Arthag's people had been busy doing more than just packing while he and Trekar chan Rothag interrogated Skirvon. The three surviving Arcanan cavalrymen sat on a fallen tree trunk, hands bound behind them and shoulders slumped. From their expressions, as well as their body language, chan Baskay was strongly tempted to believe Skirvon was right—those men hadn't had a clue what was going to happen here today. Nothing was likely to make chan Baskay feel particularly kindly towards Arcanans at the moment, but despite himself, he felt an unwilling sense of sympathy for those prisoners.
He felt none whatsoever for Rithmar Skirvon, however.
His mouth tightened at the thought as his eyes traversed the line of Sharonian bodies tied across their horses. There were sixteen of them, in all, and the twenty-three Arcanan bodies scattered about under the trees were no comfort at all as he considered their losses.
"We'll have to jackrabbit," he said after a moment, and Arthag nodded, then cocked his head slightly.
"Which portal?" he asked.
"That's the question, isn't it?" Chan Baskay's eyes slitted as he thought hard, considering their meager menu of options.
"I think we'd better go for the New Farnal connection," he said finally. Arthag grimaced slightly—the equivalent of a shouted protest, coming from an Arpathian—and chan Baskay shrugged.
"I don't like it a lot better than you do," he said, "and I know the horses are going to hate it. But if they've got these dragons, and these 'gryphon' things, we're going to need all the terrain advantage we can get. And if they don't like flying through tree cover like this—" he waved at the leaves overhead again "—then they're going to hate triple-canopy jungle."
"There is that," Arthag agreed. "It's a little further to go, though. If they've really got better horses, they could probably overtake us."
"They'll probably figure we broke back for New Uromath," chan Baskay countered. "They know that's the only way home to Sharona, and, according to Skirvon, that's the only other portal they've actually located and scouted. Besides, they've been working extra hard to keep us from finding out about their dragons. If they think they've succeeded—and they did, after all—then they'll expect us to try to outrun them back to Company-Captain Halifu."
"But if they sweep through here on horseback, they're going to be able to tell which way we actually went."
It could have been a protest, but Arthag's tone was thoughtful, not argumentative.
"I know. But I still think it's our best option."
"So do I." Arthag nodded. "And I think I have an idea about how to ... delay the pursuit just a bit, too."
"On your feet, you fucking son-of-a-bitch!" Sword Keraik Nourm barked.
The wounded Sharonian soldier just looked up at him. The Sharonian's expression was a mix of hatred, shock, disbelief, and pain as he crouched on his knees, cradling a savagely burned left arm against his chest.
"On your feet, godsdamn you!" Nourm snarled, and buried the reinforced toe of his combat boot in the Sharonian's ribs with a brutal kick.
The Sharonian went down, crying out in pain as his burned arm hit the ground, and Nourm raised his heavy arbalest to butt-stroke the wounded man's head.
"Belay that, Sword Nourm!"
The four-word command cracked like a whip, and Nourm's arbalest froze in midair. His head whipped around, and his face tightened as he saw the officer with the two silver collar pips of a commander of fifty striding angrily towards him.
"What the hells d'you think you're doing, Nourm?" the fifty demanded harshly.
"Securing the prisoners, Sir," Nourm replied half-sullenly.
"The hells you say!" the fifty snapped. "That man is severely wounded, Sword! Godsdamn it, you're the platoon sword—what kind of message do you think this is sending to the rest of the men?!"
Nourm opened his mouth, then shut it with an almost audible click. His face flushed darkly, more with anger than with shame, and he set his jaw stiffly.
Commander of Fifty Jaralt Sarma put his hands on his hips and glared at his platoon's senior noncom.
What made Sarma's seething fury even worse was that Nourm was normally one of the best platoon swords Sarma had ever seen.
The fifty leaned closer, lowering his voice, and let his tone soften just a bit.
"I know you're pissed off with these people, Keraik, but that's no justification for violating the Accords.
You know that's a court-martial offense."
"The Accords, Sir?" Nourm looked at him as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd heard.
"Yes, the Accords," Sarma said. "Do I need to remind you that they apply to everyone?"
The Kerellian Accords, drafted centuries ago by Commander of Armies Housip Kerellia, had set forth the Andaran military's official rules of war, including the standards for proper treatment of POWs. The Accords had been adopted by the Union Army following the Union's formation two hundred years ago, and officially incorporated into the Articles of War.
"Sir, these bastards aren't even from our universe!" Nourm protested.
"I don't recall anywhere in the Accords that specifies where the prisoners have to come from, Sword."
"But, Sir—"
"Don't make me tell you again, Sword Nourm," Sarma said very quietly, and the burly noncom closed his mouth again.
It was obvious he still couldn't quite believe what his fifty had just said, and Sarma shook his head.
"I understand you're mad as hells, Sword," he said in a more normal voice. "But that's no excuse for turning ourselves into something we'll be ashamed of later."
"Sir, I understand what you're saying, I guess," Nourm said after a moment. "I just don't see why we should waste the Accords on miserable fuckers like these."
"The Accords aren't as much for them as they are for us, Keraik. It doesn't matter what they do. What matters is how we go about being who we are."
"Sir, I just don't see it. These miserable bastards deserve anything they get. They should feel grateful we don't just shoot them in the back of the head!"
Sarma's lips thinned angrily, but that anger wasn't aimed at Nourm this time. Or, at least, most of it wasn't.
Neshok, you bastard, the fifty thought venomously. You and your fucking "briefings!"
"I'll remind you—once—Sword," the platoon commander said after a moment, "that the briefers specifically said those reports couldn't be confirmed."
Nourm's jaw set again, harder even than before. His shoulders hunched like a man preparing to dig in against a monsoon, and Sarma inhaled sharply. He started to launch into the sword again, then made himself stop. This wasn't the time or the place for him to turn his command relationships into a debating society.
"Listen to me," he said instead, his voice flat. "At this moment, Sword Nourm, I don't really care what you feel our think about these people. You will observe the letter of the Accords in your treatment of them, and you will see to it that every member of this platoon does the same. And don't think for one moment that I won't know whether or not you do. The recon crystals are activated and recording, and they'll stay that way. So you think about that, Sword. You think real hard before you abuse another prisoner, wherever the fuck he came from, while you're under my command. Do you read me on this, Sword Nourm?"
"Yes, Sir," Nourm grated.
"I don't believe I heard you, Sword."
"Yes, Sir!"
"That's better. Now, I believe this man needs medical attention."
"Yes, Sir."
Nourm's anger was obvious, but it was equally clear to Sarma that the sword was at least trying to control it, so he let it pass. Which didn't prevent him from keeping an eagle eye on the noncom as Nourm helped the wounded Sharonian back to his feet. He wasn't especially gentle about it, but he wasn't brutal, either, and for the moment, Sarma was willing to settle for what he could get.
He watched the sword half-dragging the prisoner towards the Healers and sighed.
Sarma knew his own attitude towards the Sharonians was atypical. Which was ... unfortunate, since it was supposed to be the entire expeditionary force's attitude. Two Thousand Harshu's general orders had made it abundantly clear that the observation of the Accords was the official policy of the Union of Arcana in the present conflict. Unfortunately, unless Sarma was very much mistaken, it wasn't going to matter a great deal what general orders said.
It was Acting Commander of Five Hundred Neshok's fault, he thought bitterly. Sarma's platoon had been in the first wave of reinforcements to reach Fort Rycharn. That meant he'd had the opportunity to talk directly to Five Hundred Klian's men before the rest of Harshu's troopers and dragons had assembled.