Hell Hath No Fury

Chapter Twenty-Four

Senior Sword Barcan Kalcyr pulled out his navigation unit and glowered at it as his unicorn picked its way through the unforgiving terrain.

The hammering these mountains had taken when this universe's portal formed was more extreme than most. It must have been exciting as hell, but Kalcyr was delighted he hadn't been here to see it. The way it had battered the mountainsides, stripping away trees and soil, leaving naked stone cliffs which rose like ramparts and piling up the wind-driven equivalent of silt behind any sheltering windbreak, had made a complete farce out of the normal maps for this particular piece of terrain. And the fact that the tree cover had been given time to fill back in after the carnage finally tapered off only made things even worse. Or that was the way it seemed to Barcan Kalcyr, at least.

Remember to thank Hundred Worka for this when we get back to base, he told himself.

The navigation unit took a moment to think about his demands. It usually did when it had to coordinate itself with the take from a gryphon-borne recon crystal. The spellware that translated the airborne reconnaissance data for a ground-based unit's navigation requirements always seemed to have a glitch or two running around in it. After a few moments, though, the display settled itself, and he snorted with a certain degree of sour amusement.

So, there you are. Or there you were, at least, he thought at the red icon glowing in the the display's depths.

He wished-not for the first time-that there were some way to send the recon crystal's imagery direct from a gryphon to a ground unit while the gryphon was still in the air. Unfortunately, no one had ever come up with one. The gryphon still had to return to base, the crystal had to be extracted from its harness, and then whatever had been recorded had to be downloaded to the units which actually needed it, which meant it was always at least a little out of date by the time it got to the sharp end.

Still, it's one hell of a lot better than anything these Sharonians have, he reminded himself, and his mouth tightened.

He hadn't much cared for anything about the Sharonians even before the invasion actually kicked off.

Just listening to the intelligence briefings had told him what sort of barbarians they were, and then there was Magister Halathyn's cold-blooded murder. That was one crime no one was ever going to forgive, and Kalcyr's attitude towards Sharona hadn't gotten one bit better when they found the seared and burned bodies of Fifty Narshu and his men. He knew Narshu had to have gotten at least a few of the other side, but there'd been no sign of any Sharonian bodies.

Left our men to fry in their own fat while they took their own with them. Kalcyr felt a familiar stir of rage and clamped his jaws tight. It had taken them quite some time to identify Uthik Dastiri's half-consumed body. When they did, though, it was obvious he'd been shot right between the eyes at very close range.

Which strongly suggested that the Sharonians had continued their practice of shooting their prisoners out of hand.

Kalcyr's teeth grated, and he forced himself to make his jaw muscles relax. It wasn't easy. It especially wasn't easy when he found himself wondering what the Sharonians had done-or, perhaps, were even now continuing to do-to Rithmar Skirvon and the two missing members of his military escort.

Well, they made the rules, Senior Sword Kalcyr told himself grimly. Now they can just take the consequences.

"All right," he told the rest of the half-troop of cavalry Hundred Worka had assigned to him. "According to this," he waved the navigation unit at them, "we're getting damned close. In fact, I think they're probably up there, under that overhang."

Kersai Targal swallowed a curse.

He'd hoped to escape discovery entirely, but it didn't look like things were going to work out that way.

One of those godsdamned eagle-lions Syrail was talking about, I'll bet, he thought bleakly.

It wasn't a happy thought, and watching the speed and nimbleness of the weird-looking, horned horses under the Arcanans searching for them didn't make it any happier. The way those things covered ground made it obvious that Raysith, Syrail, and he could never hope to stay away from them on foot. Not when they had airborne spies to tell them exactly where their prey had gone.

Kersai looked down at the rifle in his hands. He was tempted-so tempted-to use it, but there were at least fourteen or fifteen of them. He probably could have picked off several of them, but he'd never get all of them, and if he started the shooting, there could be only one possible outcome.

"Syrail," he said quietly.

"Yes, sir?"

