The Tierans: Book Three -- The Soldiers

By Randy Ellena

Battle summer rages north of the Middle Sea on a two-mooned world called Trascera. Sporadic skirmishing along the border between the Kingdom of Syrdis and the Tieran Empire has evolved into full-scale war. General Quintus Glabrio Jens seizes upon the element of surprise to launch a daring offensive. A brave gambit, but the outcome remains an ope

• Language: English
• Publisher: Forest of Grativy Publications
• Release date: Nov 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985442236

Randy Ellena

Randy Ellena, a retired communications system engineer, lives in Fresno, California with his wife, Rebecca. He continues writing The Trasceran Chronicles, a fantasy anthology comprised of two distinct but related series of novels-The Kylgahran and The Tierans-both set in lands surrounding the Middle Sea on a two-mooned world called Trascera.

Book preview

Preface

The Trasceran Chronicles is an anthology comprised of two distinct but related series of novels. Like the entries in its sister series, The Kylgahran, this offering, book three of The Tierans, is set in lands surrounding the Middle Sea on a two-mooned world called Trascera. Magic, the mystic power of the Yir, stirs on Trascera, wondrous and ominous in equal measure.

As the story opens, the border war between the Kingdom of Syrdis and the Tieran Empire grows in ferocity. General Quintus Glabrio Jens has employed a unique pair of young spies, one a beautiful sorcerer and the other a resourceful, if somewhat dodgy, thief to glean vital information regarding Syrdisian deployment within the walled city of Tensys. Exactly what the general will do with the knowledge remains to be seen. To the men under his command, including Mat Bayrd and the Greystock archers of the 133rd Auxiliary Regiment, the question appears to be one that can be answered only in blood.

What comes next for Qwyk the Thief and his alluring, if enigmatic, fellow spy, sorcerer Alyira Solys, is also yet to be determined. Their continued association with the ever-devious mage Elyas Warron, Alyira’s ruthless mentor, seems likely to ensure the way ahead looms no less hazardous than the path they’ve trod thus far.

The danger Glabrio faces in combat with the Syrdisians pales in comparison to his illicit romance with Princess Lydia Sylvus Gant, younger sister of Gaius Sylas Endryk, the hard-eyed emperor of Tier. Duty persists, however, and Quintus soon determines nothing save bold action will answer its call. For the first time, junior officer Wyllem Varus Quin is destined to truly feel the singular weight of command.

In Antium City, Jaryd Hume and Bodewhin Ware embark upon a quest at the behest of legendary sorcerer Sebastyn Card, seeking aid from an equally famous witch, Ellyendre de Martel. The first leg of their travels leads to the ruins of the lost city of Mayne, where danger beckons as bright as the morning sun along with the promise of new hope.

To the soldiers of empire, duty is all, and their travails continue to reflect watershed events shaping a narrow window of time in a world swept by rapid, widespread change. Choices matter amid the tumult, more than in less turbulent days, and some have hard edges, propelling those who make them headlong into the most daunting of consequences.

Author’s Note

Timelines for the first two books in the Tierans series overlap. The opening of this novel, The Tierans: Book 3—The Soldiers, takes place some months before the close of the first book in the series. Relative to the end of book one, therefore, book three of the Tierans begins several months in the past. Forewarned you are the now.

About the Trasceran Chronicles

The Trasceran Chronicles is an anthology, a collection of stories all pertaining to a tumultuous period occurring in lands surrounding the Middle Sea on a two-mooned world called Trascera. The anthology is presented in the form of two distinct but related series of novels: The Kylgahran and The Tierans. Each series is intended to stand alone and may be read in either order. From an author’s perspective, however, for those seeking the fullest Trasceran Chronicles experience, I would recommend reading the books in the order in which they are released, regardless of where they fit in the series referenced. A summary of release order (thus far) is as follows:

The Kylgahran: Book 1—The Kinsmen

The Tierans: Book 1—The Citizens

The Kylgahran: Book 2—The Initiates

The Tierans: Book 2—The Rogues

The Tierans: Book 3—The Soldiers

The Kylgahran: Book 3—The Avengers (in work)

The Tierans: Book 4—The Seekers (to follow)

Given the vagaries that lie between a working outline and finished prose, I am reluctant to forecast too specifically, but this offering, book three of The Tierans, marks the approximate halfway point in the series. Similar comments apply to book three of The Kylgahran, which is next up. More on this is to come as the narrative for the Trasceran Chronicles as a whole matures.

