37
BEHIND THE LINES

Stretched prone on the crest of the hill, Beka and Sergeant Braknil shielded their eyes from the drizzle and surveyed the little village below. There were large granaries and warehouses there, the walls of which still had the pale gleam of new wood. Empty wagons of all descriptions stood near a sizable corral. All this, coupled with the cavalry troop billeted just outside the wooden palisade, added up to one thing: a supply depot.

“Looks like you were right, Lieutenant!” Braknil whispered, grinning wolfishly through his beard.

Satisfied with their reconnaissance, they made their way cautiously back to the oak grove where the rest of the turma was waiting.

“What’s the word?” asked Rhylin.

“We found Commander Klia’s adders,” Braknil told him.

“A good nest of them, too,” said Beka. “But only one nest, and it took us four days to do it. From the looks of it, I’d say it’s just one link in a supply chain.”

“You think we should look farther before we go back?” asked Corporal Kallas. He was still mourning his brother and had the look of a man who’d welcome a fight.

Beka looked around at their dirty, hopeful faces. The depot was an important emplacement, enough of a find to go back with now that their food was running low and the weather had turned foul.

Her leg ached dully as she shifted her weight. The gash in her thigh had festered just enough to kindle a fever. Though it broke her sleep at night with confused dreams, it seemed to sharpen her wits during the day, as fevers sometimes did.

“We’ll circle wide and see if we can learn where the wagons are coming from,” she said at last.

For two days they followed the supply route as it wound south into the steeper country above the head of the Plenimaran isthmus. Beka kept her riders well up in the wooded hills, sending scouts ahead and behind as they went. They spotted two separate wagon trains heading west, but both were too heavily guarded to attack.

Their seventh day out dawned cold and foggy. Reining her horse to the side of the steep track, Beka watched as the remains of her turma rode past; the fog made it difficult to see more than thirty feet in any direction and she couldn’t afford to lose any stragglers. The uncertain light and muffling effect of the mist lent the riders a ghostly, insubstantial look.

They all rode with growling bellies. Their food was nearly gone and game was scarce. With the rain and the plentiful mountain springs they had water enough, but hunger soon took the edge off a soldier’s strength. It would probably be wisest to turn back today.

Just as she was about to call a halt, however, Braknil materialized out of the fog and cantered over to her.

“The scouts found a way station ahead, Lieutenant. They report four big wagons unhitched there and only a handful of guards,” he informed Beka quietly, then added with a knowing wink, “Quite a manageable gathering, I’d say. Especially in this weather, if you take my meaning.”

“I believe I do, Sergeant.”

Leaving Rhylin in command, she followed Braknil to a stone outcropping where Mirn was waiting with several horses.

“You can see it from just around the next bend in the trail,” he told them, his face flushed and eager beneath his shock of pale hair. Mirn had always reminded Beka a bit of Alec, though a taller, more muscular version.

Proceeding on foot, they found Steb keeping watch.

“You can see better now,” he told them, pointing down a gap. “This breeze that’s coming up should clear it off before long.”

From where they stood, Beka could see a road winding through the narrow cleft of a pass. There was a way station there, an old tumble-down log building, but the stable and large corral next to it were sturdy and new. Rocky slopes rose steeply on both sides of the road, making it the only passable route of attack or escape.

“I’ve been watching the place,” Steb told them. “I’d say there’s no more than two dozen soldiers and a few wagoneers down there. Nobody’s ridden in or out since we found the place an hour ago.”

Judging by the activity in the yard, Beka guessed the wagoneers were getting ready to move out, though neither they nor their military escort seemed in any particular hurry. Many still lounged around the station door with trenchers and mugs. The breeze coming up the pass carried the tantalizing aroma of breakfast fires.

She studied the fog still shrouding the road leading up to the station. “If we move fast, we might get within two hundred yards of the enemy before they catch a good look at us.”

“And if we circle by this trail and come in on the road from the east, chances are they’ll think we’re friendly forces anyway,” whispered Braknil.

“Good idea. The Plenimaran cavalry columns travel at a canter in ranks of four. We’ll line up in the same formation. Put anyone who’s riding with Plenimaran tack in front in case they recognize the jingle of the harness.”

Sergeant Braknil raised an eyebrow, looking impressed. “Who taught you to be such a sly thinker, Lieutenant?”

Beka gave him a wink. “A friend of the family.”

Their ruse paid off. The Plenimarans scarcely looked up from their breakfasts as the turma came cantering toward them out of the mist. By the time they drew swords and broke into a gallop, it was already too late.

They thundered up to the station, whooping and screaming at the top of their lungs. A few of the Plenimaran soldiers stood their ground. Most broke and ran for cover in the station and outbuildings.

Galloping at full speed, the Skalans rode down the men who stood against them. The Plenimarans put up a brief, determined fight but were no match for the flashing swords and iron-shod hooves that mowed them down. With the station’s one line of defense destroyed, Beka shouted an order and the riders split into decuriae.

Braknil spotted men running for the cover of the stable and chose that as his target. Wheeling toward the low-roofed building, he and his riders drove the would-be escapees into the stable, then tossed the Plenimarans’ own night lanterns into the straw piled outside the back door. Within seconds, screams rang out from the panicked horses stabled inside. Choking and cursing, those who’d taken refuge there came stumbling out again and were herded at sword point into the corral.

Rhylin and his decuria attacked the station building. Dashing up to the door, the ungainly sergeant leapt from his horse and threw himself against the door, knocking it open just as the men inside were trying to thrust the bar into place. His assault was successful, but he was nearly trampled for his efforts as the rest of his decuria, led by Kallas and Ariani, stormed in to his aid. The soldiers and wagoneers inside surrendered immediately.

