The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) Read online

  Or something along those lines.

  So, however many hours later, it was with both kinds of sick feelings, physically and psychologically, that Ian felt a sharp kick to the bottom of his boots—still dutifully attached and intact.

  “Soaked beggar—” was mostly all he heard from a posh and fantastically furious voice.

  Ian tried to turn over and look up, which hurt, but it was difficult to see as he was in a room—no, a hallway, with only one nearby light. Despite all this, some sort of sinking intuition said that this was bad.

  “Now get up if you can!” the voice went on from above Ian. “Or I’ll make you regret it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ian mumbled, stumbling to his feet.

  “To the grave,” the man—officer—yelled at him. “Do you hear me? To the grave!”

  “Yes, sir,” Ian said, nodding, even though that was difficult to accomplish in conjunction with standing.

  There was a short pause.

  “Are you daft as well as soaked?” the man asked. “Get ready—that’s an order!”

  “Yes—sorry, sir,” Ian managed. He jolted off in the general direction of the sleeping quarters. That’s where he would have much rather woken up, but for whatever reason the deep rug in the entrance hallway had evidently been more appealing a few hours before.

  Other men were already up and moving about in the sleeping quarters, talking in occasional bits. But Ian tried not to pay any attention to them or the notion that they were all watching him. He tore off his semi-formal uniform, which had a distinctively greasy feel to it that didn’t really go away when he hastily pulled on his regimentals—his regular uniform. Fortunately, most of his stuff was already in shape to leave, it was just a matter of assembling himself, which proved harder than normal, due to the headache that was rolling around his temples and forehead, as well as his slightly overzealous urgency.

  “Move et,” a burly form came against Ian, reaching down into the bottom bunk.

  Ian spared just enough room and attention to note that it was his second man, looking none too well-humored. His uniform was on but unbuttoned, his face freshly shaved and dripping water.

  After making sure he had everything out that he needed, Ian stepped back and tried to begin the delicate process of attaching his watcher’s cloak behind him. This was worrisome since it demanded a considerable amount of patience and care even when his head didn’t feel like it was doing the tri-dance rather badly.

  His lack of concern about the others experienced a break as he watched his second, with some shock, reach around with his cloak like it was merely an annoying task, slide one of the attaching slides up into his uniform’s shoulder slot, lock it, do the same with the other side, then activate them both. This all being a new method to Ian.

  He stared at his own cloak dubiously.

  “Breakfast’s in,” a voice, stouter than the one who had woken him, called from the back dining room, “hurry it up.”

  A bustle burst around him, and several of the men left, evidently ready to go. Ian threw caution to the wind and tried to replicate what his second had just done with his cloak, only as fast as possible while still maintaining his genuine reverence for the cloak.

  The ranger’s watcher cloak was an extremely advanced article of technology, the most recognizable and well-known part of a ranger’s gear. Part hunting tool, part traveling aid, and occasionally part shield, it was exceptionally versatile and exclusive to their ranks. Their cloaks were a bright crimson, and Ian had touched it more times than he could count as it had laid folded up neatly inside his pack during the long voyage here.

  But as wildly as his imagination had conceived of him mastering his cloak outright, the truth was he had only handled a rather beat up one in training a few times, and it was purportedly a difficult thing to acquire a healthy proficiency at.

  Ian’s second man finished getting his gear on and quickly exited the room, an excited glimmer in his eyes.

  Ian tried not to think moody thoughts about how it looked like a love of food was the last thing his second needed. Returning his concentration to his cloak, Ian managed to insert the first slide into his shoulder’s slot, quickly looking as he almost dropped the other. Through this process Ian had already twisted the other slide much more than he liked. While the rest of the cloak was designed to be durable, even to the point of absorbing some lighter laser fire, the attaching slides were mildly fragile. How to put them on and off was something that had been stressed throughout the brief training session they’d had on them.

  Finishing attaching the other slide a minute later, he couldn’t manage to work up much of a feeling of accomplishment. This approach to attaching them that his second had demonstrated was far easier than the one he’d been taught, and it was good to know he’d be able to do it on his own without too much trouble. But he felt sick, and his head still hurt. Truth be known, he didn’t feel like breakfast at all, though he knew he’d have to force some down and hopefully hold it there.

  He rushed through the rest of his uniform as everyone else finished leaving the room. He hurriedly put on his belt and stuffed the loose items that were left into the main pouch. He wasted a moment hesitating over the whistle from the food vendor last night, mostly thinking about what Corporal Wesshire would probably think of him now. Or all the rest of the company. Or—

  Ian grimaced and shoved the whistle into his pouch, then started for the door, hefting his pack up by one of its handles. The method was ungainly, but he succeeded in pushing his cloak over enough to get the pack underneath where it automatically attached to the magnetic securers built into his uniform. The pack itself was large, but its dimensions were compacted as rigorously as present science would allow. It also didn’t come very far up behind his shoulders, which mostly let his watcher’s cloak fall over it. Still, Ian found it a hindrance, but at least it was a hindrance that could easily be dropped at any sign of trouble.