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1

To Safe Returns

Summer 1358

Aboard Charger,

on the Bay of Alum

Dawn came softly to the waters of the Bay of Alum, as if the light of day waxed reluctant to intrude upon night’s inky presence. The twin Trasceran moons had long since set when the first stir of waking rippled through a land still steeped in darkness. The night wind shifted and then faded as stillness descended. Furtively, the first tendrils of sunlight crept into the waiting silence. Having begun as a pale crescent low along the eastern horizon, the gathering light surged like a slowly rising tide, gradually drowning out the stars until the deep velvety black of the nighttime sky gave way to the soft purple hue of early morning.

Tom Qwyk shifted his weight and settled back against the stanchion to which the small boat he perched atop was lashed, and reckoned, for the first time in days, that he’d live to see this sunrise after all. The thought left him feeling a tad uneasy—by Qwyk’s lights, getting away with a damn fool thing didn’t make it any less foolish. Slipping over the walls of Tensys, a Syrdisian port city on the opposite end of the Bay of Alum, to spy out troop deployment even in the company of a highly capable young sorcerer seemed the now nothing but foolish. They’d managed it though, he and Alyira. At just eighteen years of age, Alyira Solys, a freshly minted member of the Confederation of Sorcerers in Tyne, turned out to be a proficient spy.

Coolly capable in most any situation, including slinking about the city of Tensys disguised as a prostitute, Alyira had long since shown herself to be a formidable personage. Qwyk had to admit, Alyira’s ability to invoke the Yir, magic’s Hidden Source, and set something on fire with a casual wave of her hand or toss a bolt of sorcerer’s lightning about like a child would an inflated pig’s bladder tended to garner a certain measure of respect from even the toughest or most jaded. She’d made use of her magical skills yesterday night to thwart an attempted intervention on the part of a Syrdisian sorcerer—killing the bugger deader than a floor tile in the process. During the same fracas, Qwyk had had to knife the Syrdisian mage’s bodyguard—not his first kill, but unsettling nonetheless, especially considering how easily things might have gone the other way.

Qwyk breathed deep of the salt-laden air and felt the tension in his shoulders ease. His real name was Symon Fletcher. No one of his current acquaintance, including Alyira, knew that. Lithely muscled but otherwise nondescript in appearance, Qwyk was about twenty-one years of age. He didn’t know for sure. Medium height, with mouse-brown hair and hazel eyes, Qwyk’s features appeared more pleasant faced than handsome. His was the type of visage that would blend into most any crowd. Useful that, if a thief you were—and he was. Those few to whom he was best known back in the Yard, a notorious slum that occupied a central portion of the Tieran provincial city of Tyne, called him Qwyk the Thief.

No common filcher, Qwyk had been trained by one of the best, a burglar of consummate skill named Jobbo Yorick. Despite all the time they’d spent together, Jobbo had turned rat on Qwyk there at the end. Jobbo made a muck of it and got shorted for his troubles. Some justice there was in that, Qwyk reckoned, but any thought of his erstwhile friend still brought on a wince of remorse.

The longboat stanchion stood amidships on the main deck of the Charger, a Tieran bireme, or war galley, featuring a double bank of oars on each side of the vessel. The night before last, Charger had ferried Qwyk and Alyira and a boat crew commanded by a burly naval sajar called Terrence Hood to within a few kylos of the shoreline south of Tensys. A Tieran measure of distance, a kylo comprised sixteen hundred paces. The longboat, with Hood at the tiller, delivered Qwyk and Alyira to the rock-strewn shore at the base of the southernmost stretch of Tensys’s curtain walls.

Per Tieran Army standards, sajar denoted a noncommissioned officer rating. Qwyk understood the naval parlance to be similar. Whatever his rank, bull-necked, no nonsense Terrence Hood knew what he was about. On the way back out earlier this night, Hood professed that at high tide, the boat trip had proven less hazardous than he’d feared, offering plenty of steerage. Qwyk wasn’t exactly sure what steerage meant—room probably. He’d discovered nautical types tended to have three different words for every damn thing, none of which matched how normal people talked.

The climb, two nights ago, up out of the boat and over the rocks at the shoreline, led to a cliff face and hence to the bottom of the city wall. The cliff was steep enough but not difficult to climb. The curtain wall proved to be more of a challenge, but Qwyk had managed to find enough handholds to set aside the grappling hook he’d packed. After free-climbing the cliff, Qwyk pulled Alyira up using a length of good, oiled hemp rope. He repeated the procedure at the wall, and the pair of them slipped into the city unnoticed.

