The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [146]
“Provided he guards the southwest road to Gallos?” The messenger repeats the words.
“That is correct. He must use the rest of his forces to hold the southwest pass.”
The messenger sits astride the pony, his mouth not quite hanging open.
“That will be all,” the officer adds. “You may convey my reply to Captain Torrman.”
The messenger looks from the cold-eyed woman to the troopers behind her. One fingers a knife, and the messenger looks back to the officer.
“That will be all,” she repeats.
The messenger swallows and lifts the reins, then nudges the pony back downhill.
The squad leader looks down at the valley to the north, then at the folded square of the map she had needed and paid too much for, for all that many others would have said she paid little indeed of true value. She takes one breath, then another. Despite the cold bath of the night before last, she feels unclean, as if she had not bathed in weeks. Her hand touches the hilt of her blade. Her head lifts, and she studies the hills to the east.
The trooper beside the squad leader swallows as he watches his superior study the map. He edges his mount sideways toward another woman, a blond woman with a pair of knives at her belt, the only other woman trooper in the squad.
“She’s not going to follow the captain’s orders…” he whispers.
“Look down there,” returns the blond, gesturing at the roiling dust rising from the road at the far end of the small valley they survey. The packed figures of the soldiers are not visible, but both know they are there. “Would you?”
“Torrman’s killed leaders for less…”
“All right…” The woman wearing the leather officer’s vest looks at the two whispering subordinates, then urges her mount to the east, not toward the hill path below, but along the ridge line.
“That’s not where Torrman ordered us…”
The squad leader ignores the not-quite-whispered statement drifting up from the third file as another trooper grabs the protester by the tunic.
“…remember Gireo, you idiot…”
The swallowed gulp almost brings a smile to the blond woman’s face, but the squad leader’s eyes remain fixed on the space between the hills.
“…don’t like this…”
“…just shut up…”
“…Torrman’s a mean bastard…gut the whole squad…”
“…she’s right. Take the hill path, and you won’t have any guts left for Torrman…”
“…still don’t like it…”
“…got any better ideas?”
Even with all the mutterings, the squad follows the black-haired officer as she picks her way toward the combination dam/levee that holds the irrigation water for the year’s crops. The heavy-set man, the one who had gulped, looks from the hill road below to the dust-cloud heralding the advance of the Freetown rebels.
The officer’s eyes flicker from the dust-cloud at the northeastern end of the narrow valley to the trail before her and to one of the aqueducts that carry the water beyond the valley and toward the dry steppes of Southern Kyphros. One hand touches the thin oilcloth-wrapped bundle behind her saddle, then strays toward the second and heavier set of saddlebags.
The dust cloud has moved perhaps a third of the way across the valley, another two kays, when the squad leader dismounts under the iron-bound gates of the dam. The cold iron reinforces every joint and every red-oak timber, bracing the iron-hinged floodgates closed.
Above her and to the south rise the stone walls that contain the four aqueduct channels. An iron wheel rises above each tunnel, but each wheel is locked in place with an iron bar and a double lock. The locks are each the size of a farmer’s fist.
The squad leader shakes her head as she studies the floodgates and the iron-bound timbers that hold them closed.
“…what…”
“…shhh…knows what she’s doing…”
Finally she retrieves an iron bar perhaps two-thirds the length of her arm from the oilcloth-wrapped bundle behind her saddle, then a short, rough-toothed bow saw. She carries both with her as she