Hell Hath No Fury

Chapter Thirty-Two

"-and I don't give a good godsdamn what you think, Fifty! The next time you drag your sorry ass into my office and get into my face over this, I'll shove my boot so far up it you'll taste fucking leather for a godsdamned week! Now get the hell out of my sight!"

For the first time in his military career, Therman Ulthar failed to salute his commanding officer before he wheeled and marched furiously out of Hadrign Thalmayr's office. The wiry red-haired officer's blue eyes were cored with rage, his lips were white with compressed fury, and the care he took to shut the door very quietly behind him was a clearer statement of his seething anger and contempt than any violent slam could have been.

He stalked out of the office block at Fort Ghartoun literally trembling with combined fury, outrage, and humiliation, and Sword Keraik Nourm glanced up from where he'd been mending the buckle on his weapons harness.

"Guess the Hundred tied his balls in a knot," he remarked with a pronounced note of satisfaction. He shook his head and glanced at the other sword, sitting beside him on the barracks veranda and smoking a pipe. "Graholis, you'd think someone who'd been these fuckers' prisoner would get it, wouldn't you?"

Sword Evarl Harnak looked back at Nourm thoughtfully for several seconds. Then he took his pipe out of his mouth, tamped the tobacco down, and put the stem back between his teeth.

"Yeah, you would, wouldn't you?" he repeated in a very different tone, and Nourm's eyes narrowed.

"Don't tell me you agree with him!" the first noncom said incredulously.

"Fifty Ulthar's a right smart young fellow," Harnak replied indirectly, looking back out across the parade ground at the stables surrounded by infantry-dragons and alert sentries.

"He's only a fifty," Nourm pointed out. "You've been around as long as I have, Evarl. You've seen the dragon and smelled the smoke. You know most fifties still need swords like us to wipe their noses and change their diapers!"

"You think so?" Harnak looked back at him.

"Hells yes, I think so! I mean, take Fifty Sarma. He's a good kid, mostly. Still wet behind the ears and full of all that starry-eyed Academy crap, but a good kid. He just doesn't get it, though. Not where these bastards are concerned."

"Actually," Harnak said after a moment, his tone thoughtful, "it seems to me the real problem isn't snotnosed kids fresh out of the Academy and too stupid to understand the real world, but some old sweats who're so stupid they aren't even bothering to try to 'get it.'"thinspace""

Nourm stiffened and his face darkened.

"What d'you mean by that crack?" he demanded.

"I mean I'm getting tired of people who don't bother to listen to what's really going on out here, that's what I mean." Harnak's tone was harder, and his voice was lower pitched. "I mean I'm getting tired of people who eat up that asshole Neshok's so-called 'intelligence briefings' like they were handed down from the gods. And I mean I'm getting tired of idiots so locked up with the hate inside them that they can't even wake up and smell the fucking coffee!"

Nourm's eyes flared wide and he sat back in his cane-bottomed chair abruptly.

"What in the hells are you talking about?" Anger crackled in his own voice, but there was confusion, as well. "Godsdamn it, you were one of their prisoners! You know damned well they didn't even bother to give the Hundred a decent healer! And you were godsdamnd there when they shot Magister Halathyn!"

"You poor, pathetic excuse for a sword," Harnak said almost pityingly. "My gods, you've been kicking around the Service for this long, and you don't recognize a pile of unicorn shit when they put it on your plate and call it scrambled eggs?"

Nourm's wide eyes narrowed at the slang phrase. It could be used to describe orders that were unusually stupid or confused or to describe someone's particularly blatant-and unconvincing-cover-his-ass excuses. But it was also used to describe "confirmed" intelligence that was just plain wrong … or a deliberate lie.

"What do you mean?" he demanded harshly.

