Stalking Darkness

back?” asked Corporal Kallas. He was still mourning his brother and had the look of a man who’d welcome a fight.
    Beka looked around at their dirty, hopefulfaces. The depot was an important emplacement, enough of a find to go back with now that their food was running low and the weather had turned foul.
    Her leg ached dully as she shifted her weight. The gash in her thigh had festered just enough to kindle a fever. Though it broke her sleep at night with confused dreams, it seemed to sharpen her wits during the day, as fevers sometimes did.
    “We’ll circle wide and see if we can learn where the wagons are coming from,” she said at last.
    For two days they followed the supply route as it wound south into the steeper country above the head of the Plenimaran isthmus. Beka kept her riders well up in the wooded hills, sending scouts ahead and behind as they went. They spotted two separate wagon trains heading west, but both were too heavily guarded to attack.
    Their seventh day out dawned cold and foggy. Reining her horse to the side of the steep track, Beka watched as the remains of her turma rode past; the fog made it difficult to see more than thirty feet in any direction and she couldn’t afford to lose any stragglers. The uncertain light and muffling effect of the mist lent the riders a ghostly, insubstantial look.
    They all rode with growling bellies. Their food was nearly gone and game was scarce. With the rain and the plentiful mountain springs they had water enough, but hunger soon took the edge off a soldier’s strength. It would probably be wisest to turn back today.
    Just as she was about to call a halt, however, Braknil materialized out of the fog and cantered over to her.
    “The scouts found a way station ahead, Lieutenant. They report four big wagons unhitched there and only a handful of guards,” he informed Beka quietly, then added with a knowing wink, “Quite a manageable gathering, I’d say. Especially in this weather, if you take my meaning.”
    “I believe I do, Sergeant.”
    Leaving Rhylin in command, she followed Braknil to a stone outcropping where Mirn was waiting with several horses.
    “You can see it from just around the next bend in the trail,” he told them, his face flushed and eager beneath his shock of pale hair. Mirn had always reminded Beka a bit of Alec, though a taller, more muscular version.
    Proceeding on foot, they found Steb keeping watch.
    “You can see better now,” he told them, pointing down a gap. “This breeze that’s coming up should clear it off before long.”
    From where they stood, Beka could see a road winding through the narrow cleft of a pass. There was a way station there, an old tumble-down log building, but the stable and large corral next to it were sturdy and new. Rocky slopes rose steeply on both sides of the road, making it the only passable route of attack or escape.
    “I’ve been watching the place,” Steb told them. “I’d say there’s no more than two dozen soldiers and a few wagoneers down there. Nobody’s ridden in or out since we found the place an hour ago.”
    Judging by the activity in the yard, Beka guessed the wagoneers were getting ready to move out, though neither they nor their military escort seemed in any particular hurry. Many still lounged around the station door with trenchers and mugs. The breeze coming up the pass carried the tantalizing aroma of breakfast fires.
    She studied the fog still shrouding the road leading up to the station. “If we move fast, we might get within two hundred yards of the enemy before they catch a good look at us.”
    “And if we circle by this trail and come in on the road from the east, chances are they’ll think we’re friendly forces anyway,” whispered Braknil.
    “Good idea. The Plenimaran cavalry columns travel at a canter in ranks of four. We’ll line up in the same formation. Put anyone who’s riding with Plenimaran tack in front in case they recognize the jingle of the harness.”
    Sergeant Braknil raised an eyebrow, looking impressed. “Who taught you to be such a sly thinker, Lieutenant?”
    Beka gave him a wink. “A friend of the family.”
    Their ruse paid off. The Plenimarans scarcely looked up from their breakfasts as the turma came cantering toward them out of the mist. By the time they drew swords and broke into a gallop, it was already too late.
    They thundered up to the station, whooping and screaming at the top of their lungs. A few of the Plenimaran