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&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.