David Weber - The Road to Hell

* * *

Javelin Lerso Jathyr heard the flash-bangs go off behind him and swore vilely. He had no clue what the hell was going on, but Fifty Varkan’s orders had been clear enough.

Two of his men braked to a stop, looking back over their shoulders, and he swore again, this time at them.

“Get your arses back in gear!” he snapped.

“But, Javelin-” one of them began.

“The Fifty told us what to do, and we’re going to do it!”

He glared at the rest of the squad for a moment, then jerked his head and all eleven of them started running again.

Jathyr grunted in approval, even though a part of him wondered if he was doing the right thing. The automatic response would have been to head back into the barracks to find out who was throwing flash-bangs around, but that might well be exactly the wrong thing to do. For all he knew whoever had used the first two flash-bangs had a dozen more of the things, just waiting for him to walk back into range before taking out his squad, as well. On the other hand, where the hells would Sharonians have gotten flash-bangs from in the first place? And if it wasn’t a bunch of Sharonians attacking the fort, then who the hells was it?

Either way, he told himself, his squad would be more useful-and probably safer-doing exactly what Varkan had told him to do.

* * *

Keraik Nourm did a quick count of the stunned, groaning men sprawled around the barracks and swore. They were short by at least one full squad, even counting the men they’d stunned on the parade ground. Somebody must have gotten out the back, but where the hells were they?

* * *

Senior Sword Barcan Kalcyr rolled out of his bunk even before his sleeping mind had identified the sound of the alarm spell’s clangor. The thunderclap eruption of detonating flash-bangs followed, and he scrubbed sleep from his eyes with one hand and reached for his trousers with the other in pure spinal reflex while his brain fought its way up to speed.

He heard voices now, shouting from the infantry barracks. There were a lot of them, and they didn’t sound happy, but all of them seemed to be shouting in Andaran. If this was a Sharonian attack, where were the Sharonian voices? And if it wasn’t a Sharonian attack, then who the hells-?

His jaw tightened as a preposterous thought ripped through him. He’d warned Fifty Cothar there was something going on with that lily-livered bastard Sarma! But had his own fifty listened to him? Of course he hadn’t!

As Kalcyr buttoned his pants and stamped his feet into his boots he reminded himself he didn’t actually know a damned thing about what was going on. He might very well be jumping to conclusions…but he might not be, too. And if he wasn’t, then what the hells should he do next?

He reached for his tunic and his jaw went tighter than ever as he realized he didn’t know the answer to that question. Hundred Worka had quietly warned him that he’d peeled off Fifty Cothar’s B Troop to support the Fort Ghartoun garrison because Cothar clearly didn’t have the stomach for what needed to be done. Personally, Kalcyr couldn’t imagine how any member of the 9th Seignor Light Cavalry could have any doubt about what the Sharonian bastards deserved. Their regiment was the one which had discovered the fire-seared bodies of the troopers who’d been assigned to protect Rithmar Skirvon and Uthik Dastiri while they negotiated with the Sharonian “envoys” at Toppled Timber. They knew the Sharonians had shot down at least twenty-one of those troopers in cold blood, then left the bodies behind to burn in the forest fire they’d set. And if there’d been any question about who’d been responsible for that massacre, the bullet which had blown out the back of Dastiri’s skull damned well should’ve put them to bed. The shot had been fired from so close the wound between his eyes was surrounded by a dark powder burn! And gods only knew what the murderous bastards had done with Skirvon and the three troopers they hadn’t left to burn!

But Cothar didn’t seem to see it that way. He’d actually complained to Hundred Worka about the way Kalcyr had made sure the Sharonian Voice he’d been sent to deal with here in Thermyn wouldn’t be sending any messages to anyone else. There was only one way to be sure a Voice didn’t get a message off-Five Hundred Neshok’s briefings had made that clear enough! And what the hells did it matter if the Voice in question was a frigging civilian? The Sharonians sure hadn’t shown any special consideration for civilians when they murdered Dastiri and vos Dulinah, had they? From where Barcan Kalcyr sat, that meant they didn’t have any kick coming when the boot was on the other foot, so why bother to drag the bastard all the way back to the fort before cutting his frigging throat? But did Cothar see it that way? Hells, no, he didn’t! He’d been on Kalcyr’s case for killing a civilian as if putting down a mad-dog Sharonian “Voice” to keep the freak bastard from warning anyone else the Army was coming was some kind of crime!

No wonder the Hundred had detached Cothar from the rest of the company. And he’d left Kalcyr, the company’s senior noncom, here to keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t give Hundred Thalmayr any of his grief. Kalcyr had done his best to do just that, but Cothar had been spending entirely too much time mind hobnobbing with Sarma and Ulthar. Kalcyr had picked up on plenty of indications that those two had their panties in a wad over Thalmayr’s supposed violations of the Kerellian Accords. As if the Accords applied to Sharonians! He’d thanked all the gods they weren’t his fifties, but what if they’d decided to do something genuinely stupid and sucked Cothar into it right along with them?

He buttoned his tunic, strapped on his breastplate, checked the sarkolis crystal in his thigh pocket, and reached for his saber. By The Book, he should be hunting for his company CO, but under the circumstances, this time he’d better start somewhere else.

* * *

Movement caught Thermyn Ulthar’s attention and he cursed inventively. Whoever that was, it wasn’t any of Sarma’s men, and he knew where all of his were already. There was at least a full squad of them, though, and they were running hell for leather towards the brig…just like he was.

Fortunately, he was closer than they were, and he dashed straight towards the door, shouting his name as he came and hoping to Shartahk that Harnak could get it unlocked in time.

Harnak did. Ulthar actually heard the cross bolt shoot back through its mounting clips an instant before his shoulder slammed into the thick, heavy panel. The impact was enough to spin him sideways as he came through the opening, and it slammed shut again almost before he was clear. The bolt racketed back into place, and Shield Sarkhol Gersmyn caught him before he could fall.

“Got a squad right on my arse, Evarl!” he gasped out, and the sword gave him a choppy nod.

“On it, Sir,” he said. “Only got one stun bolt apiece, though!”

“Use them first,” Ulthar panted.

“Yes, Sir.” Harnak looked at the others. “You heard the Fifty.”

Acknowledgments were still coming back when the first arbalest bolt drove halfway through the barred door. Lamplight gleamed on the sharp, edged wickedness of its head and Ulthar tried not to think about what one of those would feel like driving through one of his men, instead.

Marsal Hyndahr and Jyrmayn Yanthas had one of the brig’s two front windows. Gersmyn and Javelin Rohsahk had the other one, and he heard the thump of a discharging arbalest. He peeked through the small, barred window in the heavy door and saw one of the oncoming infantrymen go down limply. From his companions’ angry shouts, it didn’t sound as if they realized he’d been hit by a stun bolt instead of something more lethal.