"Take the rifle. Then I want you and your mother to go hide up at the top of the ravine."

"But-"

"Don't argue, Syrail. There's no time for it." Kersai turned his head and looked at his son, there in the windy, sun-dappled afternoon, and wished there were time. Wished he didn't have to be brusque with the boy he loved so much on this, of all days.

"You have to go now, son," he said more gently. "I need you up there looking after your mother. Now, go. Take care of her, understand?"

"Yes, Dad." Syrail's voice was low, wavering around the edges despite his effort to keep it steady, and Kersai put an arm around him and hugged him tightly.

"I love you, Syrail. I love you very much."

The boy looked back at him, mouth working, unable to speak at all this time, and Kersai gave him one last squeeze.

"Now go," he said softly, and Syrail obeyed him.

Kersai watched him go, then looked back down at the horsemen-if that was the right term for someone mounted on such preposterous creatures-advancing steadily towards his position. He needed a little more time for Syrail and Raysith to reach the next hiding spot he'd picked out for them. Besides, he wasn't in any great hurry for what he knew he needed to do.

He lay there, stretched out on the rock, savoring the caress of the surprisingly warm sun on his shoulders, and waited.

Kalcyr and his mounted troopers had almost reached the coordinates from the recon gryphon's overflight when a man stood up in front of them.

Kalcyr reined in his unicorn so abruptly the beast snorted and tossed its head in protest, and his eyes flitted about. The single Sharonian standing in front of him wore civilian clothes, and Kalcyr didn't see any sign of a revolver or a rifle. That didn't mean much, though. There could have been half a dozen more of them hidden away in the rocks and trees, every one of them with one of those accursed rifles waiting to blow him and his men out of their saddles.

The Sharonian-a youngish, redhaired fellow-kept his hands in plain sight and just stood there, watching Kalcyr. His expression was remarkably calm, but Kalcyr could see the tension hovering in his tight shoulders, in the way he held himself absolutely motionless.

Good, the senior sword thought harshly. Go ahead and sweat, you bastard!

Finally, the Sharonian spoke. It was only so much gibberish, and Kalcyr reached into a cargo pocket and extracted the PC loaded with Five Hundred Neshok's translation spellware.

"What?" he barked. "What did you say?"

Folsar chan Tergis had kept Syrail informed on all of the nonclassified details of the Fallen Timbers negotiations, and Syrail had shared those reports with his parents. So Kersai had at least heard about the Arcanans' magical translating rocks. Even so, actually seeing and hearing one came as more of a surprise than he'd expected. Still, it wasn't as if it had come at him completely cold, and he drew a deep breath.

"I asked you what you want," he repeated in the steadiest voice he could manage.

"What do you think we want?" the man who seemed to be in charge shot back. He sounded angry, and Kersai hoped that was only a trick of the translating magic.

"I don't know," he said as reasonably as he could. "You're obviously soldiers. I'm not. And, as you can see, I'm not even armed."

He opened his coat carefully, aware of the dozen or so crossbows aimed straight at him. He held it open, letting them see that the garment had concealed no shoulder holster or other hidden weapon.

"So, you're not a soldier, hey?" the mounted man said with a scornful expression.

"No, of course not," Kersai replied.

"So, if you're not a soldier, why are you hiding out here?"

"Why?" This time Kersai let a little incredulity into his tone. "You've invaded us. As far as I can see, it only makes sense to stay out of your way."

Kalcyr had to admit the other man had a point. In fact, he had a better point then he knew.

One of the troopers behind him stirred uneasily. Kalcyr sensed the motion and turned his head to give the offender a savage glare, and the man froze.

Lily-livered bastard, Kalcyr thought. Probably one of those pricks who stays up at night moaning over the Kerellian Accords. These bastards started the massacring, and Five Hundred Neshok's right about taking chances with these 'Talents' of theirs.

"So, 'civilian,'"thinspace"" he said. "What's your name?"