"I mean I was there," Harnak grated, taking the pipe out of his mouth and stabbing the stem in Nourm's direction. "I was there at Fallen Timbers when it all fell into the shitter. Hells, Osmuna-the first man down-he was in my fucking platoon and I was the one who found him with a frigging hole blown all the way through his godsdmaned chest! Don't you sit there and tell me what the fucking intelligence pukes have been feeding you! I was there, godsdamn it. I saw what the hells happened!"

The pipe in his hand quivered, and Nourm's expression changed suddenly as he recognized the barely leashed fury in that quiver.

"Then tell me," he said in a very different voice. "Tell me what happened."

Harnak looked at him for several heartbeats, as if weighing the risks, then inhaled deeply and shrugged ever so slightly.

"Hundred Olderhan was right all along," he said then, softly. "I don't know who shot first, Osmuna or their man. I don't think anyone ever will know. But I know who fucking shot first at Fallen Timbers, and it wasn't them. It wasn't the godsdamned civilian standing there with his hands empty, trying to fucking talk to us-just talk to us-when my own shitty excuse for a fifty shot him right in the throat against the Hundred's direct orders!"

Nourm recognized the look in Harnak's eyes now, and the agonizing shame he saw there was more convincing than any anger might have been.

"Did you know Hundred Olderhan made the only two of them we didn't manage to kill his shardonai?"

Harnak continued, glaring at the other sword. "You know whose son he is-you think he did that because we'd acted so fucking honorably? And I'll bet you didn't know the Hundred offered to cut Thalmayr down right there in front of everything that was left of my platoon when that asshole sitting in that office over there wanted to put manacles on the Hundred's shardonai. Well, I know. I was the sword Hadrign ordered to do it … and the one the Hundred ordered to stand fast!

"And Magister Halathyn? They didn't kill him-we did." Anguish tightened Harnak's fierce, low voice.

"It was an infantry-dragon, a godsdamned lightning-thrower-you seen any of them in these people's armory, Nourm? 'Cause I sure as fuck haven't seen any of 'em!"

Harnak jerked his head in the direction of the Fort Ghartoun armory building and his mouth twisted as if he wanted to spit.

"And all that crap about shooting prisoners, torturing them, denying medical care-dragon shit! Dragon shit! These people-the officers in that brig over there-saw to it that we were treated well. I never saw a single one of their guards as much as butt-stroke one of our guys with a rifle! You want to explain to me just how that compares with the way we've been treating them?

"And then there's that bastard Thalmayr and his lying shit about how they 'tortured him.'"thinspace""

Harnak's tone dripped contempt. "Fifty Ulthar and I got left here because we were both wounded, too. I saw their healers at work-hells, they worked on me!-and I never saw one of them do less than the very best he could do. They aren't like our magistrons; they can't do the same things. Can't any of you get that through your godsdamned skulls? They did the best they fucking could, treated us every bit as well as they did their own people, without once asking whose uniform we were wearing, and that's who your precious Hundred Thalmayr's beating and stomping the shit out of every couple of days! It godsdamned makes me want to puke!"

Nourm stared at the other noncom in shock as he realized there were literally tears of fury-and shame-

and Evarl Harnak's eyes.

"I-" he started, then broke off. It was too much for him to take in all at one sitting, stood too many preconceptions he'd spent too long cherishing on their heads. But in Evarl Harnak's rage and shame he recognized truth when he finally saw it.

"What?" Harnak half-snapped as Nourm hesitated.

"I guess, maybe, I should've spent a little more time listening to Fifty Sarma," Nourm replied finally, slowly. "Maybe then I wouldn't feel like as big a piece of shit as I do right now."

"Yeah?" Harnak growled. "Well, you aren't the only one who feels that way. Trust me."

"Maybe not."

Nourm sat staring out across the captured fort's parade ground, thinking about everything Harnak had just told him. Thinking about everything he'd said … and done.

"Maybe not," he repeated, "but what in Graholis' name do we do about it?"

