forced himself to peer aim, aim, and fire.

The alector’s
lightcutter beam etched a line in the ceiling before the rebel alector crashed
to the stone floor. There was no one else in the lower corridor.

“All right,” he said
quietly. “Half of you come down. The others guard the top.”

He continued to wait
behind the stone, watching the corridor, while the four rankers slipped down
the stairs. Still, no rebels appeared. Had the one been the only rebel who
could hide his aura? Why hadn’t he remembered? He’d gotten so used to employing
his extended senses that he’d forgotten that they didn’t pick up absolutely
everyone.

“That’s a bad burn,
sir.”

“We’re almost done.
One of you go tell the undercaptain that, and have him send word to
Undercaptain Fabrytal.”

“Ah...” -

Mykel inclined his
head toward the ranker who stood on the last step. “You. They need to know.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mykel eased out into
the corridor, rifle ready, even though he sensed nothing. With the three
rankers flanking him, they moved down the corridor. No one appeared. |

The door to the Table
chamber was open.

Mykel moved slowly to
the edge, then took a quick look. The chamber was empty except for some
uniforms scattered across the floor. For a time, he stood in the doorway. His
left arm burned, so much that he could barely move it. But he had to do
something about the frigging Table. But what?

The Table pulsed
purple. He’d seen enough to know that the purple force—was that what they
called Talent?—carried tremendous energy.

Finally, he turned. “You
three. Move back ten yards.”

“Sir.”

“I’m not going
anywhere.” He didn’t try to smile before he turned and reloaded the rifle. Then
he tried to sense from where the energy came—from what amounted to a node on
the far side, and the node was close to the side of the stone base of the
Table.

He couldn’t fire a
bullet through solid stone. But was it solid stone? It couldn’t be, not if it
transported alectors, not if it displayed images.

If... if he aimed at
the south wall, and willed the bullets to ricochet back into the guts of the
Table, willing with all his effort, he could direct them to strike that nexus
of energy. That way, if the Table exploded... when the Table exploded, he
corrected himself, he’d be shielded by the heavy stone wall.

Slowly, he raised the
rifle, ignoring the blistering and agonizing stabbing pain in his left arm, and
concentrated, squeezing the trigger, willing and trying to add some of the
green energy that flowed around him. One shot, then a second...

He didn’t squeeze the
trigger a third time. The building shook and the heavy stones flexed and threw
him across the corridor. He felt himself flying ... trying to hold his
inadequate shields, and then ... blackness ...

Mykel woke with a
start, and that sudden jolt sent spasms through his entire body. His left arm
was hot and painful, but he was almost surprised to be alive. On the wall to
his left was a lamp, but each eye saw a separate image of the polished brass
and etched glass fixture. He closed his eyes and then opened them. There were
still two images.

He was propped up in
a large bed, with a shimmersilk sheet across him. His forehead was damp, and he
was sweating. His left shoulder was loosely covered with thin gauze and an
ointment had been applied under it to his blistered skin. He had been
undressed, except for under-drawers ... No, he wore underdrawers but they felt
silky.

“So, you’re finally
awake. That took long enough, for just a few bruises and a burn.”

The voice was
feminine, cold, and reminded him of someone. He turned his head, slowly,
carefully. Rachyla sat in a carved chair less than a yard away from the bed.
She wore a pale green vest and trousers, and a darker green vest. Her dark hair
was slightly disarrayed, only the second time he had ever seen anything about
her less than perfect.

“What... ?” His mouth
was so dry he could not say another word.

“What are you doing
here?” She laughed, in low but harsh tones. “Amaryk is furious. That would be
reason enough.” The cool smile faded. “Your undercaptain brought you here with
some secrecy. He sees more than he says. I told Amaryk that I felt it unwise to
displease the acting commander of Cadmians who had routed the evil ones and who
held the city. I also told him that if anything happened to you, he would
suffer. That made him even less happy.” She offered him a beaker, guiding it to
his right hand.

His fingers trembled,
but he managed to turn more and drink. The ale felt both harsh and cooling as
he swallowed. “Thank you.”