A long day followed, spent mostly wandering up and down the streets of Tensys counting Syrdisian soldiers. They turned out conspicuous, the soldiers that is, by their absence. The city, it appeared, had largely been stripped of its garrison. Their long day of spying ended in a nasty little encounter with the aforementioned Syrdisian sorcerer, accompanied by what Qwyk assumed must have been a bodyguard.

Once again at high tide, a couple of hours past midnight this morning, Qwyk and Alyira made their way back over the south-facing wall and down to the rocky shore below where the navy picked them up for the return row back to the Charger. While inside the walls of Tensys, Alyira employed her ability as a telepath to convey what they’d seen to Elyas Warron, her mentor, a senior sorcerer also a member of the Tyne Confederation. As a result, their findings, the gist of them anyway, were already in the hands of the Tieran military.

Couldn’t you sleep either? Alyira Solys asked, speaking as usual in a crisp, well-rounded tone.

Looking down he saw the young sorcerer standing upon the bireme’s main deck, swathed in a thick woolen cloak. Bareheaded, Alyira’s long, golden hair, threaded into a thick single braid, streamed down her back. In the faint light, Qwyk could not see the color of her eyes but well knew they showed a tawny, catlike hue. Her face, peering up at him, formed a perfect oval, with high, finely drawn cheekbones. Beautiful and self-assured, the two descriptions fit Alyira like a pair of well-tailored gloves.

Couldn’t stay that way, Qwyk admitted. The bloody bunk kept trying to slip out from under me. That last wasn’t entirely true; the waters of the bay lay still as a millpond for the trip back, at least so far.

You seem to have developed a liking for small boats, Alyira observed.

Qwyk smiled. Only if a bigger one is unavailable. Clambering down, he took up a position at her side. By no measure a large woman, slim-hipped and petite, Alyira stood to just under Qwyk’s chin.

Turning away, Alyira cast her eyes forward. In the pearly light off to port, Qwyk could barely discern the rugged outline of the headland that formed one side of the horseshoe-shaped harbor servicing the Tieran port of Henfyrd.

With any luck, Alyira posited, our part of this adventure is over. I can’t help wondering what happens next.

A hot meal, I’m hoping, Qwyk replied, and a bed, on solid ground, one what stays right still.

Qwyk, ever the pragmatic. Alyira glanced his way and smiled briefly. She turned back then, and her expression sobered.

Are you all right? Qwyk asked.

Alyira nodded. Adventuring is hard on my nerves.

Qwyk’s smile returned. You’re a natural-born skulker sorcerer, a rare talent.

Alyira gathered her cloak, sturdy naval issue, about three sizes too big, closer about her. I’ll take that as a compliment.

It was so intended, Qwyk told her, and then queried, Where’s Crockyt?

Eryskas Crockyt, a guards captain from the Gyft Ryll, the special school for sorcerers in training back in Tyne where Alyira labored as an instructor, had signed on as one of Alyira’s bodyguards. Qwyk served as the other, somewhat reluctantly. In truth the choice for Qwyk had been to become Alyira’s man or jail. The young thief couldn’t yet be certain if he’d chosen wisely or not.

Last I saw of him, he was headed for the galley, Alyira responded.

That figures, Qwyk professed. Crockyt must eat six times a day. The Ryll Guardsman stood nearly as sturdily put together as the redoubtable Terrence Hood.

Alyira tossed her head in response but said nothing.

After a moment Qwyk inquired, Did you have bad dreams? She did sometimes, nightmares haunted the young sorcerer’s sleep on occasion, Qwyk knew that much.

No, Alyira answered, I couldn’t seem to fall asleep. I keep thinking—it is just—they are so much like us—the Syrdisians, I mean.

What did you expect? Qwyk japed. Horns and hooves?

The corners of Alyira’s delicately formed mouth tilted slightly upward. Not exactly—I didn’t think to see so little difference is all.

People are people pretty much everywhere, I reckon, Qwyk allowed.

"This intelligence we’ve gathered, Alyira said, her faint smile fading as she mused, I wonder what will come of it."

That’s Glabrio’s concern, sorcerer, Qwyk admonished gently, not yours. General Quintus Glabrio Jens held command over the Tieran armed forces in the vicinity of Henfyrd, on the opposite bank of the River Wyst from Tensys. It was at Glabrio’s behest that Qwyk and Alyira had conducted their spy mission. Qwyk figured Elyas Warron was likely the true instigator; Alyira had said as much. Currying favor, Elyas was, with Princess Lydia Sylvus Gant, younger sister of the new emperor of Tier, Gaius Sylas Endryk. Princess Lydia had put up the funds for the trip—five hundred Tieran-weight silver talents for Qwyk. Alyira’s recompense had not been specified, not to the best of Qwyk’s knowledge anyway. Thinking of the silver, Qwyk found his mood brightened some.