"I don't know." Harnak put his pipe back into his mouth and turned away from the other man while he fished out an accumulator and used it to relight the tobacco, and his voice was even lower than before. "I know what I'd like to do, but I can't. And I wish the Fifty would remember the same advice he gave me," he added, turning to look in the direction in which Ulthar had disappeared. "If he keeps on with this, keeps getting in Thalmayr's way, I don't know what's going to happen."

Nourm's eyes followed Harnak's, and as they did, they deepened and darkened with fresh worry all their own.

I know exactly what's going to happen if Ulthar doesn't back off, he thought grimly. And he's been spending an awful lot of time with my fifty. The same "wet-behind-the-ears kid" I should've been listening to all along.

Keraik Nourm looked into the future and didn't like what he saw there at all.

The miles-long train pulled into the Fort Salby station in a long, shuddering, clanking spasm of steam and hissing air brakes. It stretched as far back down the tracks as the eye could see, and Rof chan Skrithik's eyes narrowed in appreciation as he saw the machine guns and light pedestal guns which had been mounted on top of many of the freight cars.

The command and staff cars were at the head of the train, and chan Skrithik came to attention as the doors opened and an officer in the uniform and paired golden sunburts of a Ternathian division-captain came down the short steps.

The division-captain was short, for a Ternathian, with dark hair beginning to be streaked with dramatic silver highlights. He was also wiry and fit, with a horseman's build and large, powerful hands which went well with his cavalry boots and the bone-handled grips of the H amp;W holstered at his side instead of the lighter Polshana many other officers preferred these days. But his brown eyes were dark, and the black mourning band on his right arm matched the identical mourning bands worn by every other person in sight.

"Division-Captain chan Geraith," chan Skrithik said quietly.

"Regiment-Captain," chan Geraith replied.

"I'm glad to see you, Sir. I only wish-"

"So do we all, Regiment-Captain," chan Geraith said as chan Skrithik broke off. The division-captain held out his hand and gripped chan Skrithik's firmly. "So do we all. But you did a fine job out here. A

fine job."

"Thank you, Sir. We didn't do it all on our own, though, and, I'd like to intro-"

Chan Skrithik broke off again, but not this time because he couldn't find the words. This time, he was interrupted by the magnificent peregrine falcon which came slanting down across the station platform's roof and landed on his shoulder.

Chan Geraith's eyes widened. He hadn't actually noticed the leather pad on the regiment-captain's shoulder, he realized.

"I'm sorry, Sir," chan Skrithik began when he saw chan Geraith staring at the bird. "I know she's Prince Janaki's, and I'm sure there has to be some other arrangement, but since he was killed, she's …"

His voice trailed off helplessly. For a moment longer, chan Geraith just looked at him. Then the divisioncaptain gave himself a visible shake.

"That's an Imperial Ternathian Peregrine, Regiment-Captain," he said. "No one tells them what to do in a case like this. On the thankfully rare occasions when they lose their human companions, they decide where to go and who, if anyone, to bond with. If she's chosen you, then that's her decision, not anyone else's."

"But, Sir, I don't know anything about falcons," chan Skrithik protested in a half-desperate voice. "If not for the Sunlord here, I wouldn't have had a clue what to do for her!"

"Then it would appear to me, Regiment-Captain," chan Geraith said, turning to extend his hand to the cavalry officer standing at chan Skrithik's shoulder with a matching mourning band on the right arm of his Uromathian uniform, "that we have two things to thank Sunlord Markan for. Believe me," he continued, speaking directly to the Uromathian, "I am as deeply and sincerely grateful to you and all of your men as Emperor Zindel himself will be, Sunlord."

"It was a cooperative effort, Division-Captain," Markan replied, gripping the offered hand firmly. "No one here at Fort Salby had a monopoly on courage … or sacrifice."

His dark, almond-shaped eyes dropped to the dark band around his own sleeve, matching the one on chan Geraith's, and the division-captain nodded soberly.

"Well said, Sunlord." He gave Markan's hand a final squeeze, then drew a deep breath.