  —or his captain, who Ian was terribly sure was the one who had woken him up. Ian came to the realization that he’d had firm dreams of quickly and honestly working up to be his illustrious captain’s most prized soldier. Now, Ian only wished that his spirit was capable of fixing its problems the way his stomach was. He had blundered everything up, blundered it bad. As optimistic of a person as he evidently was, it was hard now to see much hope that he would be able to rectify this.

  Squaring his shoulders and looking the opposite of wanting to die as much as possible, he tried to stride into the dining room with an offhand but humble sort of confidence.

  There were only three people standing by the dining room counter. One of them, who Ian didn’t know, was wearing corporal rankings, and looked like he was in his mid-twenties. Brodie was also there, talking to Ian’s second as they both held their breakfast plates. Ian’s second looked bleary, wordlessly eating his food as Brodie went on in a fairly upbeat manner about their previous evening.

  Ian was just in the process of trying to figure out what he should say if they said anything to him when the corporal’s yeoman clicked twice.

  “Right, let’s go,” the corporal said, turning—he had a melancholy face—and seeing Ian. He nodded a bit then left the room, his partially eaten plate on the counter.

  Ian’s second didn’t pay Ian much mind, but accelerated the transferring of his breakfast as he also started toward the door. Brodie gave him a careful smile and said good morning.

  “Morning,” Ian murmured. A moment later and they left, leaving Ian alone with the quarrelsome concept of breakfast and a lack of time.

  He went toward the counter with food—so much food—and every determined intention to force down at least a few bites. But his resolve faltered, his stomach not nearly as concerned with long-term planning. Placing his fists on the counter and staring down at the still steaming pot of oatmeal, he hated this sick feeling. Never mind the headache, the throbbing in his temples, behind his eyes—well, he had to mind it—but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the nausea.
He’d forgotten what this was like; it had been so long since he’d been sick like this.

  He slammed his hand on the counter and left, wishing that could make things better, because it didn’t. There was no time anyway, and he had some basic rations he could hopefully sneak when he was feeling better.

  He passed through the door, the short hall, the door, then the entrance hallway, which passed unsteadily—he was losing some of the grip the officer had scared into him. Further and further to the last door, which he reached for, opened—

  Sunlight everywhere. Or at least it was above them, pouring through his eyes, flowing through his temples and into some very angry spot just under the top of his skull. But it was a far different kind of sunlight from yesterday, so crisp and calm. Under other circumstances it would have been very pleasant. He estimated that it must be in the very opening throes of daybreak as he hurried to the end of the line of his assembled fellows, facing out into the street where two officers were talking to each other in low tones. It wasn’t visible from where they were, but the warm hues of the light were beginning to creep down from the very tallest buildings around them.

  Ian slid in next to his second, who was conveniently on the far left end. Ian snapped the heel of his boots smartly to the pavement as he came to attention.

  Their captain turned from where he had been talking to a larger man wearing the rank of first lieutenant. The captain’s eyes quickly fell on Ian and none too gently. He was a rather thin man, not overly tall as Ian noted, with a small mustache and quick, darting eyes. He also had a subtle neatness about him that Ian sensed, feeling rather greasy and unkempt as he was in his own uniform.

  “Well now,” the captain said, the annoyance in his voice not all that much diminished from when he had kicked Ian awake. Folding his hands behind his back, the captain started to walk along them, intermittently eyeing them up as he went. “Everyone is assembled now. And while many of you have been making fools of yourselves since arriving here, be assured that there will be no further leave to do so. The opportunities will be scarce once we are out of Carciti, but … I am sure …” The captain paused in front of Ian, looking him up and down disdainfully as Ian kept staring straight ahead.

  “—some of you have very persistent imaginations.” The captain gave a long pause before he continued on past Ian again. “In any case, all such miscreants will quickly feel the full weight of all the punishment that rests in my power. I trust there shall be no further tomfoolery, and will know well enough to listen sharp to your superiors. Ah, yes, I suppose I should introduce myself, being that many of you are new. And freshly instated.” He looked them over, a hint of disgust creeping into his voice. “A full half of you are green, as a matter of fact … So green,” he added, under his breath.

  Ian glanced over at him, shocked. But doing that was just as much of a mistake as the captain’s slip of undeserved animosity, as the captain looked back over at Ian. He only just managed to jerk his head back forward in time.

  “So I expect nothing but the best from all of you, but especially you new recruits. Pull your own weight and a bit more, as it is, and you’ll be fine. Oh yes, and for those of you fresh to our unit, my name is Captain Marsden. I served under Lord Nathers at Lynull for several years, so I like a fast unit. No hindrances, no hiccups, no dead weight. This is no ordinary line unit, and you’ll all be expected to be able to cover more ground in less time than any other type of soldier in His Majesty’s Service.”

  Ian was glad that the captain was here to alert them to these things.

