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The Sharonian went down, crying out in pain as his burned arm hit the ground, and Nourm raised his heavy arbalest to butt-stroke the wounded man's head.
"Belay that, Sword Nourm!"
The four-word command cracked like a whip, and Nourm's arbalest froze in midair. His head whipped around, and his face tightened as he saw the officer with the two silver collar pips of a commander of fifty striding angrily towards him.
"What the hells d'you think you're doing, Nourm?" the fifty demanded harshly.
"Securing the prisoners, Sir," Nourm replied half-sullenly.
"The hells you say!" the fifty snapped. "That man is severely wounded, Sword! Godsdamn it, you're the platoon sword—what kind of message do you think this is sending to the rest of the men?!"
Nourm opened his mouth, then shut it with an almost audible click. His face flushed darkly, more with anger than with shame, and he set his jaw stiffly.
Commander of Fifty Jaralt Sarma put his hands on his hips and glared at his platoon's senior noncom.
What made Sarma's seething fury even worse was that Nourm was normally one of the best platoon swords Sarma had ever seen.
The fifty leaned closer, lowering his voice, and let his tone soften just a bit.
"I know you're pissed off with these people, Keraik, but that's no justification for violating the Accords.
You know that's a court-martial offense."
"The Accords, Sir?" Nourm looked at him as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd heard.
"Yes, the Accords," Sarma said. "Do I need to remind you that they apply to everyone?"
The Kerellian Accords, drafted centuries ago by Commander of Armies Housip Kerellia, had set forth the Andaran military's official rules of war, including the standards for proper treatment of POWs. The Accords had been adopted by the Union Army following the Union's formation two hundred years ago, and officially incorporated into the Articles of War.
"Sir, these bastards aren't even from our universe!" Nourm protested.
"I don't recall anywhere in the Accords that specifies where the prisoners have to come from, Sword."
"But, Sir—"
"Don't make me tell you again, Sword Nourm," Sarma said very quietly, and the burly noncom closed his mouth again.
It was obvious he still couldn't quite believe what his fifty had just said, and Sarma shook his head.
"I understand you're mad as hells, Sword," he said in a more normal voice. "But that's no excuse for turning ourselves into something we'll be ashamed of later."
"Sir, I understand what you're saying, I guess," Nourm said after a moment. "I just don't see why we should waste the Accords on miserable fuckers like these."
"The Accords aren't as much for them as they are for us, Keraik. It doesn't matter what they do. What matters is how we go about being who we are."
"Sir, I just don't see it. These miserable bastards deserve anything they get. They should feel grateful we don't just shoot them in the back of the head!"
Sarma's lips thi
Neshok, you bastard, the fifty thought venomously. You and your fucking "briefings!"
"I'll remind you—once—Sword," the platoon commander said after a moment, "that the briefers specifically said those reports couldn't be confirmed."
Nourm's jaw set again, harder even than before. His shoulders hunched like a man preparing to dig in against a monsoon, and Sarma inhaled sharply. He started to launch into the sword again, then made himself stop. This wasn't the time or the place for him to turn his command relationships into a debating society.
"Listen to me," he said instead, his voice flat. "At this moment, Sword Nourm, I don't really care what you feel our think about these people. You will observe the letter of the Accords in your treatment of them, and you will see to it that every member of this platoon does the same. And don't think for one moment that I won't know whether or not you do. The recon crystals are activated and recording, and they'll stay that way. So you think about that, Sword. You think real hard before you abuse another prisoner, wherever the fuck he came from, while you're under my command. Do you read me on this, Sword Nourm?"
"Yes, Sir," Nourm grated.
"I don't believe I heard you, Sword."
"Yes, Sir!"
"That's better. Now, I believe this man needs medical attention."
"Yes, Sir."
Nourm's anger was obvious, but it was equally clear to Sarma that the sword was at least trying to control it, so he let it pass. Which didn't prevent him from keeping an eagle eye on the noncom as Nourm helped the wounded Sharonian back to his feet. He wasn't especially gentle about it, but he wasn't brutal, either, and for the moment, Sarma was willing to settle for what he could get.
He watched the sword half-dragging the prisoner towards the Healers and sighed.
