Soarers Choice (18 page)

On
the north side of the square were four shops, side by side and seemingly
identical, except that the shutters and doors had been painted differing
colors, with each set of shutters matching that shop’s door. The colors might
once have been bright, but even in the fading light of the day, it was clear
that the soot and grit from the ironworks had grayed and dimmed them. Even the
windowpanes looked gray. Although the inn had wide covered porches, supported
by brick columns, not a single person stood outside. Even so, the windows on
the main level were bright and cheery, but the clicking of hoofs on the stone
echoed emptily across the square.

As
the battalion continued northward, the very air Mykel inhaled felt dry, thin,
and each breath burned with the mixture of fine dust and smoke and vapor. By
now, all the Cadmians could see the stone smokestacks and the high walls of the
ironworks ahead and to the left of the high road, looming over the tiny
dwellings between the main avenue and the works.

A
wide short stone way led from the high road to the works, and some fifty yards
to the west of where Mykel rode was a loading yard. Late as it was, a crew was
working the winches powering the crane that lifted the iron pigs onto one of
the black transport wagons. Another winch and crane stood idle, and the iron
pigs were stacked on the loading dock waiting to be loaded into a second empty
wagon behind the first.

The
overseer shouted out orders, but the roaring of the furnaces drowned out the
man’s orders. Hot and acrid air swirled around Mykel, mixing with the cool
northeast breeze.

Mykel
pulled his gaze to the road ahead.

Immediately
north of the ironworks were shops and buildings so dingy that in the twilight
Mykel could not determine what they might be. Farther along were small houses,
little more than huts bathed in soot. The few curtains that did hang in
windows, those that were lit by lamps inside the poor dwellings, looked to be
various shades of gray.

Even
more to the north Mykel could make out the green spire of a Duarchy tower,
supposedly beyond the Cadmian compound. “That’s where we’re headed.”

“Mean-looking
town, sir,” observed Culeyt.

“Hard-looking
town, that’s for sure.”

Third
Battalion covered another vingt and a half before reaching the Cadmian
garrison, or compound, at the north end of the town, separated from any
dwellings by a quarter vingt of open space. The walls hardly qualified as such,
standing little more than two yards high, constructed of but a single course of
stone in thickness. The main gates were only iron grills, and Mykel thought
that they were rusted open. To the north was the green stone tower, its
iron-bound door locked, as were those of all Duarchy towers. Mykel wondered,
not for the first time, why such towers had been built all across Corus when
they never seemed to be used.

The
single guard took one look at the riders and bolted for the small headquarters
building that stood in front of a long and close to ramshackle stone barracks.

As
he rode past the two-story barracks toward the stables, Mykel noted that some
of the roof tiles were askew and others badly cracked. He had barely dismounted
outside the stables when a short and muscular Cadmian officer hurried across
the courtyard. Mykel turned, and the officer stopped, taking in the majer’s
insignia.

“Captain
Hamylt, sir. I’m the senior officer left here, commanding Nineteenth Company
and what’s left of Fourth Battalion.”

“Majer
Mykel, Third Battalion. We’ve been ordered here by the Marshal of Myrmidons.”

“Yes,
sir. Ah...”

“We’ve
come directly from Hyalt. Once we get the men squared away, Captain, I suggest
we meet and discuss what’s happened here, and what the marshal intends. If
you’d also notify the cooks. In the mess in around a glass?”

“Yes,
sir. Majer Hersiod’s quarters — they were his — they’re at the end of the barracks
on the upper level on the north side. The other officers ... well, there are
two bunks to each junior’s room.”

“Good.”
Mykel gestured. “Bhoral?”

The
battalion senior squad leader eased his mount forward.

“Captain,
this is Bhoral, the battalion senior squad leader. If you would introduce him
to whoever is in charge of billeting...”

“Yes,
sir.”

Mykel
led the roan into the stable and took the first open stall that had an
officer’s mark on the post beside it. He finished grooming the roan and, gear
on his shoulder, was checking how many of the mounts were double-stalled when
Bhoral reappeared.