Beka and a handful of riders rode off in pursuit of the Plenimarans who had fled at the first sign of attack. Most of those on foot were easily overtaken, but several who’d gotten onto horses broke away down the east road. Beka and her group took off in pursuit, but their quarry had the advantage of fresh horses and a knowledge of the country. Cursing under her breath, she turned back.

The remaining Plenimarans had been gathered in the station building.

“I took count, Lieutenant,” Braknil informed her as she dismounted. “Nineteen enemy dead and fifteen taken, counting the wagoneers and Stationmaster. Sergeant Rhylin’s got the prisoners under guard.”

Beka surveyed the bodies scattered between the buildings and the road. “Any losses for us?”

“Not a scratch,” the sergeant replied happily. “Those little tricks of yours worked!”

“Good.” Beka hoped her relief wasn’t too obvious. “We don’t want to make the same mistake as our friends in there, so post lookouts on the road. Corporal Nikides!”

“Here, Lieutenant.” The young man rode over to where she stood.

“Get someone to help you check the wagons. Let’s hope we haven’t gone to all this trouble for a load of horseshoes and slop pails.”

“Yes, Lieutenant!” Grinning, he snapped a salute and rode off again.

Inside the station, the Plenimarans sat packed together at the far end of the building’s single narrow room under the watchful eyes of Rhylin’s guards. Six of the captives were wagoneers; the rest wore black military tunics displaying a white castle emblem.

Rhylin snapped Beka a smart salute as she entered. “We’ve searched the prisoners and the buildings, Lieutenant. Nothing of note found. It looks like a routine supply train.”

“Very good, Sergeant.”

Beka’s long red braid fell free over her shoulder as she removed her helmet. The prisoners exchanged glances and low murmurs among themselves at the sight of it. Several stared at her boldly and one spat sideways onto the floor.

Gilly moved to avenge the insult, but Beka stayed him with a glance.

“Who’s the ranking officer here?” she demanded, not bothering to sheath her sword. The prisoners simply stared back at her, silent and insolent.

“Do any of you speak Skalan?”

Again the blank silence. The Plenimarans’ disdain for female soldiers was legend, but this was her first exposure to it. A trickle of sweat inched down her back as all eyes turned to her.

Rider Tare, a young, red-haired squire’s son with the solid build of a wrestler, stepped forward with a respectful salute. “By your leave, Lieutenant, I speak a little Plenimaran.”

“Go on, then.”

Tare turned and addressed the prisoners haltingly. A few snickered. None replied.

Well, I’ve got the badger by the hind leg, as the saying goes. Now what the hell do I do with it? Beka thought, racking her brain. The thought of Seregil’s sly, lopsided grin brought her inspiration.

With a careless shrug, she said aloud, “Well, they had their chance. Sergeant Rhylin, see that they’re securely bound. Sergeant Braknil, your decuria is in charge of burning the place.”

A few of her own people exchanged worried looks, but the sergeants obeyed without question.

One of the wagoneers whispered excitedly to a grizzled soldier next to him. The man went an angry red, then hissed something back. Rising on one knee, the wagoneer bowed awkwardly to Beka.

“A moment, Lieutenant, I speak your language,” he said in passable Skalan. “Captain Teratos says he will parley with your commanding officer as soon as he arrives.”

Beka favored the Plenimaran captain with an icy look. “Wagoneer, first tell this man that I am the commanding officer here until the rest of our troop arrives. When my captain arrives, she will have less patience with him than I do. Then inform him that Skalan officers do not parley with those they have defeated. I will ask questions. He will answer them.”

The wagoneer quickly interpreted Beka’s words for the captain. The man stared at her for a moment, then spat wetly between his feet. This time Beka made no move to stop Gilly as he brought the flat of his sword down on the man’s head.

“My men don’t approve of his discourtesy, wagoneer,” Beka went on calmly. “Tell him that we’re hungry, and that the roasted flesh of our enemy is more succulent than pork. Sergeant Braknil, fetch the torches.” Turning on her heel, she strode outside.

Braknil followed her out. “You don’t really mean to burn those men?”

“Of course not, but we don’t want them to know that, do we? Let’s give them a few minutes to consider their situation.”

Syra ran over to her just then, clutching a strip of salted fish and a cup of beer. “Lieutenant, Corporal Nikides sends you breakfast with his compliments,” she said, handing them to Beka. “There’s barley meal, too, but he said to tell you ‘no slop jars.’ ”

Beka took a swallow of warm beer. “That’s a relief. Spread the word; each rider is to take as much fish and meal as they can carry. We’ll have to leave the beer. As soon as everyone has what they need, burn the rest. Sergeant Braknil, see that Rhylin’s riders are relieved as soon as yours are supplied—”

She was interrupted by the sound of a horse coming in from the west. It was Mirn, who’d been sent out as a lookout.

“Enemy riders headed this way!” he shouted to her. “Cavalry column, two score riders at least.”

“Damn!” Motioning the others to silence, she listened intently for a few seconds; no sound of the approaching riders yet. The mist was still with them, but the smell of the burning stable would carry for a mile. “Spread the word, Mirn. Everyone grabs an extra horse and food and heads east. If anyone gets separated, they’re to circle back and head for the regiment with word of what we found. Go!”

Rhylin came running out of the station with his people. “What about the prisoners?”

“Leave them. Get out of here!” The staccato rumble of the approaching column was audible now.

Leaping onto her horse, Beka galloped to the wagon and yanked out the first sack her hand fell on. An arrow sang over her head as she slung the bag over her saddlebow. Another shaft thudded into the side of the wagon as she wheeled her mount, galloping down the eastern road just as the first of the Plenimaran outriders burst out of the thinning mist.

Hoping the fire at the station would halt at least some of the enemy, Beka led her riders deeper into Plenimaran territory.