"Gentlemen," he said, looking at both of them, "I suspect that my staff car is actually better equipped, at least until we can get your fort put back together again, for the briefings and discussions awaiting all of us. But before we start all of that, I would like to see my Prince."

Crown Prince Janaki chan Calirath, dressed in a clean uniform, lay on the bier in the Fort Salby chapel with his hands folded on the hilt of the dress sword on his chest. The presence lights of the Triad glowed above the altar where the three faces of Vothan the Protector, Mother Shalana, and Marinlay the Maiden gazed down upon him, and an honor guard composed of the seven surviving men of Janaki's platoon, under the command of Chief-Armsman chan Braikal, stood stiffly at attention around the bier. It was thankfully cool in the chapel, yet chan Geraith was surprised that there were no visible signs of corruption. He looked at chan Skrithik, and the regiment-captain shrugged.

"Maybe I shouldn't have done it, Sir, but the senior Arcanan Healer offered to put but he called a

'preservation spell' on the Prince's body."

"They've been informed he was killed?" chan Geraith asked sharply, with more than a hint of disapproval.

"He already knew when he approached me, Sir," chan Skrithik said levelly. "Apparently one of the wounded mentioned it where he and his … translating crystal could overhear. Since he already knew, I saw no reason not to accept his offer."

Chan Geraith grimaced, but chan Skrithik faced him squarely.

"Sir, every single one of your men is going to want to pay his respects to the Prince, just like every one of my men-and of the Sunlord's-did. They're going to need to see him, and there are going to be Voices among them. For that matter, I know you've got Voice correspondents with you. I didn't want his lady mother-anyone-to see him looking like-"

The regiment-captain stopped with another shrug, his eyes glittering under the presence lights, and chan Geraith felt his grimace smooth into something else.

"I hadn't thought about it that way," he admitted. "I'd rather they didn't know a thing about it, but if they already knew, then I think you probably made the right decision."

"Thank you, Sir," chan Skrithik said quietly. He shook his head slightly. "Actually, it seems to me-and Petty-Captain chan Darma, my Voice, agrees with me-that this Five Hundred Vaynair is a genuinely decent human being. I don't know what someone like him is doing in the Arcanan Army, but my Sifter agreed that he was sincere when he said he wanted to do this as a mark of his personal respect."

"Indeed?" Chan Geraith frowned thoughtfully.

He'd been surprised by the Arcanan commander's offer when chan Skrithik's Voice relayed its terms to him. In fact, he'd seriously contemplated ordering chan Skrithik to refuse. Like the regiment-captain, he was grimly suspicious of the real reasons this Harshu was mysteriously "not authorized" to release any other prisoners he might hold. And, as Harshu himself had pointed out through his mouthpieces, the Arcanan POWs constituted a potential intelligence treasure trove whose value was impossible to estimate.

But weighed against the release of less than three hundred military prisoners was the return of over two thousand civilians and most of their heavy equipment. Two Thousand Harshu had agreed to allow them to remove any and all equipment they could load in a twelve-hour window, starting when the exchange was agreed to. Since Olvyr Banchu had been loading cars with an eye to a retreat to Traisum for almost thirty-six hours at that point, the grace period acrually amounted to almost two full days.

That, unfortunately, had stell been a short enough time to preclude taking any of the really big excavators, since it would have been necessary to break them down into their component loads, and the lack of flatcars meant that almost a third of the other heavy equipment had been left behind, as well.

Nonetheless, Banchu had returned to Fort Salby with millions of marks worth of construction machinery that was going to be worth considerably more than its weight in gold when it came time to resume the advance towards Hell's Gate. Indeed, chan Geraith had to wonder if Harshu had realized for a moment just how valuable that machinery was going to prove. If Sharona had lost all of it, it would have taken literally months to ship in replacements and the trained personnel to use it.