Kersai looked up at the cavalry commander. The Arcanan wasn't looking back at him; instead, his attention appeared to be focused on the crystal in his hand, and Kersai's eyes narrowed as he remembered what Syrail had told him about chan Tergis' last transmission. About the crystal which had flashed blue like some sort of inanimate Sifter.

"Syrail," he said quietly-and truthfully. "Syrail Targal."

Kalcyr grunted in satisfaction as the verifier spell in the PC blinked with blue confirmation. The Sharonian looked older than he'd expected, but then again, the man who'd given the name to Five Hundred Neshok probably hadn't been in the best possible condition when he'd done so. Besides, nobody at the fort, except for the military Voice assigned to it, had ever actually met this Syrail, as far as anyone knew.

"Stand where you are," he commanded, then nodded to two of his men.

"Take a look," he said.

The selected troopers climbed down, passing their reins to one of their fellows, and advanced on the Sharonian. The PC had translated Kalcyr's order to them into Sharonian, as well, and the civilian obviously knew what was coming. He made no effort to resist, although Kalcyr's men were no gentler than they had to be. They were, however, thorough, and one of them grimaced, then waved a small, bronze falcon-shaped badge triumphantly.

Kalcyr reached down and took it, letting it lie in his palm. Then he looked back at the man from whom it had been taken.

"So, you're a Voice."

Kersai kept his mouth shut.

It wasn't easy. His heart raced, and he could feel the air fluttering in and out of his lungs. He knew now what was coming, and he felt the sweat beading on his brow.

A part of him wanted desperately to answer the Arcanan's question's truthfully. Another part wanted even more desperately to lie. But the truth would probably have been useless … and the lie would probably have been detected.

He clenched his fists at his side, standing between the two men who had searched him and who still held his elbows. There was a reason he'd brought that badge along. He'd hoped it would never be needed, that this moment would never come. But the moment had come, and he found himself clinging to his love for his son and his wife as he gazed silently up at the hard-faced, hard-eyed Arcanan.

"So, the gryphon's got your tongue, has it, 'civilian'?" Kalcyr demanded. The Sharonian only looked back up at him, and the senior sword felt a cold, hard sense of satisfaction. The man's very silence was proof he was exactly what Kalcyr had been sent out here to find. Not that denying the truth would have done him any good in the face of the verifier spells Five Hundred Neshok had loaded to Kalcyr's crystal.

"Not so talkative now, I see," he said, sliding the PC back into his pocket now that it was no longer needed. Still the Sharonian only looked at him, and Kalcyr shrugged.

The senior sword wasn't going to shed any tears over what needed to be done. For that matter, he wasn't going to pretend he didn't take an intense, personal satisfaction out of it. But unlike the Sharonians who'd murdered their Arcanan prisoners, Kalcyr saw no need for brutality.

He looked at the two men flanking their prisoner and nodded.

Quick and clean, he thought approvingly as the blood fountained from the Voice's slashed throat. Quick and clean.

He looked down at the crumpled body, which seemed smaller, the way dead men almost always did, then looked up at the sky, remembering another day, other bodies.

"Leave him. Mount up," he said flatly, and the dismounted troopers hesitated only for a moment before they obeyed. Kalcyr gave the corpse one more look, then reined his unicorn's head around and started back the way they'd come, leaving the body for the buzzards.

If it was good enough for Fifty Narshu and his men, it's good enough for that bastard, he thought, and never looked back even once.

"Overall, I like your attack plan, Klayrman," Two Thousand Harshu said. "The only thing I wonder about is whether it wouldn't be better to go ahead and commit the gryphons first. They were certainly effective enough at Fort Ghartoun."

"Yes, they were, Sir," Toralk agreed. "But we also lost over a dozen of them."

"Practically all to that one damned lunatic with the-the what-do-you-call-it? The shotgun," Harshu pointed out.

"True." Toralk nodded. "Still, it did cost us ten percent of our total gryphon strength. I'd like to conserve that, especially if we end up needing it for Fort Salby."