  “Now then,” the captain went on, “since this is to be a smaller detachment for the time being, we’ll divide up into two flanks that can work independently, as it is, whenever necessary. My flank will be first, with Corporal Hanley as my second.” Captain Marsden glanced down at his yeoman, then back at Ian, none too kindly. “And Privates Williams and Kanters will be with us. Leading the second flank will of course be Lieutenant Taylor, with Corporal Wesshire as his second, and the remaining privates rounding them off. Now then,” the captain said, beginning to pace along them again, “men serving under their superiors, whether myself, Lieutenant Taylor, or either of the corporals, must and will serve to the utmost ability of their hearts, so that, as it is, we shall function as one family of purpose and discipline.”

  The captain paused, as though he noticed at least some weight of the ridiculousness. It sounded like he was reciting something, and Ian thought that maybe Captain Marsden had heard this strain from one of his own superiors. Perhaps Lord Nathers, at Lynull, since that was indeed of some distinction. But as the captain looked them over, the mournful cloud that held over his face was one of profound disappointment.

  Because, for all the disdain that was obvious in the captain’s evaluating gaze of them, it wasn’t just their company that wasn’t meeting his standards. The captain’s own words, as difficult to pull off as they were, weren’t working at all, and his attempt at the accompanying grand speech had only communicated every bit of its emptiness.

  “Now then,” the captain said, half-trying to pick up his shoulders as he stared at something past them, “we’ll start off at army pace, and hope to make our destination of Alcatel before nightfall. From there, we’ve secured transport to Portsmouth, where our charges are waiting. Our rate from then on out will be at His Lordship’s discretion. I know all of your conduct toward the lord and his family goes without saying.”

  But of course you’re going to say it, Ian thought.

  “But let it be known,” the captain said, “that you are all to be the utmost examples of not only this unit and order, but of Bevish gentleman as well. As it is, the lord will be shown only the highest degree of honor and respect, and nothing else. Socializing with either him or his family will not be allowed outside of the bounds of your duties. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” the privates all chorused back. Ian did his best, discovering that his throat hurt even more when functioning.

  “Now then, Lieutenant Taylor,” the captain said.

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant spoke up for the first time. He had a moderate amount of what seemed to be genuine enthusiasm, at least for the moment. He was a stout and somewhat tall man, looking to be in his early fifties. His eyes were bright but tired, his short beard mostly gray.

  “Take them to Alcatel,” the captain ordered, “let’s see if they can march as well as they can soak off their time.”

  “Aye, sir,” the lieutenant said, with vigor.

  An idiot, Ian grumpily concluded of their captain as the lieutenant proceeded to turn them with quick barks. Fortunately, Ian ended up at the end of the line.

  His conscience told him that he should probably give the captain more of a chance, and while Ian doubted that the captain was ever going to be brilliant, he could admit that at the moment he was exceptionally biased. He was biased toward anything resembling an optimistic opinion, in fact. The idea of an entire day of marching did not sit well with his stomach, which was already having enough trouble sitting up on its own.

  They started off, passing working-class Chax on and off as they weeded through the city, the reactions always curious, always wary, but always with an air of awe, maybe even respect. No doubt they understood that they weren’t just Bevish regulars, and that they moved with some higher purpose as the lieutenant led them toward the edge of the city and its walls that divided this small handful of transplanted Ellosia from the rest of Orinoco.

  The sound of their boots on the uneven cobblestone didn’t quite sound crisp—the boots they were issued weren’t so much for making an impression on the parade ground as for being able to move quietly in the wilderness. The light wasn’t quite opulent and the air was already beginning to thicken again with the impending heat. It wasn’t quite as grand of an opening march as Ian would’ve desired, but enough of something else special moved along with them that it was all right.

  There was a muted fever, a feisty pride that pounded in tempo with the
pain in his head, throat, gut. Such a superb moment, the first and only of what would now define him. A superb moment, unspoiled, untouchable, pristine in time forever if not for, well—

  The fact that he felt like throwing up. And not just the contents of his stomach, but to throw up his stomach as a whole and be done with it.

  He’d ruined it, and not only physically. This was his first job of active service, and he’d be lucky if he just passed through it in one piece, much less shine as brilliantly as he had wanted to. But Ian had blown it morally; his captain, and by extension probably his lieutenant too, thought he was a soaker. Who knew how long it would take before Ian could make up for it? He had ruined it doubly.

  Ian wryly smiled at that. So it was, pristine and otherwise non-pristine elements all considered, a lousy first day for both him and the captain. But there was time. He could do his best to make up for it. The rest of the captain’s opinion depended on the captain himself.

  He swore to himself and God, doubly firmly, that there was no way he’d ever do this again. To himself or to his unit.

  Or, he added ruefully, even to his captain.

  “—enough breakfast,” Ian heard Kieran Anglas muttering back to the other private, Brodie, something about the other man being daft for not eating more before they left.

  Brodie moaned. “Oh, but the stomach is such a reliable tyrant.”

  Chapter 4

  “Orinoco is subject to a tenant sun, but it remains remarkable because life has not only managed itself there, but has flourished. This is only accomplished through the dominant fauna on the planet harnessing the sun’s destructive energies and perpetuating a protective, if turbulent, sphere above the planet. The end result is a habitable, but extremely hot environment disruptive to airborne communications and transport.”