David Weber - The Road to Hell

* * *

“Yes, Sir?” the shield behind the desk said, looking at Sarma and ignoring Ulthar, at least for the moment. “How can I help you?”

Ulthar was surprised the noncom’s deliberate discourtesy didn’t bother him at all, this time. Tahras Bahbar was Thalmayr’s senior orderly clerk, and he’d taken his cue from his superior. Under other circumstances, Ulthar would have had him up on charges weeks ago. As it was, there’d been no point, and Bahbar had gotten increasingly insolent-and blatant about it-as a result. Although, to be fair, this time at least the man had a slightly better excuse than usual for ignoring him, since Sarma was officially officer of the watch and Ulthar wasn’t. Of course, the main reason it didn’t bother him was because their calculations hadn’t been in error, after all. Bahbar was all alone, holding down the graveyard shift by himself.

“We need to see the Hundred, Shield Bahbar,” Sarma replied.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Sir,” the shield told him. “He’s been in bed for hours, and-”

“And I’m afraid we’re just going to have to insist,” Ulthar interrupted him pleasantly, and the shield’s eyes flared wide as the commander of fifty’s short sword materialized in his hand and its point was suddenly pressed against his chest. “I hope you’re not going to be messy about this.”

* * *

Javelin Hynkar Vahsk opened the armory door and stepped through it into the welcoming light and warmth. Tarwal Klomis, the javelin responsible for the midnight watch, looked up from the game he’d been playing on his PC with a surprised expression, then stood.

“What can I do for you, Vahsk?” he asked. His tone wasn’t exactly warm and welcoming, but the question came out civilly enough.

The men from B Company, 1st Battalion, 176th Regiment who constituted sixty percent of Fort Ghartoun’s Arcanan garrison weren’t exactly fond of Jaralt Sarma’s 3rd Platoon. Partly that was because they were from a different regiment than 3rd Platoon’s 343rd Regiment, but even more of that stemmed from the fact that Sarma didn’t see eye-to-eye with Commander of Fifty Brys Varkan or Commander of Fifty Dernys Yankaro. None of the fifties made a point out of arguing with one another in public, but the men in their various platoons knew. Just as they knew Hundred Thalmayr wasn’t especially fond of Sarma, either. That was why Sarma’s platoon had the guard duty at such a godsforsaken hour, since Hundred Thalmayr made a point of assigning them to the most detested duty slots. On the other hand, Javelin Klomis had made the mistake of irritating Falstan Makraik, Fifty Varkan’s platoon sword, which was how he came to be sitting here in the middle of the night himself, so he supposed that to some extent, at least, he and Vahsk were riding the same dragon.

“Just passing by and saw the light in the window,” Vahsk said now, his tone dry as the twitched his head at the armory’s small, barred windows. “How’s it going?”

“No worse than usual, I guess.” Klomis shrugged. “I know somebody’s got to babysit all this shit, but personally, I’d rather be asleep and letting somebody else do it.”

“You and me both.” Vahsk grinned and pushed the door shut behind him. It didn’t quite close completely, although Klomis didn’t notice it. “And to be honest, it wasn’t so much the light in the window as the smell of burning coal,” Vahsk added, moving a bit closer to the stove and holding his hands out to its warmth. “It’s cold out there, and the wind’s getting up.”

“Tell me about it.” Klomis grimaced and came out from behind the counter, opened the stove door, and dropped a couple of more lumps of coal into it. Iron clanked as he closed the door again, and he snorted. “Rather be sitting around nice and toasty in a warmth spell, myself.”

“Me, too.” Vahsk shrugged. “Gods only know how long we’re going to be stuck out here, though. Makes sense to go ahead and use up their coal heap first, I guess. At least that way we won’t all freeze to death if those idiots in Supply don’t get enough heating accumulators shipped forward!”

“Guess so,” Klomis agreed, holding his hands out above the stove. “Wish they’d go ahead and haul the rest of the Sharonians’ ‘guns’ the hells out of here, though.” He shivered with something besides cold. “Damned things give me the creeps. Not natural, know what I mean?”

“Oh, I agree entirely.” Vahsk nodded. “Till we do, though, it makes sense to keep somebody sitting on them, I guess.”

“That’s what they tell me,” Klomis said sourly. “But, getting back to my original question, what can I do for you?”

“Well,” Vahsk said as the door he hadn’t pushed entirely closed behind him swung wide and half his squad flowed quickly through it, “you can start by staying right where you are and handing me the keys.”

* * *

Ulthar and Sarma left the shield in the orderly room parked in his chair once again, with the binding spell from Ulthar’s utility crystal as a firm suggestion that he should stay there. They crossed the fort commander’s office to the door to what had been Namir Velvelig’s personal quarters. They belonged to someone else now, however, and the two fifties glanced at one another. Then, in unison, almost as if they’d rehearsed it, each of them drew a deep breath…and Sarma drew his sword, as well.

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-”