David Weber - The Road to Hell

Ransarans and Mythalans would never understand, but as an Andaran of course he’d had to do it. Family deferment or not, a well brought up Andaran boy would fight dragons barehanded if that’s what it took to do his basic service tour. And here was Tellemay, his proud cousin, delighting in the chance of her family member returning with a combat service badge on his shoulder. But-

“Are you sure about the truce?” Sathmin clutched at the hope Tellemay had misheard something.

“Absolutely sure. Everyone’s been getting hummer messages all at once. They don’t say what their orders are or where they’re headed, of course. But the war’s back on. I’m amazed you didn’t hear first. I suppose His Grace was at the Commandery by the time the first hummers arrived.” Tellemay paused a moment to adjust and repin a gather on Sathmin’s left shoulder. “Everyone’s been saying how taken by surprise they were and how the Commandery kept the secret perfectly.”

“I don’t understand,” Sathmin said. “Are you saying we broke off the truce talks?”

Tellemay sniffed. “When you say it like that, Your Grace, it just doesn’t sound right. I’m sure that couldn’t be it. The troop letters just say we won a battle and that they’re excited about the next one. The news’ll say more in the morning, won’t it?”

* * *

“They want what ?” Shalassar Brintal-Kolmayr snapped up from her seat.

Intern Pelgra tried to melt into the Cetacean Embassy floor and only managed to look more puppyish instead. Not the kid’s fault, Shalassar reminded herself, and brushed past the young Cetacean Speaker to confront the orca at the pier herself.

‹What have you taunted this silly intern with, Teeth Cleaver?›

‹I?› The black and white cetacean lifted himself for a flip above the water. ‹The youngling does anything I ask. I quite like it. I would not taunt it.›

‹Her.› Shalassar corrected automatically. The orca had a tendency to not acknowledge genders in pre-adolescence, but since they didn’t attribute gendered pronouns to prey either, she didn’t care for the implications.

‹As you like› The orca flipped a smiling face above the waves. ‹I merely told that girl calf I wanted to take a train migration.›

Shalassar considered the orca’s great bulk. Teeth Cleaver was significantly larger than the dolphins and porpoises who sometimes expressed interest in entering the aquarium cars to take tours of the insides of the shorelines.

‹I suppose you’ve also got a large-mind or two who’d like to come with you?›

The orca snorted a cetacean laugh with his blowhole.

‹Little fish bowl trains much too small for large-minds. I will fit, just, if the train’s migration isn’t too far.›

‹And why do you want to squeeze and “fit, just, for a not too far” trip?› Shalassar countered.

‹It is practice. If it works, I will tell large-minds and they will sing you reasons.›

This did not reassure Shalassar. ‹Why can’t the dolphins do this “practice”?› She didn’t mention the porpoises. They were included in the mix of sentient cetaceans technically, but the creatures were generally significantly less bright than the dolphins or any of the larger cetaceans. Among all the intelligent sea life, the whales were the deep thinkers, with the thunder-flukes especially reveling in it.

A pod of dolphins played a half mile or so distant, and Teeth Cleaver examined them for a long moment. The orca didn’t eat sentients. They were always quite clear on that. But from time to time some of the cetaceans would add in a proviso.

The orca didn’t eat sentients, now .

The dolphins had been at the pier themselves just an hour or so previously enjoying some of the fish treats provided by the Cetacean Institute. But just this minute, they found reason to play further away. Teeth Cleaver’s presence had nothing to do with it. Of course.

‹You see them.› Teeth Cleaver said. ‹I see them. They swim, swim, swim always away.›

‹But they can see just fine themselves. What can you do on a train that they can’t?›

And why are the thunder-flukes interested? Shalassar added, only to herself.

‹I› Teeth Cleaver said, ‹can be orca.›

Shalassar stopped unable to refute this unassailable argument.

Teeth Cleaver blew a fine mist and settled deeper in the water, all but vanishing. ‹I am black.› He spun beneath the water displaying the clean milky belly that would camouflage him from below. ‹I am white.› He burst out of the water for a high twisting leap. ‹I am powerful!› The splash sent ripples racing in all directions. ‹They› He snorted a derisive splatter of water in the direction of the pod. ‹are merely gray.›

Shalassar wiped the spray off her face. Cetacean Speaker Talent granted the ability to hear, but not always to understand.

‹How far do you think a “not too far” trip would be?›

‹Nine thousand one hundred and eighty miles› Teeth Cleaver replied promptly. ‹Round migration trip.› He added. ‹But for practice, train does not swim away on the rails. I go on stopped train. And train stays stopped as for Sings Badly and the plant roe harvest watching. Sings Badly will do math. Cal-cu-late time for nine thousand one hundred and eighty miles. I practice in car for this time. Next to Institute. With fish.›

Shalassar did her own mental calculation of the approximate cost to feed a full-grown orca for days on end.

‹Only one orca in the car at a time.› She countered.

Teeth Cleaver agreed with a smile. ‹Until large-minds sing otherwise. Only one orca in each car.›

‹Only one car.› Shalassar added.

‹Only one car for practice.› The orca agreed.

December 18

It was snowing.

The flakes came sweeping in on the teeth of a biting wind that was unusually cold, even for Fort Ghartoun. The weather was going to get worse-a lot worse-before they reached the New Uromath portal, but somehow that failed to make Namir Velvelig feel any warmer just now as the snowflakes touched his wind-chilled face like frozen kisses. Nor did the fact that he’d endured the icy snow and knife-edged winds of northern Arpathia throughout his childhood make him any happier about his current prospects. There was a reason he’d spent so few winters at home since joining the PAAF, after all. This season would not have been his choice for this little jaunt if he’d been given an option. Unfortunately, options were in short supply.

He turned in the saddle, looking behind him and down the length of the small column, and wondered if they were going to get beyond range of the Arcanans’ casualty locating spells before someone who could use those spells came looking for them. He was more than a little afraid the answer would be no, but there was only one way to find out.

Of course , he pointed out to himself as he turned back to the blowing snow in front of him and resettled himself in the saddle, you could always avoid the possibility entirely by simply cutting the bastards loose. Let them evade their own damned army on their own damned terms while you and the rest of your boys skedaddle on your own. Their locator spells wouldn’t help them find you that way, at least!

No, they wouldn’t. And despite everything, a hard, hating part of him hunkered down, hunched its shoulders, and wanted to do exactly that. But he couldn’t, and not simply because Ulthar and Sarma and all of their men had put their necks on the chopping block to rescue what was left of his own command. He might find it difficult to disassociate them in his own mind from the Arcanan sneak attack, yet that attack hadn’t been their idea. They’d simply been carrying out the orders they’d given by their lawful superiors, and the Arpathian in him recognized the enormous risk they’d taken by mutinying against those superiors because they believed honor required it of them. And however much he might hate Arcanans like Hadrign Thalmayr and whatever motherless bastards had launched the entire attack, he couldn’t deny that the mutineers had acted with decency at enormous risk to themselves.