At least according to chan Malthyn the idiots garrisoning the fort aren’t doing a dawn stand-to, he reminded himself, then grimaced.
It probably really wasn’t entirely fair to think of the garrison as “idiots,” this far in what they “knew” was their own army’s rear. As far as they knew, the nearest possible threat was thousands upon thousands of miles away. Still, he liked to think a Ternathian CO would have been taking more precautions than the Arcanans appeared to be.
And whether they’re really idiots or not, the fact that they’re sleeping in instead of manning the firing steps is going to cost them when the time comes, he reflected more grimly.
His smile would not have looked out of place on a hungry lion, and he raised his glasses once more, gazing down at the bridge and willing the engineers to work even faster.
April 6
Commander of One Hundred Verchyk Gorsatan contemplated the day’s paperwork with sour disgust. It wasn’t that he objected to paperwork per se; as an officer who’d come up through logistics, he was really more of an administrator than a warrior, anyway, and he knew it. In fact, he was very good at paperwork, and as a general rule, he took a quiet pride in the fact that it was men like him whose ability to manage supply chains, troop movements, and transportation resources-and generally massage the system-made possible advances like the one Two Thousand Harshu had driven so brilliantly forward until that unfortunate business at Fort Salby.
Which, although he had no intention of pointing it out, had clearly been the fault of the warriors, not the despised bureaucrats who kept them fed.
No, the reason Gorsatan objected to the reports floating in his crystal’s depths this morning was that warrior or not, he recognized the shit storm certain to descend upon his head at some point in the still thankfully indeterminate future. What made it even more revolting was the fact that none of it would be his fault, despite the fact that he was the one who’d be holding the can when that storm inevitably made landfall.
The only good news, he reflected, was that even more of it would descend upon Hadrign Thalmayr, who deeply deserved every single thing that was going to happen to him. That had become abundantly clear to Gorsatan since his arrival as Thalmayr’s replacement at Fort Ghartoun. Fifty Varkan and Fifty Yankaro, the senior officers of the fort’s rather tattered garrison, had done their best to gloss over Thalmayr’s excesses. Their very silence on the subject of prisoner misconduct, torture, and violations of the Kerellian Accords spoke volumes, however. Gorsatan was well aware he wasn’t regarded as one of the Union of Arcana Army’s sharpest blades, and he suspected he’d drawn Fort Ghartoun at least in part on the theory that he wouldn’t poke into matters which predated his own assumption of command. For that matter, he didn’t want to stick his nose into things which were none of his affair, and he especially didn’t want to turn over any rocks that might reveal scorpions ready to sting his hand or Two Thousand Harshu.
Much as he respected Harshu, however, he knew those scorpions were waiting, and that their venom was going to be painful. And, despite that same respect, he’d come to the conclusion Harshu would deserve whatever came his way. Gorsatan was well aware that Harshu had never approved Thalmayr’s personal, vicious cruelty. But he was equally well aware that Harshu had, at the very least, turned a blind eye to the activities of Alivar Neshok. How the two thousand could have thought for a moment that men like Thalmayr wouldn’t take Neshok’s brutality as a license to commit their own atrocities passed Gorsatan’s understanding. Verchyk Gorsatan had never seen a better illustration of the old Chalaran proverb about a fish rotting from the head.
And when it all hit the fan and the inevitable investigators arrived at Fort Ghartoun, he’d be one who went down in the Army’s memory either as the man who’d provided the information that started the catastrophic implosion of the career of an officer he deeply admired or else as the man who’d tried to conceal evidence of profoundly criminal activity in an effort to protect an officer he deeply admired.
Whichever way it worked out, it was exceedingly unlikely he would ever advance beyond his current rank. Assuming, of course, that it wasn’t suggested very strongly to him that he might, perhaps, seek a civilian career, instead. And civilian career opportunities for Andaran officers effectively drummed out of the Army were few and far between.
It was ironic, but the officers who’d actually mutinied and for all intents and purposes gone over to the enemy actually had far better long-term career prospects than Gorsatan, who hadn’t had a single thing to do with Thalmayr’s excesses. If, that was, they survived long enough for the investigations to exonerate them, and the fact that they’d managed to get clean away suggested they might. Two Thousand Harshu had detached an entire air-mobile battalion to search for Fifty Ulthar, Fifty Sarma, Fifty Yankaro, and the escaped Sharonian prisoners. They hadn’t been able to begin their search until Thalmayr reached Karys, however, and by the time they did, the mutineers had vanished. Precisely how they’d accomplished that remained a mystery, although Gorsatan inclined toward the theory-shared by Valchair Stanohs, the thousand who’d been detached to find them-that the Sharonians must have devised a way to mask or deactivate the casualty recovery spells. They’d certainly managed to elude the most assiduous searches, not just in Thermyn but in Failcham and New Uromath, as well, and they obviously hadn’t passed through Hell’s Gate into Mahritha. That meant they damned well ought to be in range for the overflights to trigger the recovery spells if they hadn’t been turned off somehow, and those spells were specifically designed to be impossible for anyone except a highly trained magistron with the security keys to deactivate.
That, fortunately, was one thing that wasn’t Gorsatan’s problem, and he allowed himself one more grimace before he drew a deep breath and called up the first report.
* * *
“You realize we’re about to use a sledge hammer to crack a walnut, Sir, don’t you?” Company-Captain Traivyr chan Fyrkam, 2nd Battalion, 12th Dragoon Regiment’s executive officer, observed with a wry smile.
“Actually,” Battalion-Captain Hymair chan Yahndar replied judiciously, “we’re about to use a sledge hammer to pulverize a walnut, Traivyr. Or I damned well hope so, anyway.”
Chan Fyrkam nodded. Chan Yahndar’s verb was a better choice, and if it had been in the company-captain to feel sympathy for any Arcanan ever born, he probably would have felt at least a modicum for the aforementioned walnut. Unfortunately for Arcana, chan Fyrkam had actually met Crown Prince Janaki and fallen under the Calirath spell. Janaki’s death was personal for him, just as it was for so many other members of the Imperial Ternathian Army. The Union of Arcana’s soldiers owed Sharona a debt, and Traivyr chan Fyrkam looked forward to collecting it in full.
“Is Company-Captain chan Esmahr ready, Tahnthair?” Chan Yahndar asked, turning to his battalion operations officer.
“Waiting for the order, Sir,” Platoon-Captain Tahnthair chan Lyscarn said.
“And Company-Captain chan Mahsdyr and Company-Captain Lyrkad are in position?”
“Yes, Sir.” Chan Lyscarn sounded just a tad overly patient, but chan Yahndar chose not to mention it. The platoon-captain had done his usual excellent job of coordinating the attack plan’s details. Making sure they all functioned properly might be chan Yahndar’s responsibility, but it was chan Lyscarn’s job.