In theory, the next relay station beyond Brithik had also been reached and neutralized. That was a little more problematical, though, because Neshok's interrogations hadn't been able to fix that station's position with the same degree of accuracy. Still,they'd known approximately where to look, and under the circumstances, Neshok had felt justified in urging Thousand Toralk to forgo the yellows' attack in this instance. As Neshok had pointed out, there wasn't supposed to be a Voice inside the fort at all, and they needed still more prisoners. And even if it turned out that there was a Voice inside Fort Brithik after all, the next link in the Voice chain had almost certainly been successfully severed. The thousand obviously didn't much like Neshok, but he'd had to admit that this was probably their best chance to secure a sizable number of prisoners for future interrogation.
So the battle dragons had come sweeping down out of the darkness and filled the night with fury. Even without the yellows' poisonous vapors, the reds had killed well over two-thirds of Fort Brithik's garrison.
That still left the next best thing to a hundred and sixty fresh prisoners, however, and Neshok was determined to get them back to the other side of the portal before any Voices among them could contact anyone else if it should turn out that he was wrong about whether or not the Voice network had already been severed up-chain from them.
If that arrogant little bitch had been telling the truth about portals cutting off Voice transmissions the same way they affected spells, then any Voice they got back to New Uromath should—theoretically, at least—be effectively silenced.
As if the little slut would've told the truth about anything if she'd had a choice! Hells, I wouldn't believe her if she told me the sun was going to rise in the east tomorrow morning! That frigging idiot Olderhan can believe whatever he wants about his precious "shardonai," but I'm not going to risk the security of this entire expeditionary force on his fucking stupidity!
His lip curled contemptuously at the thought of the commander of one hundred whose utter and complete incompetence had created this entire war. Then he shook himself and started grimly forward to where his subordinates were sorting out the prisoners on this side of the portal.
"Five Hundred!" Javelin Porath barked, snapping to attention as Neshok appeared out of the predawn dimness, and the Intelligence officer smiled.
Porath had continued to demonstrate a consistent enthusiasm, as well as ability, ever since that first session at Fort Shaylar. Several of the men who'd been assigned to Neshok had turned out quite well, actually, although there'd been a few disappointments. But Porath was the very best of the lot, and the acting five hundred already had the javelin earmarked for a transfer to Intelligence, where his talents could be most effectively utilized.
"As you were, Lisaro," he said now.
"Yes, Sir!" the javelin acknowledged.
"And what do we have here?" Neshok continued, folding his hands behind him as he turned to survey the fresh clutch of shocked, bewildered prisoners. Most of them were only partially dressed, since they'd been in bed when the attack hammered over them, but a few wore more or less complete uniforms. No doubt they'd had the duty ... or been about to go on duty, he thought. Now all of them looked back at him, with the mixture of defiance and fear with which he'd become increasingly familiar.
"Well, Sir," Porath said, "I'm afraid I did find this."
He held out his hand, and Neshok frowned as he took the small, bronze falcon pin. For just a moment, his belly tightened as he realized the information from his previous interrogations hadn't been completely accurate, after all. He looked down at it, weighing it in his palm for a moment or two, then snorted. He'd already known the Sharonians were scrambling to push the necessary personnel forward as quickly as possible. Apparently, they'd managed to get at least some of those personnel almost into position in time.
"I don't suppose you found someone actually wearing it, did you, Javelin?" he asked, smiling thinly.
"No, Sir. But I did find it—or, rather, one of my troopers found it—on the trail between here and the fort."
"Which would tend to suggest that someone took it off and tried to lose it, is that what you're saying, Javelin?" Neshok inquired genially.
"Yes, Sir. That's exactly what I think happened."
"Well, I'm inclined to agree with you." Neshok tossed the pin into the air and caught it two or three times, then turned to face the prisoners directly.
"I'm perfectly well aware of what this means," he said through the translation spellware, holding up the pin. "At least one of you is what your people call a 'Voice.' I want to know how many of you are, and who you are."
No one responded, and Neshok bared his teeth. Whoever the Voice—or Voices—might be, he was clearly a quicker thinker than most. He couldn't have known what technique Neshok had developed for dealing with his kind, but he'd obviously recognized at least the possibility that the Arcanans might have figured out what that little bronze pin meant.
"I've asked pleasantly once," the acting five hundred said. "I'm not going to ask politely again."
Still no one responded, and Neshok's smile grew a bit broader. On the one hand, assuming Shaylar had been anything remotely like truthful, the hidden Voice had been neutralized by the simple act of bringing him to this side of the portal. On the other hand, Shaylar had probably been lying about anything she thought she could get away with. Which, given Olderhan's stupidity, had probably been just about everything. And even if she hadn't been lying about that, Neshok wasn't exactly brokenhearted by the opportunity to begin creating the proper psychological impact.
Besides, his encounter with her hadn't exactly left him feeling very well inclined towards other Voices.
"Javelin Porath?" he said, and held out his hand.
Porath handed him one of the hand weapons—the "revolvers"—which had been captured from the enemy. Neshok didn't much like the thing. The recoil was painful (and, little though he liked admitting it, frightening), and he'd found it very difficult to adjust to the incredible noisiness and brilliant flash when it was fired. Still, he'd forced himself to acquire at least some proficiency with it—although, in his more honest moments, he rather doubted that he could have expected to hit anything at much more than arm's length—because he'd wanted a weapon his prisoners were going to recognize as such. Now he nodded to Porath, and the javelin reached out and grabbed a randomly selected prisoner by the front of his tunic. With his hands manacled behind him, the Sharonian had no choice but to stumble forward, and Porath hauled him over to Neshok.
"Would the Voice care to identify himself now?" the Intelligence officer inquired, pressing the muzzle of the captured weapon against the prisoner's temple and cocking it.
Still no one spoke, and Neshok shrugged.
"Suit yourself," he said softly, and squeezed the trigger.
It was the first time he'd actually used a "revolver" for its designed function. The recoil was as unpleasant as ever, but he'd allowed for that. What he hadn't quite allowed for was the way the prisoner's head splashed as the heavy bullet blew it apart. Blood and bits of tissue erupted across Neshok, but he managed not to flinch as the corpse flipped backwards and thudded to the ground.
The other Sharonians stared at him. Clearly, they hadn't believe he'd actually shoot one of them in cold blood.
Well, he thought, at least we've established now that I will. That's worthwhile in its own right.
"Would the Voice care to reconsider his position?" he asked, watching Porath choose yet another prisoner, once more at random.
The second Sharonian stumbled forward, his face white and strained. He tried to dig his heels in, but without the use of his hands, resistance was ultimately futile. Porath dragged him over to stand where the first prisoner had died, and Neshok pressed the muzzle against his head, in turn.
"Wait!" a Sharonian voice called.
Neshok turned his head, quirking one eyebrow, and gazed interrogatively at the speaker. The Sharonian looked to be a bit older than most of the prisoners, and he wore only a sleeveless undershirt of some sort above the waist, which meant he wasn't displaying any rank insignia. But there was something about his eyes—a hard, challenging something, like the eyes of that wiry little senior-armsman back at Fort Shaylar.