“Majer...
there aren’t enough bunks, or pallets. We’ll have to double up... some of the
men will have to use bedrolls,” Bhoral said.

“There’s
no help for it. Tell the company officers, and do the best you can.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Mykel’s
next stop was the main mess. The local cooks might have been unhappy with
preparing a second meal for over four hundred hungry troopers, but they had
managed.

Mykel
made his way back to the kitchen area and located the head cook. “I wanted to
thank you. This is one of the few hot meals the men have had in days.”

“Yes,
sir... if we’d had more notice ... it’s dried mutton and sauce and potatoes.”

“I’m
sure they’re happy to get a decent hot meal.”

From
the kitchen Mykel headed to the officers’ mess, a narrow room with two tables.
Three of Third Battalion’s officers had arrived — Fabrytal, Culeyt, and
Loryalt.

Hamylt
was waiting, standing in the corner. “Majer.”

“Let’s
step outside,” Mykel suggested.

“I’ve
been using the majer’s study, sir. It’s not far.”

“That
will be fine.” Mykel followed Hamylt across the short stretch of paved
courtyard between the mess hall and the headquarters building and then down a
narrow corridor.

Hamylt
lit a single lamp in a wall sconce, then turned. “Yes, sir?”

“Just
so we’re perfectly clear,” Mykel said quietly, handing a copy of his orders to
the captain, “I’d like you to read these.” He remained standing, watching with
his sight and senses.

Captain
Hamylt paused after the first paragraph, then kept reading. Finally, he looked
up. “The marshal is very clear. You’re in command of all Cadmians. Wasn’t he
the submarshal, sir?”

“He
was, but after the operations in Tempre and Hyalt he became marshal. Some
alectors rebelled. The marshal, two Myrmidon companies, and Third Battalion
destroyed them. The Myrmidons took care of Hyalt. We took care of Tempre.”

“Against
alectors, sir?”

“Against
most of a battalion of mounted rifles created by the regional alector, and
against somewhere around forty alectors with lightcutters. We killed two-thirds
of the mounted rifles and the rest scattered. The alectors attacked later. We
lost two squads. They lost everyone.” That was true, if slighdy misleading.
Mykel could sense both apprehension and caution from Hamylt. “Now ... tell me
exactly what happened ... and what you’ve done since.”

“Yes,
sir. We’ve been here since late spring. Majer Hersiod had to discipline the
garrison here. The iron miners had shut down the mines. Then coal miners joined
them. They said conditions in the mines were killing too many miners. The
undercaptain said he wasn’t about to shoot miners, not until he had orders from
the High Alector of Engineering or whoever was in charge of the mines. The
majer — he disagreed. I didn’t see what happened between the two of them, but
there was some sort of argument, and the undercaptain walked out. The majer
sent troops after him, and they brought him back, and there was a
court-martial. The undercaptain was found guilty of five charges.”

Mykel
could see how that could have happened with Hersiod. “What was the sentence?”

“Death,
sir. By firing squad.”

“He
didn’t send the sentence to the colonel for review?”

“He
didn’t have to, sir. He said Iron
Ste.
was a combat
zone.”

That
was certainly true now ... but at the time, there had been no combat, only
miners who refused to work. “Were the miners armed?”

Hamylt
offered a puzzled frown. “No, sir. Except with shovels and picks, that sort of
thing.”

“All
right. How did Fourth Battalion lose half its men?”

“It
wasn’t like that, sir. Except for the last... I wouldn’t call it a battle,
except I guess it was ... except for that, we lost a man here and a man there,
but it happened almost every time there was a patrol.”

“What
were you patrolling for, or against?”

“The
local herders, the ones who live within five vingts of town, they started
losing livestock, cows and sheep, to the wolves. Some call them ice-wolves, and
some say they’re sandwolves, but whatever they are, they’re nasty beasts. Close
to three yards long, and they can run down a mount at a full gallop. They’ve
got teeth like crystal knives a span long and sharper than a razor. Unless you
get a bullet in their brain, maybe two, nothing seems to stop them.”

“When
do they attack?”

