Stalking Darkness

soldiers stood their ground. Most broke and ran for cover in the station and outbuildings.
    Galloping at full speed, the Skalans rode down the men whostood against them. The Plenimarans put up a brief, determined fight but were no match for the flashing swords and iron-shod hooves that mowed them down. With the station’s one line of defense destroyed, Beka shouted an order and the riders split into decuriae.
    Braknil spotted men running for the cover of the stable and chose that as his target. Wheeling toward the low-roofed building, he and his riders drove the would-be escapees into the stable, then tossed the Plenimarans’ own night lanterns into the straw piled outside the back door. Within seconds, screams rang out from the panicked horses stabled inside. Choking and cursing, those who’d taken refuge there came stumbling out again and were herded at sword point into the corral.
    Rhylin and his decuria attacked the station building. Dashing up to the door, the ungainly sergeant leapt from his horse and threw himself against the door, knocking it open just as the men inside were trying to thrust the bar into place. His assault was successful, but he was nearly trampled for his efforts as the rest of his decuria, led by Kallas and Ariani, stormed in to his aid. The soldiers and wagoneers inside surrendered immediately.
    Beka and a handful of riders rode off in pursuit of the Plenimarans who had fled at the first sign of attack. Most of those on foot were easily overtaken, but several who’d gotten onto horses broke away down the east road. Beka and her group took off in pursuit, but their quarry had the advantage of fresh horses and a knowledge of the country. Cursing under her breath, she turned back.
    The remaining Plenimarans had been gathered in the station building.
    “I took count, Lieutenant,” Braknil informed her as she dismounted. “Nineteen enemy dead and fifteen taken, counting the wagoneers and Stationmaster. Sergeant Rhylin’s got the prisoners under guard.”
    Beka surveyed the bodies scattered between the buildings and the road. “Any losses for us?”
    “Not a scratch,” the sergeant replied happily. “Those little tricks of yours worked!”
    “Good.” Beka hoped her relief wasn’t too obvious. “We don’t want to make the same mistake as our friends in there, so post lookouts on the road. Corporal Nikides!”
    “Here, Lieutenant.” The young man rode over to where she stood.
    “Get someone to help you check the wagons. Let’s hope we haven’t gone to all this trouble for a load of horseshoes and slop pails.”
    “Yes, Lieutenant!” Grinning, he snapped a salute and rode off again.
    Inside the station, the Plenimarans sat packed together at the far end of the building’s single narrow room under the watchful eyes of Rhylin’s guards. Six of the captives were wagoneers; the rest wore black military tunics displaying a white castle emblem.
    Rhylin snapped Beka a smart salute as she entered. “We’ve searched the prisoners and the buildings, Lieutenant. Nothing of note found. It looks like a routine supply train.”
    “Very good, Sergeant.”
    Beka’s long red braid fell free over her shoulder as she removed her helmet. The prisoners exchanged glances and low murmurs among themselves at the sight of it. Several stared at her boldly and one spat sideways onto the floor.
    Gilly moved to avenge the insult, but Beka stayed him with a glance.
    “Who’s the ranking officer here?” she demanded, not bothering to sheath her sword. The prisoners simply stared back at her, silent and insolent.
    “Do any of you speak Skalan?”
    Again the blank silence. The Plenimarans’ disdain for female soldiers was legend, but this was her first exposure to it. A trickle of sweat inched down her back as all eyes turned to her.
    Rider Tare, a young, red-haired squire’s son with the solid build of a wrestler, stepped forward with a respectful salute. “By your leave, Lieutenant, I speak a little Plenimaran.”
    “Go on, then.”
    Tare turned and addressed the prisoners haltingly. A few snickered. None replied.
    Well, I’ve got the badger by the hind leg, as the saying goes. Now what the hell do I do with it?
Beka thought, racking her brain. The thought of Seregil’s sly, lopsided grin brought her inspiration.
    With a careless shrug, she said aloud, “Well, they had their chance. Sergeant Rhylin, see that they’re securely bound. Sergeant Braknil, your decuria is in charge of burning