David Weber - The Road to Hell

“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.

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.

“And who is Commander of Fifty Sarma?” he asked in that same, flat voice.

“Fifty Sarma has Third Platoon of Able Company,” Harnak replied. “Along with the half-squad Fifty Ulthar’s got, that’s less than a quarter of the total garrison.” The Arcanan grimaced in something that looked like shame. “I’m afraid that’s why it’s taken so long to do anything about your situation, Sir.”

This time, even a New Farnalian would have recognized the astonishment and speculation in Velvelig’s eyes. Preposterous though it might be, it sounded as if Harnak was suggesting that Ulthar and whoever the hells Sarma was were mutinying against Thalmayr. The regiment-captain glanced at the assigned guards, whose invisible bonds had been attached to the brig’s sturdy walls in some way, then back at Harnak.

“And what might Commander of Fifty Ulthar and Commander of Fifty Sarma have in mind to do about our ‘situation’ now?”

“As a matter of-”

The sudden, strident clangor of an enormous bell interrupted whatever Harnak had been about to say.

* * *

“Shit!” Jaralt Sarma snapped.

His left hand went to the bleeding gash Hadrign Thalmayr’s revolver bullet had torn through the outside of his left thigh. Fortunately, it was little more than a shallow furrow. The commander of one hundred had fared less well. The revolver thudded to the floor, still gripped in his right hand, and he screamed again, clutching the bleeding stump of his right wrist with his remaining hand as he fell back flat upon the suddenly blood-soaked bed. Sarma glared at him, then slammed the flat of his sword blade against the side of the hundred’s head.