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They'd had to leave the mighty Paladins of their original train behind. None of the immediately available heavylift freighters had boasted the capacity to carry those enormous locomotives across the water gap in Haysam. Besides, they'd been too badly needed for the Sharona to Haysam run. Hayrdar Sheltim, chan Geraith's train master, had needed three of the Norgamar Works' individually smaller and less powerful Windcleaver-J 2-8-4 locomotives to replace the pair of Paladins, but it was probably just as well. The Windcleavers were nimbler than their larger cousins, better suited to the mountainous terrain between them and Harkala.
He drew heavily on the cigar, watching its tip glow brightly, savoring the moment of privacy and the pristine beauty of the world racing past him at least as much as he savored the rich taste of the smoke.
He treasured moments like this. Moments when he could step away from his staff, his unit commanders.
When he could take off the persona of a division commander, allow himself to step off the stage where his performance must engender confidence and determination.
I suppose it's sort of sad that I have to stand out here freezing my posterior off to find what Misanya calls my "comfort zone."
He smiled at the thought of his wife. She was a soldier's daughter, as well as a soldier's wife, and she understood what that meant, how their joint lives must be subordinated to the sometimes harsh demands of his chosen profession. But it had also left her with a refreshing irreverence for the sort of posturing and grand tragedy that certain soldiers of their acquaintance liked to embrace. She was quick to exterminate any tendencies in that direction in her own husband, at least, for which chan Geraith was profoundly thankful.
Then his smile faded as he reflected upon how many weary thousands of miles behind him Misanya was.
Stop that! he scolded himself. You're not the only a soldier who's missing his wife tonight, Arlos!
Which was true enough. And it wasn't as if he didn't have enough other things to worry about. He particularly disliked what Company-Captain Lisar chan Korthal, his staff Voice, had been reporting from the negotiations at Hell's Gate. The obstructionism Platoon-Captain chan Baskay's messages described made no more sense to chan Geraith than it did to chan Baskay himself. Nor had the divisioncaptain much cared for the suspicions chan Baskay and Arthag had reported up the chain.
The bastards are up to something, he thought moodily. It's not just my ingrained paranoia, either. I just don't know what they're up to ... but I'm afraid we may all be going to find out.
He took the cigar out of his mouth long enough to grimace properly, then put it back.
At least chan Tesh and chan Baskay haven't sent any more bad news our way in the last couple of days.
That's something. And the fact that these godsdamned Arcanans don't have a clue how much firepower an entire dragoon brigade represents is another something. Of course, I don't have a clue what else they may have available, now do I?
He snorted at the thought. It wasn't precisely the first time he'd had it, and he suspected it wouldn't be the last.
In fact, I'm going to go right on wondering about that until—and unless—I find out. And if I do find out, it's going to be because everything's fallen straight into the shitter. So I suppose it's actually one of those little mysteries of the multiverse I'd really rather not solve, if it's all the same to the Triad.
He shook his head and stood, gazing out at the untouched beauty of the moon and stars, and wondered how long he could last tonight before the chill finally drove him back inside.