Chan Geraith had seen the endless lines of work cars, portable machine shops, flatcars loaded with bulldozers and scrapers, passenger cars, portable sawmills, auxiliary steam engines, loads of unused rails and ties, bolts, spikes, hammers, pickaxes … The list seemed endless, and the cars and work locomotives filled the extensive sidings left behind when TTE finished construction of the Traisum Cut almost to capacity. He couldn't possibly have justified holding on to chan Skrithik's prisoners if they were the price of getting so many Sharonian civilians and so much priceless capability back.

He'd accepted the offer because he'd seen no choice, but he'd been more than a little surprised by how scrupulously the Arcanans had honored the terms of their agreement. According to chan Skrithik's post surgeon, for example, the regiment-captain would never have regained full use of his arm without the intervention of the Gifted Arcanan healers. At least fifteen of chan Skrithik's wounded-including Prince Janaki's chief-armsman-would almost certainly have died without that same intervention, and many more, like chan Skrithik, would have been crippled for life. Indeed, the Arcanans had ended up healing twice as many Uromathian and PAAF casualties as they had of their own men.

And then there was this, he thought, gazing down at the dead young man lying before him as if he were only sleeping.

"I suppose there have to be at least some decent men anywhere-even in Arcana," he said finally. "And I'm grateful. But I don't think this is going to soften public opinion back home an ounce when word gets back to Tajvana."

Chan Skrithik winced at the reminder that Janaki's parents still didn't know about his death.

"I wish, Sir-you don't know how badly I wish-that he hadn't been here," the regiment-captain said softly. "We'd never have held this post without him, but-gods!" He shook his head, eyes gleaming with remembered tears as he looked back down at the body. "To lose him like that, so young. So full of promise. I know we always think crown princes are 'full of promise,' but Triad above, he was. He really was!"

"I know." Chan Geraith reached out and squeezed chan Skrithik's left shoulder, careful to make no sudden movements near Taleena. "I know."

"He told me he had to be here," chan Skrithik continued. "I wanted to argue with him, but somehow I just couldn't. And gods know, I needed him. With all the civilians, the portal's strategic importance … I just couldn't tell him no. And to the very last moment of his life, he was totally focused on saving the rest of us. On doing his duty. On being certain I knew what he'd Glimpsed. Without that knowledge, that warning, we never would have held. Hells, without his warning we'd all have died in our beds! He saved us all, and at least I can honestly tell his parents that he died almost instantly. He never could have known what hit him."

"Oh, he knew, Regiment-Captain," chan Geraith said quietly. "He knew exactly. He Saw it coming-he experienced it-before the first Arcanan ever came into sight of your fort here."

"Sir?" The word came out half-strangled as chan Skrithik's head whipped back around. He stared into chan Geraith's eyes, and the division-captain nodded slowly.

"He was in fugue state," he said simply, "and his Talent was never as strong as his father's, or his sister's.

For him to enter fugue state, it had to be a Death Glimpse. He knew he was going to die if he stayed here, Regiment-Captain chan Skrithik. He Saw it. He even sent me a message that told me he knew … and prevented me from ordering you to have him removed from Fort Salby, by force if necessary."

Chan Skrithik's face was twisted with a deeper, fresher anguish, and even though chan Geraith had no trace of Talent, he felt the other man's pain like his own. Part of him felt guilty for inflicting that fresh pain upon him, but it was important that chan Skrithik know, that everyone know, that Janaki chan Calirath had gone knowingly to his death, offering up his life to save thousands of others.

"It's the motto of his House, Regiment-Captain," Arlos chan Geraith said softly, quietly, into the silence, feeling Sunlord Markan at his elbow. ""thinspace"'I Stand Between.' I stand between evil and its victims, between darkness and light. I stand between right and wrong. I stand between my people and their enemies … and between the people I am sworn to protect and death. There's a reason men and women have followed Caliraths straight into the fire for thousands of years, Regiment-Captain, and we-

you and I-have been honored to see precisely what that reason is."