People are like to die, Qwyk, Alyira retorted. Innocents among them—should that not concern us all?

Qwyk merely shrugged. Big Myk says if you can’t get out of the way when push comes to shove, you gotta take one side or the other, ’cause if you don’t, soon or late, one side or the other is liable to take you. Big Myk was a highwayman turned loan shark back in Tyne, an associate and mentor of sorts during Qwyk’s youth.

Alyira’s smile returned. This Big Myk of yours sounds like a font of practical knowledge. Qwyk had quoted Big Myk’s witticisms on more than one previous occasion.

He has a knack for making his lessons stick, Qwyk averred. Reminds me some of Crockyt in that way—or at least the bruises do. He hesitated a moment and then added, I suppose this means Elyas will get his favor.

Alyira drew a long, slow breath before responding, His bargaining position will improve, that is for certes. Warron was handsome, urbane, and as cold blooded as a snake, Qwyk harbored no doubts about that. Exactly what hold he maintained upon Alyira remained a mystery to Qwyk.

You do not need him as much as you think you do. Qwyk’s unspoken reference to Elyas rang clear in his voice.

Just what do you think you know, Tom Qwyk? Despite the derisive nature of her words, Qwyk heard no reprimand in Alyira’s tone, which sounded to him almost tender.

I know you went over that bloody wall with me, he said evenly.

Alyira turned toward him, and Qwyk found himself gazing down into the twin pools of amber light that were her eyes. Saying nothing she reached out and slipped one slim-fingered hand into his, small and soft and warm hers felt.

Good morrow all. Crockyt’s gravelly voice seemed to emanate from right beside Qwyk’s elbow. And a fine day it is, too.

Startled, the young thief whipped his head around. You walk mighty soft for an honest man, Captain. Reluctantly Qwyk released Alyira’s hand.

Crockyt’s craggy features crinkled as he grinned unapologetically. You should have heard me three paces off. Salt-and-pepper haired, with deep-set blue eyes knowing enough to make the knave in Qwyk sweat a little, the sturdy Ryll Guardsman held three thick ceramic mugs in his hands, steam rising from the brims. I reckon ye must’ve been distracted. He smiled briefly at Alyira. Can’t say as I blame ye.

Crockyt proffered one of the cups to the young sorcerer while passing the second on to Qwyk. Rum it is mixed with hot water and a goodly dollop of honey, and the barest touch of ginger spice, he announced. ’Tis good fer what ails ye.

Holding aloft the mug he’d retained for himself, Crockyt proclaimed, Here’s to safe returns.

To safe returns, Qwyk and Alyira echoed, sharing a glance, and the three of them drank.

2

Preparations

Summer 1358

Henfyrd, Quistyn del Aurus,

Tieran Empire

Immediately upon their return, Qwyk and Alyira were subjected to an intense round of questioning, debriefing, the army types called it. From Qwyk’s point of view, a debriefing was about as much fun as being grilled by the Cat Eyes back home. The slang term was one employed by Yard birds in reference to the City Watch, attributed to the lion’s head insignia adorning the sleeves of the constables’ tunics.

Alyira bore it all with a clear-eyed calm that shamed Qwyk into behaving himself. They were questioned together and individually. He barked some when queried by his lonesome. Those doing the debriefing didn’t seem bothered one way or the other by his snapping at them. He knew some of the officers asking the questions—Altyrn Wyll Quin, a junior member of General Glabrio’s staff in particular, but most were strangers.

After they finally turned him loose, Qwyk discovered his lodgings had been changed. No longer was he just down the hall from Alyira on the second floor of the granary. Qwyk and Crockyt both had been moved to a first-floor barracks. Specifically, he and Crockyt’s new quarters turned out to be a storeroom next to a first-floor barracks. The place smelled faintly of raw leather to Qwyk, but at least they didn’t have to share with anyone but themselves.

Qwyk slept through half a day and the night that followed. Crockyt awoke him the next morning by unceremoniously dragging him down the hall to breakfast. Army food wasn’t bad, Qwyk had certainly downed worse, and there was plenty of it. After breakfast Crockyt led Qwyk to the drill square and put him through his paces with a practice sword. Qwyk had developed a fresh appreciation for the need of such skill that accompanied a still slightly hollow feeling in his chest where he’d taken a wound some weeks past and applied himself with a will.

