L. Modesitt - Arms-Commander

“The squad leader’s over there, ser,” called Chyanci, pointing in the direction of the eastern end of the clearing. “Abylea’s got the girl.”

“Thank you.” Saryn kept riding through the encampment, where gear and bodies lay strewn in every direction.

More than half had died from the shafts loosed by the bow-guards. Several had clearly been struck down before they had been able to raise a defense. A grim smile crossed Saryn’s lips. She had no doubts that her attack would have been called something uncharitable by the Gallosians, except that Westwind would write the history.

At the end of the clearing, Murkassa and three guards half circled a large pine, under which was a man. Saryn could see that the man-little more than a youth, really, with but the barest hint of a blondish beard-had neither a blade nor a scabbard at his waist, nor a harness for a broadsword. Despite a leg that was clearly broken, he had propped himself up with his back against a pine trunk, and he held a dagger in his left hand.

Saryn could sense the agony as he glanced from one guard to the next. “Hold off!”

“Ser?” questioned Murkassa.

“I’d like some answers, squad leader, and there’s no one else able to give them, from what I can see.”

Murkassa glanced around, then lowered the blade she could easily have thrown. “Vynna! Keep that bow ready. If he so much as twitches that knife, pin him to the tree…but in the shoulder so that he can still answer the commander’s questions.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Put down that sticker if you don’t want a shaft through you,” Murkassa ordered the young man.

Slowly, he slipped it into the belt sheath. The faintest wince crossed his face.

Saryn could sense some of the pain, and she was thankful, once again, that she did not possess the sensitivity that Istril and Siret did. She rode closer, but halted her mount a good five yards away. “What’s your name?”

“Dealdron, Commander.”

“Where in Gallos are you from, Dealdron?”

“Fenard. Outside the walls.”

“Why were you and the other armsmen pretending to be brigands?”

“That was what the undercaptain ordered, ser.”

“Who ordered him?”

“He didn’t say, ser. He wouldn’t have done it if the majer hadn’t told him…or someone higher up.”

“Who might that have been?”

“I don’t know, ser.”

“How many people have you killed, Dealdron?”

“Not a one, ser. I was here to take care of the mounts.”

While Saryn sensed the truth of his words, she had to press him. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t. I didn’t hurt anyone, either.”

“Why did you let them kill innocent travelers?”

“I didn’t know…that was what they were going to do.” He swayed slightly on his good leg.

“And I suppose you had nothing to do with the women?”

“No, ser.” The young man’s eyes glistened, but Saryn wasn’t sure how much was from the pain of memory or the pain of his broken leg. “I didn’t do anything except unharness the cart horse. I didn’t.”

Saryn could sense the truth of those words, as well as the faintness coming over the young man, but before she could say anything, he staggered, then pitched forward.

“Murkassa…we need to get his leg splinted. He’s coming back with us.”

“Yes, ser.” The squad leader’s voice was neutral.

Saryn could sense the displeasure beneath the calm words. She gestured for Murkassa to ride closer before asking, “No one else escaped, did they?”

“No, ser. You got the only one who tried to ride away.” The squad leader’s eyes dropped to the unconscious man. “He’s still one of them. ”

“He was telling the truth. He didn’t kill anyone. They didn’t even trust him with a blade. I want the Marshal to hear what he told us.” Saryn paused. “Don’t you think she should?”

Some of Murkassa’s displeasure faded. “Then what?”

“That’s up to the Marshal…as always.”

After a moment, Murkassa nodded. “She should hear what he has to say.”

“Get his leg splinted. He has to survive the ride back.”

“Yes, ser.”

Saryn could feel that Murkassa was satisfied with Saryn’s reasons, but the instinctive desire to kill any man associated with the murders and rapes, even indirectly, told Saryn, again, how hard it was going to be to work any more men into Westwind. The attempt by the Suthyans to poison Ryba hadn’t helped that attitude, either.

Yet…it had to be done, she told herself. About that, Istril was right.

Even though it was well after dark when Saryn and second squad rode down the causeway past Tower Black and up to the stables, and later than that before mounts and gear and guards were settled, and even later before second squad was fed, Ryba was waiting by the stone staircase when Saryn left the common dining hall. Ryba wore her usual grays, if with a black-and-silver leather belt and black boots. Her black hair was short, almost ship style, as always.

“If you’d join me, Saryn? I do have some brandy up in the study.”

“Thank you. I could use that.”

There was no beer at Westwind, and what wine there was came from the wild grapes and other fruits less than suitable for eating. The vintage, if it could be called that, was tolerable, but the quantity was definitely limited. While they could have traded for wine or beer, other goods were far more necessary, and only occasionally did a trader throw in some beverage as a sweetener. That was doubtless how Ryba had gotten the brandy.

“I thought you might.”

As Ryba turned away and started up the stone steps, Saryn was again struck by the darkness behind those green eyes, much more than by the circles under them. So often had she heard Ryba moving around in the night that she no longer wondered whether the Marshal slept-only how she survived on so little sleep.

As they passed the levels of the tower, Saryn caught murmurs of conversations, all low.

“…there they go again…”

“…commander’s not been back much more ’n a glass…”

“…hush there, little one…”

“…sore all over…guard captain likes seeing me black-and-blue…”

Saryn smiled briefly at the last. In her first year at the institute, even with all the martial arts she’d studied as a youngster-and the first year on the Roof of the World-she’d felt that way all the time.

As Saryn stepped through the narrow doorway at the top of the tower stairs, Ryba said, “Please close the door, if you would.”

Saryn did so, then turned.

The small study held but a circular table, four chairs, and a wall chest. A narrow door-closed-led to a sleeping chamber. The single window was covered by a heavy gray woolen hanging. The only light was provided by a small oil lamp in a brass wall sconce, a reminder to Saryn that for all of her other talents, Ryba did not possess nightsight, or chose not to let anyone know if she did. With Ryba, Saryn was never sure, but cultivating a certain uncertain mystery was just one of the ways the Marshal exercised power-that and absolute ability with weapons.

Ryba lifted a small cylindrical bottle and poured a brownish amber liquid into two small crystal goblets, then took one of the four straight-backed chairs around the small round table. “The goblets are from an officer’s saddlebags that survived the Lornian attack. I seldom use them.”

Ryba’s use of both brandy and goblets worried Saryn as she took the chair across from the Marshal. Ryba lifted her small goblet, waiting for Saryn to do the same.

Saryn raised hers to meet Ryba’s, then waited just slightly to take a sip of the brandy. Even the slightest swallow warmed its way down her throat, and she placed the goblet on the plain polished and dark-oiled pine surface of the table.