Stalking Darkness

empty eyes, like dirty, broken dolls discarded once and for all.
    “Astellus carry you soft, and Sakor light—”
    Beka’s voice failed her. How many more times would she have to say that parting blessing today? Wiping a hand roughly across her eyes, she whispered the rest.
    “Lieutenant Beka?” It was Zir, calling to her from the next hospital tent. He appeared to be unhurt, but his face was deathly pale. “It’s Sergeant Mercalle—She’s in here.”
    Squaring her shoulders, Beka followed him back into the stinking dimness.
    The surgeons must have given Mercalle something for pain, for she smiled sleepily up at Beka. Both arms were splinted, and one of her legs. There were bandages wrapped tightly around her chest and rib cage, as well, and blood had seeped through these below her right breast and on her left side.
    Beka knelt and rested a hand lightly on the sergeant’s shoulder. “By the Flame, what happened to you?”
    “Damned horse—” Mercalle rasped, shaking her head slightly. “When I heal up, I’m joining the infantry.”
    “She got thrown and trampled,” Zir whispered. “Corbin was carrying her off the field when they both got hit with arrows. He was killed. I got her on my horse and brought her in. Tholes expects she’ll live.”
    “Thank the Maker for that. Where are Kaylah and the others?” Beka asked.
    “She’s out looking for the missing ones, Lieutenant. You saw—” Zir nodded in the direction of the bodies outside, and she saw tears glistening in his eyes. “We’d just fought our way into the open, and thought we’d have a moment to collect ourselves. But there were Plenimaran bowmen there, too. By the Flame, Lieutenant, they hit us hard! Arna, Syrtas, and the others—they were in the lead and didn’t have time to turn their horses.”
    Beka clasped his hand. “Go on. Find Kaylah and the rest. I’ll be along soon.”
    “Lieutenant?” Mercalle’s eyes were bleary, but she fixed Beka with a direct look. “You were fine on the field, Lieutenant. Real fine. And you’re fine with them off the field, too. But you can’t care too much, you know? You’ve got to care for them, but not too much. It’s a hard thing to learn, but you won’t last if you don’t.”
    “1 know.” Beka sat a moment longer with her, realizing how much she was going to miss the older woman’s presence in the turma. “When you get back to Skala—if you need anything—my father is Micum Cavish, of Watermead near Rhíminee.”
    Mercalle smiled. “I thank you for that, Lieutenant, but I’ve got a couple daughters back home. I’ll try and get word to your folks, though.”
    There didn’t seem to be much left to say after that. With a final word of thanks, Beka left the tent and limped past the corpses in search of the living.
    •  •  •
    The Plenimarans had mown through the encampment, destroying tents, wagons, and anything else in their path. Soldiers were at work everywhere now, trying to salvage what they could from the tangled wreckage.
    Beka was just wondering which direction to try first when she heard her name called again and saw Corporal Rhylin waving to her from atop an overturned sutler’s wagon.
    “Praise the Flame!” he exclaimed, jumping down. He was taller than she by nearly a head and had an awkward, storklike quality when on foot that belied his prowess as a horseman.
    “We didn’t know what to think when you disappeared at the end,” he told her. “There’s been all sorts of rumors. Someone claimed Captain Myrhini went down.”
    “She’s fine and so am I,” Beka assured him, though the stitches felt like burning claws in her skin. “Where is everybody?”
    “Just over that way.” Rhylin waved a hand back beyond the line of hospital tents, adding glumly, “What’s left of us, anyway. You’d better take my horse.”
    “We’ll ride double. I want everyone together.”
    Rhylin swung up into the saddle and extended a hand. Gritting her teeth as another hot rope of pain pulled taut across her thigh, Beka climbed up behind him and gripped his belt.
    “What can you tell me?” she asked as they set off.
    “There are about a dozen of us accounted for who aren’t too badly wounded. Sergeant Braknil’s in charge of them. Mercalle’s hurt badly and Sergeant Portus—”
    “1 saw him go down,” said Beka, hearing the sudden strain in the man’s voice. Rhylin had been Portus’ corporal.
    “Anyway, Sergeant Braknil sent some of us out looking for