Security for both Elyas and Alyira had apparently become the concern of the Tieran armed forces in Henfyrd. Crockyt wasn’t happy about that exactly but had to admit Alyira was probably safer as a result. Neither he nor Crockyt saw their amber-eyed sorcerer that day but, upon returning from supper, found a brief missive in their room signed by her, indicating they were on their own for the next couple of days. Scrawled across the bottom of the page beneath her signature was a note encouraging them to have a good time without doing anything foolish.

The next morning, Altyrn Wyllem Varus Quin caught up to Qwyk and Crockyt on the drill square. He asked Qwyk a few specific questions about exiting from the longboat at the base of the cliff and scaling the cliff face and subsequently the southern section of wall. Qwyk didn’t mind answering—he reckoned doing so would add up to a lot less work than swinging a practice sword at crotchety old Eryskas Crockyt. Before he departed, Quin wanted to know if Qwyk would be willing to spend the next afternoon showing him and some others a few things about climbing a cliff. The altyrn said there would be a silver talent in it. Crockyt didn’t mind, so Qwyk agreed.

Crockyt worked him harder than usual during the morning that followed, and Qwyk was more than happy to join up with Altyrn Quin after the midday meal. Stepping out of the granary into the early-afternoon heat, Qwyk felt less than happy to discover a pair of horses, bridled and saddled, awaiting them. Fortunately, his mount turned out to be docile enough, and the ride was short, a couple of kylos north and east of the puglium or permanent military campus Glabrio’s troops had constructed to augment Henfyrd’s north-facing defenses. There, at the base of a granite cliff, Qwyk saw a group of soldiers waiting as he and Quin rode up.

A full squad of archers assembled there, led by a bull-shouldered young sajar who introduced himself as Mat Bayrd. The muscular sajar looked to be about Qwyk’s age and spoke with a drawl thick enough to plaster a wall. A hayseed, sure enough, Qwyk thought, but there was something about Bayrd’s green eyes that put Qwyk on his guard. Another full squad of Tieran regulars stood nearby. The sajar in charge of that bunch was a big, craggy-faced veteran who reminded Qwyk of Eryskas Crockyt. Thadius Borne was his name.

Standing opposite the regular infantrymen, a squad of marines armed with those nasty-looking boarding pikes they seemed to prefer looked bored. In charge of them was a leanly muscled sajar, about Qwyk’s size with mean-looking gray eyes, named Cassius Castro Bell. Quin introduced Qwyk to a tall, well-muscled officer of marines, a regent who gave his name as Veticus Flavus Hart. Apparently, the brown-haired, brown-eyed Regent Hart was in overall command of the detachment.

The cliff, Qwyk noticed, was approximately the same height and slope as that he and Alyira had climbed up to enter Tensys. Quin asked Qwyk to describe his approach and then demonstrate how he would scale the cliff. The soldiers had brought with them a collection of climbing gear, including some good-looking rope and a handful of grappling hooks. Convinced at that point that he’d most likely been suckered, Qwyk began by asking if there were any experienced climbers among the troops gathered. Two of the archers and one of the marines raised their hands.

Gathering the three of them at the base of the cliff, Qwyk took a breath and addressed the larger group, saying pretty much what Jobbo had told him some years before, Free-climbing is mostly about finding a set of hand- and footholds spaced close enough to see you to the top. He went on to describe some of the more likely looking holds and how to recognize them. In daylight it is best to first see your way up before you start the climb. At night, you do the best you can with the light available, and then rely on feel. Climbing at night ent easy. Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, Qwyk went on. This cliff is pretty steep, but there are plenty of hand- and footholds available.

Turning to the three volunteer climbers, Qwyk asked, Any of you know how to tie a good bowline? The marine nodded. Looping the end of an oiled hemp rope around his middle, Qwyk directed, Let’s see you do it. The marine complied, tying the lead end of the rope about Qwyk’s waist. Stepping back, Qwyk again faced the larger group. One, two, three, four, he counted, indicating his left hand, then his right, and then each of his feet as he did so. Hold with three, then reach with one. He smiled. Get that wrong, and it’s liable to be a long drop. Watch what I do.

Qwyk began to climb. The ascent wasn’t difficult, and he reached the top without incident. A row of trees lined the cliff top. Untying the rope fastened round his waist, Qwyk looped it over a sturdy-looking bough and then around his back. Pointing to the shorter of the two archers, a wiry redhead named Evram Dade, Qwyk called, All right, you’re next. Looking to the marine, Qwyk ordered, Get a bowline round his middle. As soon as Evram was ready, Qwyk took most of the slack out of the rope, allowing enough for the young archer to move freely as he climbed but ensuring only a short drop should he fall.