“Anytime,
but mostly in the day, because the herders lock up their stock at night. We’d
send out a squad and end up losing a scout or a flanker... no ranker wanted to
ride those positions...”

As
Hamylt continued, Mykel listened. He hoped he could learn enough to piece
together what had really happened.

“...
and last month ... that was when the majer got word that the miners had
gathered in the hills north of the mines ... decided that he’d put a stop to it
all. Took the whole battalion out... except there weren’t just miners there ...
a bunch of Squawts and Reillies and when the shooting started, the sandwolves
showed up and then the sander things ...”

“Sander
things?”

“They’re
creatures that look like a clay figure of a man made by a child. You can hardly
see their eyes, and their skin is colored like tan sand, and it sparkles. They
touch anything, and it dies, just like that. There were even things with wings
that glowed green and flew, some of the men said. I never saw one, but...”
Hamylt shrugged. “Anyway ... what with one thing and another, we lost over two
hundred rankers right there ... killed a third of the miners, I heard, but once
the majer went down, I tried to hold things together and get what was left of
the battalion out of there.”

“What
have you done since then?”

“Mainly
routine patrols against the sandwolves. The miners went back to work, those
that were still alive.”

“Just
like that?” asked Mykel.

“Seems
strange,” admitted Hamylt, “but that’s the way it is, and I’m not one to go
stir up trouble after all that’s happened.”

Mykel
knew he was tired, especially after the long ride from Dekhron, and he should
have had more questions, but he needed to think things over. He nodded. “It is
strange, and we’ll talk more later after I’ve had a chance to go over matters.
Thank you.”

“Yes,
sir. Will that be all, sir?”

“For
now, Captain. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes,
sir. I’ll have my gear out of here before muster tomorrow.”

“I’d
appreciate that.” Mykel smiled politely.

After
he left Hamylt, Mykel crossed the dusty paving stones to the barracks building
and quietly climbed the outside stairs to the officers’ quarters in the upper
level, quarters that Majer Hersiod had occupied not so long ago.

From
the paved area below, he heard voices, and he listened from back in the
shadows.

“Third
Battalion? Majer Mykel? They sent the Dagger? May the ancients save us ...”

Mykel
smiled sadly at the juxtaposition of the terms. The ancients were the reason he
was called the Dagger.

Early
on Octdi, right after morning muster, Mykel took over the study used by Hersiod
and then Hamylt. He ordered Hamylt to continue what he’d been doing with his
patrols for the next day. Then he began to study the maps of the area to get a
better sense of where the events related by Hamylt had taken place. Mykel
wasn’t about to send any of Third Battalion’s companies off anywhere until he
had a better grasp of the situation. Once he finished looking at the maps and
reports, such as they were, he wanted to look over the records of the
court-martial — although he had his doubts about their accuracy.

A
glass later, he’d finished with the maps and was halfway through the reports.

“Sir?”
Bhoral knocked on the side of the open study door. “There’s someone to see you.
Gosyt says he’s one of the big landholders north of Iron Stem.”

That
was another complication Mykel didn’t need. “I’ll see him. Do I need to come
out?”

“Ah...
no, sir.”

Even
before Bhoral finished speaking, a tall lander appeared.

“How
kind of you to condescend to see me, Majer.”

Mykel
stood slowly and looked hard at the holder, a man a good ten years older than
Mykel, about the same height, but more heavily muscled, and with a tanned,
weathered, and clean-shaven face.

After
a long moment of silence, Mykel replied coolly, “I don’t condescend, and I
don’t care much for it from others.” He gestured to the chair in front of the
writing desk, then sat without waiting for a response from the holder. “I’m
Majer Mykel. I didn’t get your name.”

“Croyalt.”
The holder sat easily in the chair.

“What
can I do for you, Croyalt?” Mykel managed to sound pleasant, although he could
sense anger from the holder.

“You
can take your troopers and leave. Everything here was just fine until you
Cadmians arrived.”

“That’s
a pleasant thought,” replied Mykel. “But as I understand it, the additional
Cadmians weren’t sent here until after someone cut sections of forest against
the Code, and some of the miners used explosives to collapse one of the shafts
in the coal mines.”