Harshu cocked his head, then frowned slightly while the command tent's canvas flapped gently in the brisk early afternoon breeze.

"That's a logical argument, Klayrman. Why do I think it's not the only one?"

"There is one other thing," Toralk admitted slowly, reminding himself once again that there was a keenly intelligent, highly observant brain behind those intense eyes. "I wouldn't call it a 'logical argument,'

exactly, but it is causing me a little concern."

"Well? What is it?"

"It's just that some of the gryphon-handlers are reporting that the compulsion spells don't seem to be working with one hundred percent effectiveness."

"What?" Harshu's eyes narrowed. "What do they mean?"

"That's just it, Sir. They don't seem able to point to any one area in which the spells are malfunctioning.

In fact, it's more of a … a feeling, I guess you'd say, than anything else."

Harshu looked more than mildly incredulous, and Toralk shrugged.

"I didn't say I'd observed any problems, Sir. I just said the gryphon-handlers are expressing concerns.

Some of them, at any rate. And, to be completely honest, I've never been a gryphon-handler. I know that anyone who does that job successfully for very long has to develop particularly acute instincts where the gryphons are concerned, though, so they could well be seeing something I'm not. Whatever's happening, it's making them a bit worried. Let's face it, Sir-it's not exactly a safe job."

This time, Harshu nodded slowly. In fact, gryphon-handling was one of the more dangerous Air Force specializations. Not a year went by that at least one gryphon-handler wasn't turned upon by his attackgryphons.

People who did the job for very long had to develop a feel for when one of the hyperaggressive creatures was hovering on the brink of breaking the compulsion spells which normally kept its ferocity under control.

"Do you think there really is a problem?" the two thousand asked. "Or do they just think there is?"

"Honestly, Sir, I don't know. I onlyknow there's a certain level of anxiety, and I'd just as soon let them stay where they are for right now. If we need them, we can use them, but if we don't need them, then why not let the handlers settle down a bit before we have to commit them somewhere else?"

"I don't suppose I can argue with that," Harshu conceded. "Especially when the fellow arguing in favor of it is the one who's successfully punched out every fort we've encountered so far."

Toralk nodded slightly at the implied compliment, then waved one hand at the map on the table.

"As you see," he said, indicating a red push pin, "our advance party's located an appropriate oasis for our forward staging point. We're still going to have to fly in a lot of water, though, Sir. That's going to cut into our total lift capability. That's why my assault plan calls for leaving the heavy cavalry cavalry behind, at least temporarily. They're going to be of limited utility in taking out the fort itself, under the proposed operations plan, and leaving the heavy cav behind gives us the best trade-off for hauling water."

"Agreed." Harshu nodded.

"It's going to cost us a couple of days before we can move on Fort Salby, you understand, Sir? We're going to have to use up some additional transport flights leapfrogging them forward to Fort Mosanik before we can ship them the rest of the way to Traisum."

"Understood," Harshu said.

"Then that only leaves the question of exactly what we do about this after we punch out Mosanik."

Harshu tapped another push pin, then looked up at his commanding officer. "I've viewed the imagery from the recon-gryphons, Sir. These people may not have magic, but seeing the kind of engineering they're capable of is … well, it's impressive as hell, is what it is, Sir. I'd like your guidance on exactly how we want to approach it."

"I wish I were going with you, Iftar," Therman Ulthar said quietly as he watched his brother-in-law strapping up his backpack.

"Don't be silly." Iftar Halesak looked up at him and shook his head. "You've sure as hell earned a little more rest, Therman!"

"Maybe."

Ulthar moved his newly healed shoulder gingerly. His stint as a prisoner of war of people who didn't have magistrons had given him a whole new appreciation for modern medicine. The fact that he'd recovered the shoulder's full range of motion literally overnight would have been wonderful enough, but it was also the first time he'd been truly pain-free in literally months. He luxuriated in the sensation, but even as he delighted in the absence of pain, that very delight brought home the thing that most concerned him.