Evram’s climb was more deliberate than Qwyk’s, but he completed it without difficulty. Passing the rope on to Evram, Qwyk watched as the second archer, a tall skinny fellow who gave his name as Nathyn Harper, ascended. Although there was no physical resemblance, something about Nate Harper reminded Qwyk of Cleotis Harper.

Cleotis’s mortal remains lay buried in the Crossroads Cemetery back in Tyne city—where I put him. The thought stung. Cleotis Harper had been a Watch Warden, a prison guard, assigned to transporting those freshly sentenced from Tyne to the Tygus salt mines a few days’ march northwest of the city. Last winter Qwyk found himself among those so condemned—no one got out of the Tygus mines alive. Desperate to escape, Qwyk killed a few people in the doing. Cleotis had been his first murder victim.

Since then Qwyk had been on the receiving end of a string of visits from Harper’s ghost. The apparition only appeared while Qwyk slept. Just how the fade managed to enter his dreams was a topic Qwyk had decided not to dwell upon. Despite the manner in which Harper had left this world, he and Qwyk seemed to have developed a friendship of sorts. My best friend is a bloody fetch; there the now is a toss that doesn’t come up every day.

Qwyk had taken a bad wound while he and Crockyt, well, truth to tell, mostly Crockyt, thwarted an attempt by persons unknown to kidnap Alyira. The healer who attended him after said Qwyk came near to death. Harper’s bloody ghost had intervened while Qwyk lay unconscious, literally shoving him out of the afterlife. Qwyk reckoned he owed Harper’s ghost his life. Harper’s fade’s actions combined with some timely advice gleaned from his visits led Qwyk to do something rare—he’d come to trust the young Watch Warden’s ghost.

Maybe it was nothing more than the common last name, but for whatever reason, Qwyk took a liking to young Nate right off. Nate required less time to reach the top than Qwyk had. The marine slipped once, earning a few catcalls from his mates, but clambered the rest of the way up in short order.

Additional ropes were thrown up to them, and using the lines as safety aides, the entire company scaled the cliff, four at a time. The two officers present were among the first four to ascend. Some of the soldiers, especially the marine sajar, really struggled. Watching the men climb, Altyrn Quin and Regent Hart pulled Qwyk aside.

There has to be a better way, Hart contended. Not all of these men are going to be able to free climb.

The fastest way over for a group this size, Qwyk opined, would be to send a small number of free climbers, the best in the bunch, up first with ropes. You could have the rest follow climbing the ropes or use them to pull rope ladders into place and have the bulk of the men climb those. Qwyk grinned at Wyll. Even Altyrn Quin here could shimmy up a rope ladder without taking all night. Wyll’s ascent had not exactly been rapid. Quin responded by tossing his little finger Qwyk’s way, a gesture as rude as it was widely recognized throughout the Middle Sea.

More training sessions followed over the course of the next two days. The men practiced employing ropes and rope ladders in addition to free climbing. Qwyk was tasked to select a group of ten free climbers. That’s a lot more than you’ll need for a group this size, Qwyk pointed out to Altyrn Wyllem Varus Quin.

Quin merely smiled at him. Pick ten good ones, Qwyk.

Qwyk chose six archers, among them the wide-shouldered Mat Bayrd. At first, Qwyk was certain the sajar was too big and heavy to be a good free climber, but the powerfully built Territorial was so strong and apparently tireless that he turned out to be among the best of them. Three marines made the final ten and one Tieran regular, a skinny little get about thirty years of age that Qwyk was certain had done some second-story thieving somewhere along the way.

At the end of the third day, Qwyk found himself once again speaking privately with Hart and Quin. I want to thank you, Qwyk, Regent Hart offered. When Wyll here suggested we enlist your services, I was a little dubious. The regent extended his hand. You’ve been a big help. I appreciate it.

Shaking Hart’s hand, Qwyk looked from him to Wyll Quin. You two are stuck with this job? Qwyk asked. The two officers exchanged glances and then nodded. Damn, Wyll, Qwyk remarked, "I thought the general liked you."

Quin smiled. I volunteered.

You stupid bastard, Qwyk swore.

You volunteered first, Wyll reminded him.

Lowering his voice Qwyk whispered, Slipping over that wall with only Alyira along was one thing. Doing it again with what— Qwyk did some arithmetic in his head based on the number of free climbers Wyll had requested—three hundred odd men, is something else altogether.

Four hundred. Regent Hart corrected Qwyk’s estimate.

That’s going to take a long damn time, Qwyk growled vehemently. Neither officer said anything. I suppose you volunteered, too, Qwyk accused Regent Hart.