Sarma knew his own attitude towards the Sharonians was atypical. Which was ... unfortunate, since it was supposed to be the entire expeditionary force's attitude. Two Thousand Harshu's general orders had made it abundantly clear that the observation of the Accords was the official policy of the Union of Arcana in the present conflict. Unfortunately, unless Sarma was very much mistaken, it wasn't going to matter a great deal what general orders said.
It was Acting Commander of Five Hundred Neshok's fault, he thought bitterly. Sarma's platoon had been in the first wave of reinforcements to reach Fort Rycharn. That meant he'd had the opportunity to talk directly to Five Hundred Klian's men before the rest of Harshu's troopers and dragons had assembled.
Perhaps more to the point, one of his uncles had served with Five Hundred Klian when they were both mere squires, and the five hundred had invited his old friend's nephew to join his own officers for di
Which meant he'd heard Five Hundred Klian's version of what had happened when the Sharonians punched out the Andaran Scouts at this very portal.
Somehow, the five hundred's version was quite different from the official briefings Five Hundred Neshok and his staff had delivered. According to Five Hundred Klian, who'd spoken directly to the only Arcanan eyewitnesses, Magister Halathyn vos Dulainah had been killed accidentally by an Arcanan infantry-dragon after he'd been pulled out of his tent by a Sharonian cavalryman. But according to Neshok's briefers, although they'd been scrupulously careful to warn everyone they were still seeking confirmation, Magister Halathyn had been dragged out of the tent and shot dead by the Sharonians. And, those same briefers had said gravely, there were additional unconfirmed reports that the Sharonians had systematically executed all of the Scouts' wounded, as well, rather than providing medical care.
Nothing could have been better calculated to fill Arcanan soldiers with fury. Magister Halathyn had been quite possibly the most beloved single man in all the Arcanan-explored multiverse—outside his own native Mythal, at least—and the idea that he'd been murdered out of hand by the Sharonians had fa
Sarma shook his head. He'd never seen troops in such an ugly mood. They were out for blood vengeance on the "Sharonian butchers," and the fifty felt a cold, icy shudder of fear when he considered where that might lead everyone.
But it's not too late, he told himself. Surely, it's not too late. Two Thousand Harshu can still turn this around, if he'll just make Neshok stick to the facts.
Only ... the two thousand hadn't done that yet. Whether he agreed with what Neshok was doing or not was almost beside the point. Even the officers who might have questioned Neshok's briefings, or pointed out to their men that even the Intelligence briefers had stressed that the reports were unconfirmed, were going to take their lead from Harshu's apparent attitude. And until Harshu specifically addressed the issue, they were going to ignore his general orders' official position.
And when they do, what happens to the Union Army? Sarma asked himself almost despairingly. What happens when we wake up and realize what we've done? And what happens if the way we treat our prisoners leads them to really start shooting our people out of hand when they're captured?
Jaralt Sarma didn't know the answers to those questions ... but he was afraid that was going to change.
Commander of One Thousand Klayrman Toralk was not a happy man.
In one sense, the operation had gone exactly as pla
But the attack had cost him. Graholis, but it had cost him! Bad enough to have had two of his reds killed outright, but he had three more which had suffered significant injuries. The odds were probably about even that they'd still lose Berhala's Skyfire, even with the Healers, and one of the other wounded reds was hurt almost as badly. That was a much higher loss rate than he'd anticipated, and it suggested that these Sharonians' "rifles" were going to be dangerously effective against his ground attack dragons.
Yet as bad as that was, there was worse. He had no idea what the Sharonians called the things they'd screwed onto the ends of their rifles, but one of them had gone straight into Nairdag Yorhan's Windslasher's open mouth. The explosion had killed the yellow, and Yorhan's neck had snapped like a twig when his dragon went in at two hundred miles an hour.
It was obvious to Toralk that the yellows had been his most effective weapon, and at least they'd demonstrated a relative immunity to rifle fire. Graycloud and Skykill both had wing damage, but punctured membranes were something the dragon-healers could repair quickly. Both of them had dozens of scarred and gouged belly scales, as well, but none of the fire they'd taken there had managed to penetrate, and he expected the healers to have both yellows back in the air within another half-hour, maximum.
Which made the fact that he'd lost a third of them even more painful. If taking a single portal had cost this much, then—