Stalking Darkness

an eye on things one more night. We’ll track him down in the morning.”
    As they mounted for the ride home, it was Alec’s turn to chuckle.
    “What’s so funny?”
    “It could have been worse, I guess,” Alec told him. “In the old ballads, orphans turn out to be the long-lost heir to some kingdom, which means they end up either cooped up in the family castlelearning royal manners, or get sent off to slay some monster for a bunch of total strangers. At least I get to keep my old job.”
    “I don’t think anyone will get much of a ballad out of that.”
    Alec swung up into the saddle and grinned over at him. “That’s fine by me!”

24
B ERA
    “W here are we?” Zir shouted over the Jingle of harness.
    “We’re in Mycena!” someone else called back.
    Beka grinned in spite of herself. They’d worn the joke threadbare weeks ago, but every once in a while someone trotted it out again just to break the monotony.
    Sergeant Mercalle’s riders were in high spirits this morning. Beka had received orders to take a decuria and ride to a nearby market town to buy supplies for the troop. Mercal le had won the toss.
    For weeks they’d ridden through rolling, snow-covered hills, oak forest, and empty fields; past thatch-roof steadings and small country towns where soldiers of any sort were regarded with guarded resentment. Mycena was a country of farmers and tradesmen. Wars interrupted commerce.
    It had taken the regiment nearly a month to reach the port city of Keston—a month of cold camps and thrown-together billets in garrisons and courtyards, and slow-march riding over frozen roads. At night, the green new officers sat around the fire and listened to the veterans’ war tales, hoping to pick up some of the thingsthey hadn’t had time to learn during their brief six weeks of training.
    The more Beka listened, the more she realized that despite all their drilling and individual prowess with horse, sword, and bow, it would take a battle or two to sort out how well the turma worked together and trusted one another.
    And how much they trusted her.
    She’d noticed that many of her riders still looked more often to her sergeants for guidance than to her. That stung a bit, but then, they were the turma’s only seasoned veterans. To their credit, they all showed the strictest respect for her rank, even Braknil, who was old enough to be her father.
    In return, Beka was mindful of the fact that without Seregil’s patronage and the commission it had won her, sergeant would have been the highest rank she could’ve hoped for in such a regiment. Some of the other squadrons’ new lieutenants—the sons and daughters of Rhíminee lords—seemed to keep this in mind, too, and let her know with the occasional sneer or condescending remark. Fortunately, her brother officers in Myrhini’s troop were not among these.
    At Keston the regimental commander, Prince Korathan, had taken Commander Perris’ Wolf Squadron and split off to follow the coastline. Commander Klia’s squadron headed inland toward the Folcwine Valley. The Folcwine River was the southern leg of the great trade route that ran north all the way to the Ironheart range in the distant northlands. The river was the first prize the Plenimarans were expected to reach for.
    That had been two weeks ago; it would be another two before they came to the river.
    Turning in the saddle, Beka looked back at the column snaking darkly over the hills behind her: nearly four hundred horsemen and officers of Lion Squadron, the sledges of the sutlers and armorers, provision wains, livestock and drivers. It was like traveling with a small town in tow. Scouting trips, vanguard duty, even mundane provision runs like this offered a welcome break.
    Catching Mercalle’s eye, Beka said, “Sergeant, I think the horses could do with a run.”
    “You’re right, Lieutenant,” Mercalle answered with the hint of a smile; they both knew it was the restless young riders who needed it more.
    Beka scanned the rolling terrain ahead of them and spied a darkline of trees a mile or so off. “Pass the word, Sergeant. At my signal, race for the trees. The first one who gets there has first chance at the taverns.”
    Mercalle’s riders fanned out smoothly, catcalling back and forth to each other. At Beka’s signal, they spurred their mounts forward, galloping for the trees.
    Beka’s Wyvern could easily have outdistanced most of the other horses, but she held back, letting Kaylah and Zir