Veticus Hart of House Flavus smiled unabashedly. The command is mine. Altyrn Quin will second me.

Quin was a couple of years older than Qwyk, and Hart was about the same bit older than the altyrn. Qwyk had noticed both officers sweated right alongside their men while training. They didn’t brook any nonsense, but neither of them threw his weight around needlessly either. Qwyk had decided he liked them both. A notion occurred, tickling the back of the young thief’s mind.

Have you thought about the boats? Qwyk inquired.

What about them? Regent Hart asked in return.

A longboat was fine for getting a couple of us in and out, Qwyk answered, but ferrying four hundred men in those little buggers is going to take for damned ever. Does the navy have anything bigger?

Sajar Hood, Wyll responded, recommends we use whale boats for the job.

Ah, Qwyk said. He had no idea what a whale boat was. You’ve talked to old Terrence, have you?

We may be a little eager, Qwyk, Wyll chided him gently, but we’re not entirely thick.

When do you go? Qwyk wanted to know.

Sorry, old sock, Veticus told him, that’s a bit of a trade secret. All of this is. He added meaningfully, You are to say nothing of this to anyone, understood?

Qwyk nodded, thinking, better you than me, soldier.

3

A Wry Wind

Summer 1358

Henfyrd Town,

Quistyn del Aurus, Tieran Empire

Urinating onto a bed of cabbages, Sajar Mathias Bayrd of Fourth Squad, Third Company, 133rd Regiment of Auxiliaries, Northern Expeditionary Force, Tieran Army, decided he was drunk enough. Tolerant though she was, he doubted Mistress Tolver, the innkeeper, would take kindly to him peeing on her cabbages. Truth to tell he was attempting to pee between them, the cabbage plants that is, but in his current condition, Mat reckoned his aim was a little suspect. Running afoul of the buxom, red-haired Lamynda Tolver was an intimidating prospect. It occurred to him, a little blurrily, that if he had enough sense left to realize that, maybe he wasn’t as foxed as he thought.

Mat’s experience in the matter was admittedly limited. In fact, he’d never been drunk before. A deplorable state of affairs fer a man of twenty years, claimed long, lanky Danel Owen. One we ought to set to rights straightaway.

Together Mat and Danel had downed four cups of wine apiece, or thereabouts; an exact accounting seemed to have slipped away from them long about the third cup. The occasional mug of ale or small beer was more to Mat’s usual taste.

Danel was Mat’s best friend among the squad of soldiers whose well-being was his responsibility as sajar. Each regiment in the Tieran Army, whether they were regular soldiers or auxiliaries, was made up of one thousand men. Strict compliance with the one-thousand-man head count per regiment was not always adhered to, especially for auxiliary units, but on average worked out reasonably close. Typically, regiments were divided into ten one-hundred-man companies. The senior noncommissioned officer assigned to each company was called sajar first. Four additional junior sajars rounded out the standard company roster of noncommissioned officers. Although some of the sajar first’s responsibilities extended company wide, each sajar was directly in charge of a single squad.

Two files of ten men each made up a squad. In Lynium, the language of Tier, the term sajar meant leader of twenty. As sajar Mat led first file himself. He’d put Danel in charge of second file. Officially this made Danel a file leader. Danel didn’t care much for the title.

’Tis a made-up thing, Danel contended, somewhere around their second cup.

How do you figure? Mat inquired.

Danel held aloft his right fist and straightened his index finger. First off, there ent no fancy term in Lynium for file leader. And second, he extended his right middle finger, my pay ent been increased, not a jot. I don’t mind the first so much, but the second stings some, burn me if it don’t.

Danel took the responsibility that went along with his self-proclaimed phony title seriously enough. That was all that mattered so far as Mat was concerned.

The both of them, Danel and Mat, hailed from Greystock village in the Three Rivers, a Tieran territory located along the northern coast of the Myr Sea. Shaped roughly like a giant thumb, the Myr angled mostly north and west. At the base of the thumb, its southeastern end point, the Myr Sea joined with the much larger Middle Sea. The channel connecting the two bodies of water was called the Donn Narrows. Two large, deep-water bays were situated on each side of the narrows. Around these the cities of Tyne to the west and Antium to the east had been constructed.

Antium was the capital city of the Kingdom of Ayle, long an ally of the Tieran Empire. Tyne served as the regional seat of the neighboring Tieran province of Quistyn del Aurus. The province of Quistyn del Aurus occupied much of the southern shore of the Myr Sea.

