He knew for a fact that the Intelligence Coordination Committee did not suspect him. But this other “Group” might. In which case, he should bolt.
The problem was, now he saw what used to be called a “main chance.”
“The problem is,” the stupid woman babbled, “Sheida’s sent me off like I’m some soldier of hers but without even that much briefing. I don’t know any of these people.”
“I know General Lanzillo,” Harry said, soothingly. “A good man, a good academic. He’s the local area commander but since most of what he handles is schools, he was chosen for his experience in military history and military sciences. He is a bit… uhm… gruff…”
“The problem is that Sheida is expecting me to handle some of the military aspects as well,” Elnora said, frowning. “I don’t know a battalion from a legion. This has to be held very closely you understand. I really need…”
“I’m free at the moment,” Harry said, smiling. “And… used to this sort of harum scarum military operation. I can leave a message that I’ve been called away on Council business. That won’t be questioned. If you would like me to accompany you and help…?”
“That would be wonderful.”
Rachel fingered the blade in the candlelight. It was somewhat like a long knife, a surgical blade designed for deep cutting in amputations. Good dwarven surgical steel, it was sharper than any dagger, with a razor-sharp point. She had made a scabbard for it under the noses of her guards, the guards now surrounding her tent, and slipped it into her bosom while in the latrine. It was her court of last resort.
The battle would probably start around dawn. By noon her father would have probably beaten the New Destiny forces, given what she had communicated. But win or lose, Conner would be able to take her back to Ropasa. And she wasn’t going to let that happen.
She placed the point of the scalpel at the top of her neck, just under the skull. She’d considered several options but all of the rest depended upon bleeding, something that could be fixed relatively quickly. No matter how good Conner was, he was going to be hard-pressed to revive her with a severed third vertebra. It was an interesting question in neural transmission and muscle flexion. Could she cut her spine before the signals to her arms became scrambled. A modern physician certainly had the strength to cut their own spine. But was it possible?
She thought she would probably find out tomorrow.
She pressed the scalpel in a bit harder and flinched as she felt the fine tip cut into her skin. She could find out now.
She withdrew it from her thick hair, a problem that she’d already considered, and wiped the tip off on a cloth. Then she slid it back into the scabbard and down into her bosom.
Tomorrow would be soon enough. As the thief said, maybe the pig would sing. As long as she was still on this side of the portal, there was hope.
“Too many things to go wrong, boss,” Herzer said as Edmund mounted the wyvern.
“If some go right, we’re no worse than we’d be otherwise,” Edmund said. “If most go right, we’ll be better. If none of them go right, we’re up a creek.”
“Well, we’ll be there,” Herzer said, saluting. “Good luck.”
“Same to you,” Edmund replied, then tapped the wyvern-rider on the shoulder. The dragon hopped onto the catapult and was launched into the sky, the leader of the UFS now headed to join the First Legion.
Herzer went down into the wyvern bay, which was crowded with extra dragons, and passed through it to the flight ready room. The riders were crowded too; it was standing room only on the last dragon-carrier in the UFS fleet. The riders were joking, the sound was good but… strained. Many of them were from carriers that were burned, sunken, wrecks. And all of them had been at sea for too long in the crowded ships. They also felt the tension of the day that had yet to dawn. Everyone knew that throwing the enemy back was important. None of them, besides Herzer and Joanna, knew how important.
“Settle down,” Herzer said, stepping up in front of a plywood-covered map board. “Everyone know the mission?” They’d had the initial brief the night before so there was a scattered chorus on the varied theme of yes.
“Sergeant Fink?” Herzer said, pointing at the junior rider.
“We take off in…” Fink looked at the bulkhead-mounted clock and gulped, “one hour. Assemble off Wilamon Point. Wait for first engagement then, on signal from Commander Gramlich, split into two echelons and bombard the New Destiny field force. Return by divisions and continue sorties until exhaustion or defeat of the New Destiny force. In the event of retreat on the part of our own forces, we cover the retreat.”
“Very good,” Herzer said, nodding and looking around the room. “Everybody got that?”
“Yes, Major,” one of the riders from the Richard said. “It’s easy enough.”
“And known throughout the ship, right?” Herzer said. “Meg… Mistress Travante swept this room for technologicals before this meeting. All the corridors around us are being secured by marines, unobtrusively. Why? Because everything that Sergeant Fink just said is… let us call it a lie. This is your real mission brief…”
“First call!” the sergeant bellowed, pounding on the doors. “Boots and saddles!” He continued down the corridor, pounding on the door of each of the Blood Lords that were stationed at Raven’s Mill. He was charge of quarters and it was time to face the bright new day. In another hour he’d be off-duty for twenty-four hours, after having been on-duty for the same, and he intended to be deep in the arms of Morpheus in two.
Behind the sergeant the platoon sergeants of the Blood Lord battalion spread out, passing the word they’d just been given.
“Drop the PT uniform,” the triari said, shaking his head. “Full armor and weapons. Draw starts in fifteen minutes.”
“What the hell?” the private said, dropping the light cosilk uniform back in his footlocker and pulling out a field uniform. “Why?”
“The damned general’s called a surprise inspection for 0800 hours. There’s time for chow at least…”
Malcolm D’Erle was dogged. There was no other way to describe it. His feet were burning, his chest was on fire and he was dog weary.
The archer corps had debarked at Wilamon on schedule and, after collecting some sketchy transport, had headed for the battlefield. It was sixty-five kilometers by road from Wilamon to the hilltop they were intending to use and they had a bare fourteen hours to make the movement. They’d marched in a standard series of quick march and double-time with breaks every hour. But the breaks seemed shorter and shorter as the time went on. The transport was mostly carrying water and the general had passed brutal messages on intake and usage of same. Food could wait. Rest could wait. The only thing that mattered was getting the majority of the archers, in some half-living condition, to the hill, on time.
And they’d made it. It was two hours before dawn when a group of green-clad, longbow-toting Rangers stepped out into the road and waved a bullseye lantern at the archer corps.
“Looking for General D’Erle,” the lead Ranger said.
“Here,” Malcolm gasped as the group was brought to a reasonably quiet halt. He could hear the archers falling out by the wayside but that could wait.
“Lieutenant Aihara, Fifth Rangers,” the Ranger said, his voice pitched to carry but soft. Not a whisper, that could be heard at a greater distance. “We’ve been scouting the New Destiny force for the last two days. We have your approach lines marked out and had wagons brought down with food from Tarson. No fires, obviously, but the food is bread loaves and meat. Casks of water and some wine if you wish to issue it. Chow line’s set up.”