Casket of Souls

fires through the trees and mist, spread out across the Mycenian plain, and hear the soldiers laughing and singing. A raiding party wouldn’t be making so much noise. There must be enough of them that they weren’t worried about an attack.
    There would be sentries posted around the perimeter, of course. She and Syra were both armed, in case they ran into anyone here in the woods, but that would be a doubly unlucky thing, since dead or missing soldiers could alert the Plenimarans to the Skalans’ presence less than two miles away.
    They’d left their horses tethered at the far side of the long,narrow wood, knowing that, even through trees, sound carried. It had been a long walk, and slow going.
    They made it to the edge of the trees, and Syra boosted Beka up into an oak. Climbing higher, she counted the enemy watch fires spread out before her, scattered like bright flowers on a sea of fog. There were more than fifty. Beyond the encampment were the smoldering remains of some unlucky farmer’s house and barn, and beyond that, the crucial ford Queen Phoria had ordered her half sister to capture at any cost. The warm night breeze carried the sound of rushing water.
    “How many, Captain?” Syra whispered in Aurënfaie when Beka climbed down again. Nyal had taught Beka and the members of her Urghazi Turma the language when they were in Aurënen, and they used it in the field when an enemy might overhear.
    “Three hundred. Maybe more,” Beka replied, frowning.
    Princess Klia had nearly a third less than that. The Queen’s Horse Guard had taken heavy casualties, along with every other regiment. The queen had refused a truce offer from the Plenimaran Overlord a few months earlier, and there were plenty in the field who’d been disappointed. Despite recent successes in battle, there had been desertions.
    “Are we going to take a closer look?” whispered Syra.
    Beka grinned. “What do you think?”
    They kept to the forest for as long as they could and saw several sentries silhouetted against the light from the encampment. After a while, however, the forest line curved inconveniently away from the camp. There was no choice but to cut across in the open.
    The rolling meadow had been trampled down by the Plenimarans. At this close range, Beka could hear the night sounds of a herd of horses, and smell them on the warm summer breeze. So at least some of the Plenimaran force were cavalry.
    Beka put her lips to Syra’s ear. “Find out how many, then meet me at the lookout oak.”
    Syra saluted, then disappeared into the mist without a sound.
    Beka skirted the camp until she came in sight of a larger tent, then belly-crawled to just outside the ring of light from a blazing watch fire in front of it. There were too many guards to get any closer, but she could see two standards on poles in front of it: one cavalry, one infantry. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks to Sakor that there were none of the dreaded Plenimaran marines. She’d fought against them several times and it was always brutal. They had a nasty habit of torturing their captives, including nailing them by the hands to a board across the shoulders. Their treatment of captured female soldiers was—worse.
    Not all Plenimaran soldiers were like that, of course. She’d crossed swords with a number of honorable officers, and their soldiers were no better or worse than any Skalan force. And the goal of all of them was victory.
    She remained there for some time, hoping the commander would show himself, but the camp was asleep. Giving up, she crept away and found Syra waiting for her.
    “Thought I’d lost you,” the rider whispered.
    “What did you find?”
    “At least two troops’ worth of horse.”
    “Damn!”
    “That was my thought exactly, Captain.”
    It was a few hours shy of dawn by the time they reached the Skalan lines again. Syra whistled to alert the pickets, and gave the countersign when they reached them.
    “How did it go, Captain?” Corporal Nikides asked.
    Beka shook her head. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”
    The camp was already stirring, and the green-and-white tabards of the riders looked ghostly in the morning mist. They were on cold rations rather than risk the smell of cooking reaching the enemy.
    Captain Danos waved to her as she strode by his troop. They were sitting in small clusters on the dew-soaked grass with their cold beef and stolen cheese. This part of Mycena had been overrun by both armies twice this summer;