Along with her two sister companies, the First and the Second, Mat’s Third Company had deployed last spring from Greystock, sailing first to Tyne, where the rest of the 133rd Regiment was formed and hence to their present location in the city of Henfyrd. Henfyrd was situated on the east bank of the river Wyst, which marked the far western boundary of Quistyn del Aurus.

Sure wish I knew what we are doing here, Mat grumbled into the bottom of what he reckoned was his third cup of wine.

We’re gettin’ sozzled, sajar, Danel asserted, evading Mat’s true query. Reason enough fer one afternoon if you ask me.

Our enlistment is supposed to last one year, nominally, Mat ruminated. They’d embarked for Tyne five months earlier. Seven months left to go.

Nominally, Danel echoed sourly.

That word starts an itch between my shoulder blades every time I hear it, Mat concurred.

We’re both like to have gray in our beards before the damned military decides to cut us loose, Danel proclaimed, and then smiled. Ah, well, what ye cain’t change, outlast, Grandpappy used to say.

The entire complement of the 133rd Regiment of Auxiliaries had been recruited from the Three Rivers territory. Archers they were, the lot of them, equipped with the ferocious Three Rivers Hunter, a gracefully recurved heavy bow. Fashioned from strips of laminated wood, mostly golden yew and white ash, the Hunter was a powerful weapon, offering even greater range and accuracy than the storied Danoan longbow.

Maybe, Danel said, setting aside his wine cup, General Gracci will put a real twist on old King Dardan’s Syrdisians, and the rest of us can head on home. Their commanding general, Segus Gracci Versi, had marched north some three weeks ago with the bulk of the Northern Army’s strength. Gracci studiously avoided use of their formal designation, the Northern Expeditionary Force, using the simpler Northern Army reference instead. Mat couldn’t blame him.

Somethin’ to hope for, I reckon, Mat allowed.

Peering about for a moment and seeing no one paying them any particular attention, Danel leaned close and whispered, What do you think about all the rock climbin’?

Mat took a turn scanning for anybody within earshot and then whispered back, You mean besides the orders not to talk about it?

Danel shook his head, a slightly exaggerated movement, slowed, Mat reckoned, by a mix of doubt and alcohol, We’re in fer a scrap, Mathias. I can feel it in my bones.

What you’re feelin’, Mat scoffed gently, is four cups of cheap wine.

Danel smiled beatifically. The soldier’s one true solace, according to Sajar First Biddle. Third company’s sajar first, a hard-bitten, leather-lunged regular named Nathyn Biddle, had overseen their training last winter. Somewhat to his surprise—apparently it was not the usual Tieran practice—Biddle had remained with Third Company once they deployed. While he doubted he would ever feel kindly enough toward the irascible Sajar First to invite Biddle over for Solstice supper, Mat had to admit that when it came down to soldiering, the ornery bastard knew what he was about.

I’ve put away about all the solace I can stand for one day, Mat pronounced. Climbing to his feet, he felt an odd sense of fluidity, as if nothing in the inn’s taproom, even to tables and benches, were quite still. For some reason, closing one eye seemed to help. Mat had managed a one-eyed trek to Mistress Tolver’s garden without incident.

Mat carefully tucked his loincloth back into place and then lowered the hem of his tunic. Woven of cotton and dyed Tieran military blue, Mat’s tunic fell to just above his knees. Whatever damage he’d done to Mistress Tolver’s vegetables, Mat was reasonably sure he’d managed not to splatter his clothes. Of course, in the gloaming, it was hard to tell. The sun was nearly gone the now. He should be getting back inside. Danel would be waiting for him.

Mat decided he didn’t much like being inebriated. Instead of feeling giddy and carefree, he was mostly just a little dizzy and sad and none too certain about the contents of his stomach. A broad leather belt was fastened about his waist. A heavy bladed knife called a Hawken rested in a sheath at his left hip. His feet were covered by a pair of sturdy leather sandals, closed at both heel and toe, worn over thick woolen socks. Atop his head, slightly askew the now, he wore a watch cap. Made of wool stitched to a broad leather brim that warded against both sun and rain, the watch cap was an imminently practical piece of headgear that helped to keep the wearer both cool in summer and warm in winter.

However useful, watch caps were not part of the prescribed auxiliary uniform. Wearing them had become a symbol of pride to the Three Rivers bowmen. The regulars, the Tieran professionals with whom they served, tended to look down their noses at militiamen. Militia were, apparently, considered less than completely reliable in a tight spot. The regulars had devised dozens of ways, some subtle, others overt, of putting militiamen in their place.

Over time this wore on a man’s pride. More than one fight had ensued. No one had been killed, but a few men on both sides had been badly hurt. Mat’s