Page 9 of The Sorcerer's Alpha
The colonel shrugged. “Little. We’ve lost more men than I care to admit to their incursions, but they strike quickly and leave again before we can get a close look. We haven’t been able to capture one or recover a carcass. But one of my officers has a touch of the gift, and he believes the creatures are crafted from the earth.” He lifted the drinking cup on the table before him and took a sip. “A patrol followed them here from base. They’ve been very active in this area. We aren’t sure why.”
“You’re camped in the valley to trap one?”
The colonel gave him a long look across the table. Sycamore couldn’t guess at what he was thinking. “Yes. I expect we’ll lose many men. We’ll lose more if we can’t figure out what these things are or what to do about them.” He hesitated, then said, “If nothing changes, I expect we’ll lose our foothold in the badlands by spring.”
That was worse than Sycamore had thought. “When do you anticipate the next attack?”
“Soon. Any day now. Tonight, even. They always attack at night.”
Of course they did. What was a monstrous creature without a flair for the dramatic? Sycamore waited to see what orders the colonel had for him, and when the colonel said nothing, only long practice allowed him to conceal his disgust. The man didn’t want him here, but that wasn’t for him to decide.
“What is it,” Sycamore said, “that you would like me to do.”
The colonel shrugged. “I hardly know what you’re capable of. If you hear fighting, run toward it and help.”
Sycamore rose to his feet without waiting to be dismissed; if the colonel was going to squander his abilities, he had no compunctions about playing his role to the hilt. “I’ll leave you to your preparations, then.”
“Lord Sorcerer,” the colonel said, without bothering to rise.
Sycamore left the tent, blinking at the sudden change in light. The guards looked at him without comment. He straightened his coat and strode off in what he hoped was the direction of his own tent.
It was clear that the Skopoy knew about the gold and the Chedoy army didn’t. Sycamore saw no need to volunteer this information to the colonel. He would send a message to Poplar, and Poplar would tell the king.
At least he had his answer now as to why he had been sent here. He had no talent for the higher magics, but he was the best earth mage in the kingdom. These constructs must be troublesome indeed if the king was willing to sacrifice Sycamore’s protective wardings on the palace for the time being.
He found his way after a few false turns. Marut was sitting at the extinguished campfire beside the woman with the birthmark around her eye, the two of them conversing in soft voices. They stopped as Sycamore approached and gazed up at him expectantly.
“I need somewhere I can speak without anyone hearing me,” Sycamore said, addressing himself mainly to Marut. The woman was polite, but seemed suspicious of him and hadn’t told him her name. Marut was a hazard, but Sycamore couldn’t think of who else to ask. Only since their arrival in White Valley had he begun to overhear whispers that he was an omega, which meant Marut hadn’t shared that information with anyone. For that reason alone, Sycamore was willing to trust him.
Marut rose to his feet. “Saddle your horse.”
Sycamore did, the motions more familiar now than they had been at first. Rhododendron was patient with him and even, if he wasn’t mistaken, seemed to like him, judging from the way she would butt his shoulder with her nose when he drew near. He had never spent much time around horses and was still somewhat wary of this large creature with such a determined mind of her own, but she had shown on their journey that she would take care with him. He trusted her the most of any living being in the camp, including Marut.
Marut led him down the canyon to exit the valley, not far on horseback but longer than Sycamore would have wanted to walk. With Marut riding ahead of him, Sycamore took the chance to gawk around as openly as he desired. Since joining the court in childhood, he had only left the capital for a few brief pleasure trips to the nearby countryside. Although he had read widely about all manner of places, he had never visited the badlands in person, and no book’s description could do the landscape justice. What an odd place, but lovely, too: the rocks sculpted out of the earth and striped in all their various colors, shades of rust, blue and green, dark mauve.
Before the mouth of the canyon, Marut stopped and led his horse into a small culdesac where a small bush had managed to root itself. He dismounted and tied his horse to the bush’s sprawling roots. Sycamore dismounted, too, and handed Rhododendron’s reins to the scout when he mutely held out his hand.
“I’ll walk back down the canyon to keep watch for anyone coming this way,” Marut said, tying Rhododendron as well. “You’ll be safe enough here. There are guards at the canyon’s entrance.”
“Thank you,” Sycamore said, and Marut gave one of his awkward bows, as if he wasn’t certain how far to bend and made a slightly different judgment every time.
He waited until Marut had gone around a curve in the canyon and disappeared from sight, then took his scrying materials from his saddlebag: a shallow bowl of hammered copper, a small pouch of ashes, a smaller pouch of ground lapis. Marut had examined all these things when he was going through Sycamore’s baggage and replaced them without comment, and Sycamore had been relieved not to have to explain.
“I need to speak with a colleague,” he said to Rhododendron. “This will only take a few minutes.”
Rhododendron lowered her head to nibble at the bush’s spiny leaves. Sycamore appreciated a companion who knew how to mind their own business.
He sat on the bare earth, set the bowl before him, and filled it with water from his waterskin. A sprinkling of ash on top and a scant dusting of lapis completed his preparations. He cupped the bowl with both hands and focused on the murky contents. The ash began to swirl, slowly at first and then more and more swiftly, until it vanished and revealed Poplar’s scowling face.
“Sycamore?” The scowl dropped away. “Where are you?”
“The badlands. I’ll keep this short.” Poplar wasn’t a friend and wasn’t precisely an ally, but his loyalty to the king was deep and true, and he would deliver Sycamore’s message to the king’s ear and tell no one else along the way. Still, Sycamore didn’t want to test his patience. “We’re in White Valley. There’s gold in at least one of the valley walls. The Skopoy know about it, but our people don’t seem to.”
“You want me to tell the king, I presume,” Poplar said, and when Sycamore nodded, said, “You haven’t told the soldier in charge? Whoever it is.”
“Some colonel. I’ll let His Majesty decide who needs telling.”
“Wise. All right. I’ll speak with the king today.”