"It's not the rest I'm worried about," he admitted, and Halesak frowned.

"What is worrying you?" the garthan asked. "You're not still feeling guilty over what that bastard Neshok did, are you?"

"Actually, I am." Ulthar's expression was profoundly unhappy. "I should have said something, stopped him-"

"By the time you were out of the healers' hands and knew what the hell was going on, Two Thousand Harshu and Thousand Toralk had already put a stop to it," Halesak pointed out. "This time, at least," he added.

Ulthar's mouth tightened, and Halesak shook his head.

"I'm telling you, Therman. Let it lie, for now, at least. I don't know what else is going on, but it looks to me like the Two Thousand's decided to put a muzzle on Neshok. If that's the case, then he's not going to be torturing or murdering any more POWs. Which means you don't have to play the noble Andaran paladin in shining armor and maybe get your fool self killed trying to stop it."

"Not trying to stop Neshok, anyway," Ulthar muttered.

"And what does that mean?" Halesak demanded.

"They're leaving Thalmayr in command here."

"Thalmayr?" Halesak frowned in surprise. "Who had that brainstorm?"

"I think it was Five Hundred Isrian."

"Oh, wonderful." Halesak looked as disgusted as he sounded. Chalbos Isrian was one of Two Thousand Harshu's senior battalion commanders. He was also one of the officers who'd argued most forcefully in support of Neshok's plan for dealing with the Voicenet.

"Exactly."

"It may not be that bad," Halesak said, but he sounded as if he were arguing with himself, not his brotherin- law, and he knew it.

"I hope not," Ulthar said bleakly. "But the fact is, Thalmayr is a frigging idiot at the best of times. And I've got a feeling-a really bad feeling, Iftar-that he's just been biding his time. He blames the Sharonians for what happened to us, instead of blaming his own stupidity. And I think-"

He broke off with a shrug.

"You think what?" Halesak asked sharply.

"I think he'll never believe the Sharonians were really trying to help him. I know their healers testified that they were under verifier, and as far as I know, no one's ever been able to fool the verification spells.

I know I'm convinced they were doing their best to help me. But I don't think there's enough evidence in the multiverse to convince Thalmayr of that. And what really scares me is how stupid he proved he could be before he was wounded. Gods alone know how much stupider he's capable of being now!"

"Wonderful," Halesak repeated with a sigh, then shook his head. "Thanks a lot, Therman. Now you've almost got me wishing you were coming along with us!"

"All right," Commander of Five Hundred Cerlohs Myr said, looking around the briefing tent at the circle of faces one last time. It was pitch black outside the tent's canvas walls, but the spell-powered light globes illuminated its interior brilliantly. "All of you know what you're supposed to do. Now, let's go get the job done. Right?"

"Right!"

The one-word response came back in a strong, confident rumble of voices, and Myr nodded in satisfaction … mostly.

He looked around at his flight and strike commanders. Their losses in the first attack had come as a shock to all of them, but since then, they'd scored an unbroken string of successes and advanced the better part of three thousand miles in barely eleven days without the loss of a single additional dragon. It was the sort of operation they'd trained at in maneuvers for years and never really expected to have the opportunity to mount, and they knew they'd performed brilliantly so far. Which explained why their faith in themselves went far beyond mere confidence now. They viewed themselves as an elite, and there was a brashness, a swagger in them.

That's good, Myr told himself. Dragon pilots are supposed to know they have big brass ones. That they're the best of the best.

But there was still that tiny, tiny flaw in his satisfaction. That sense that too much faith in themselves might still lead them to take one chance too many. To push that little bit too hard.

And just what do you want to do about it, Cerlohs? he asked himself. You want to make them less confident before you send them out on an op?

There could be only one answer to that question, he reflected, and had to smile at his own perversity.

It's just your own crossgrained cussedness, he scolded himself. You'd find something to be upset about even if you fell into a vat of beer!

"All right," he repeated again. "We've got another fort to burn. Let's get them in the air, gentlemen!"