Ulthar shifted his own sword to his left hand and tried the door’s knob gently with his right. It didn’t move, and he grimaced. Just like someone like Thalmayr to lock his door at night against imagined boogiemen, he reflected sourly. Then he smothered a sudden, quiet laugh as the absurdity of his disdain for Thalmayr’s paranoia struck him, given that two men with drawn swords were standing on the other side of that locked door at the moment.
Sarma looked at him oddly at the sound of his laugh, and he grinned.
“I guess even paranoiacs can have real enemies,” he murmured. There was quite a bit of nervousness in the other fifty’s answering snort, but there was at least as much genuine humor, as well. Then Ulthar stepped back from the door, drew another deep breath, and slammed the sole of his booted right foot into the door, right on top of the latch.
The door flew open, and Sarma was through it before it had crashed back against the wall. Ulthar followed him, flipping his sword back into his right hand on the move. By the time the Andaran Scout crossed the threshold, Hadrign Thalmayr had already jerked up into a sitting position in bed and Jaralt Sarma had reached his bedside.
The commander of one hundred was obviously confused at being so rudely awakened, but he wasn’t confused enough to miss the eighteen inches of steel shining in Sarma’s hand.
“What the fuck’s the meaning of this?!” he snarled.
“The meaning is that I’m relieving you of the duty, Sir,” Therman Ulthar said coldly, and Thalmayr’s eyes snapped from Sarma to him. The hundred’s face darkened with fury, and his lips worked as if to spit.
“You motherless bastard,” he grated. “You’ll go to the dragon for this one, Ulthar! And, by the gods, I’ll kick your arse into the feeding ground myself!”
“Maybe I will,” Ulthar replied in that same, cold voice. “But if I do, you’ll go with me.”
“Like hell I will! I’m not the one committing mutiny!”
“No, you’re just the one violating the Kerellian Accords and the Articles of War.”
Thalmayr’s angry eyes widened in surprise and contempt. There might have been a momentary flicker of concern, as well, but it vanished quickly, replaced by a fresh surge of confidence.
“You’re dreaming,” he scoffed. “If you think anyone’s going to listen to a gutless bastard like you-”
“Oh, I don’t know if anyone’s going to listen to me out here in the boonies,” Ulthar told him with an icy smile. “But that doesn’t matter. I’ve already sent a full report to Duke Garth Showma. I don’t know what the hells is going on in the Expeditionary Force, but how d’you think he’s going to react to the shit you’ve been pulling here in Fort Ghartoun?”
“You’re lying out your arse,” Thalmayr shot back, but a shadow of uncertainty and what might have been fear burned under the words.
“It wasn’t that hard to sneak past that arse-kisser Wentys.” Ulthar’s smile turned even thinner. “Believe me, Sir, it’s in the pipeline where nobody can stop it, and I’ve named people, places, and times. The Duke wouldn’t stand for something like this out of anyone, and especially not when the sick son-of-a-bitch pulling it belongs to the Second Andarans. He’ll insist the Regiment hold the court-martial internally, and guess what kind of sentence the Scouts’ll hand down to a worthless piece of dragon shit who got three quarters of his own company killed and then deliberately tortured prisoners of war?”
Thalmayr stared at him for a moment, then wrenched his eyes away and glared at Sarma.
“Are you really stupid enough to go along with this idiot, Sarma?” he demanded.
“Damned straight I am,” Sarma replied flatly. “Now, with all due respect, Sir, get your arse out of that bed. We’ve got a different set of quarters in mind for you-one with bars. I’d suggest you get your uniform on, but we really won’t mind dragging you over there bare-arsed if that’s what you’d prefer.”
“Like hell you will!”
Thalmayr’s hand darted under his pillow, then reemerged with one of the Sharonian revolvers. His thumb brought the hammer back, and the muzzle swept towards Sarma.
The Sharonian weapon came as a complete surprise, but Thalmayr was something less than expert in its use and Jaralt Sarma was a stocky, boulder of a man, with very strong arms and shoulders. He also had very good reflexes, and his sword hissed before Thalmayr could get his weapon aimed. There was the sound of a cleaver hitting meat, the beginning of a scream of pain, and then the ear-smashing roar of the revolver.
* * *
“What the hells was that?!”
Commander of Fifty Brys Varkan wheeled away from the hapless trooper whose improperly stowed personal gear had just been dumped across his bunk by Falstan Makraik, 1st Platoon’s platoon sword. The platoon had grown a bit lax in Makraik’s opinion, and he’d suggested to his fifty that it might be an appropriate time for a surprise inspection. Varkan had agreed the sword had a point, and since 1st Platoon was due to relieve that officious, pain-in-the-arse Sarma’s platoon in about two hours, this had seemed like a good time for the aforesaid surprise inspection.
Now he and Makraik stared at one another, his question hanging between them.
“Sounded like one of those Sharonian guns, Sir,” the sword said after a heartbeat. There was more than a hint of uncertainty in his reply, but Varkan’s face tightened.
“That’s exactly what it sounded like!” he snapped. “Turn the men to, Sword!”
“Yes, Sir!” Makraik turned on his heel, glaring at the assembled platoon. “You heard the Fifty! Move!” he barked.
Varkan left that up to his sword. His own hand darted into his pocket for his PC. He jerked it back out, activated it, and input a command.
An instant later, the alarm began to sound.
Chapter Ten
December 16
Velvelig stiffened as the broad shouldered Arcanan stepped closer to the bars. The man was careful to stay out of arm’s reach from them, but he was doing something with one of the Arcanans’ bits of crystal. Velvelig himself had had very little opportunity to see any of the crystals in use, and his impassive countenance hid a sharp sense of interest and curiosity as he watched the small, quartz-like rock glow brightly. The Arcanan looked down into it for just a moment and touched it two or three times with a small stylus or rod-a magic wand, perhaps? — of the same water-clear rock. Then he looked back up as the crystal dimmed once more.
“Regiment-Captain Velvelig,” he said, and the words were perfectly clear, with what sounded preposterously like a Shurkhalian accent to Velvelig’s ear. They also obviously had nothing at all to do with the movement of his mouth. They were coming out of the crystal, Velvelig realized, and wondered why he wasn’t hearing what the other man was actually saying, as well.
“Yes,” he said flat-voiced, and the Arcanan seemed to wince slightly before the hard, unyielding anger in his tone. His level green eyes never left Velvelig’s, however, and he braced to attention and touched his chest in what the regiment-captain recognized as an Arcanan salute.
“Sir,” he-or, rather, the piece of rock in his hand-said, “Commander of Fifty Ulthar extends his compliments and asks you to forgive him for how long it’s taken to do anything about the shameful way you and your men have been treated. Hundred Thalmayr’s actions have dishonored the entire Union of Arcana Army, and the Fifty’s instructed me to tell you that he and Commander of Fifty Sarma are in the process of attempting to do something about that now.”
Velvelig’s eyes narrowed. The change was so slight that anyone except another Arpathian might have been excused for failing to recognize it, but to one of his countrymen, it would have been as good as shouting his incredulity. He recognized the name “Ulthar,” and his brain raced as it ran back over the handful of visits the wiry, red-haired ex-prisoner had paid to the brig since he and his senior surviving subordinates had been confined in it. He’d seen what could only have been anger, even fury, in the other man’s eyes. At the time, he’d assumed it was directed at the Sharonians, an echo of Hadrign Thalmayr’s; now he suddenly found himself wondering if perhaps he’d misinterpreted the reasons for those emotions.