Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...

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The moon was down; it was black under the forest with only the soft brilliance of the summer stars for
light. The dry dust-smell of summer and the intense green odor of the forest mixed in the night air. Megan
sat easily in the crook of an oak, looking out over the Arkan camp, ignoring the damp chill of dew
soaking into her clothes. It was abig camp; even now the Empire did things in style. Fifty or sixty
thousand men, half that many horses. It smelled worse than the Alliance camp, she found, when the
breeze turned for a moment. There was a severely regular ditch and mound with a tree trunk palisade on
top, this time; the Alliance had taught the Arkans something about night attacks.
The campfires had been many and bright, the men reluctant to turn in until the officers ordered it. Megan
waited until the Arkans were as quiet as they would get, then dropped and ghosted over the cleared
ground toward the palisade; pause, crawl, pause, pause, becoming a shadow every sentry round. No
matter how thoroughly the troops scoured the perimeter there was always a little brush overlooked, left
because it wouldn't hide a normal-sized person.
The wooden wall was unbarked logs, still studded with lopped-off stubs of branches, formidable to an
armored soldier and easy as stairs for her. There was a rattle of armor above, bored Arkan voices with
thesolas accent exchanging the password.
Far too loudly, she thought.They don't imagine anyone would dare come this close. Arrogant .
She rolled over the sharpened points of the logs and dropped down in a soft crouch on the inside; there
was a roadway around the interior of the wall, then regular rows of tents graded by rank, like every other
Arkan camp. Megan was next to the officer's row of an infantry rejin; there were fires, one in front of
every third tent, burned down to grey red pits of ash and embers. An hour before there had still been
soldiers up, cleaning their armor, talking, singing; she had heard two youngersolas working out the
harmonies to "Under the Lamplight," same melody as in the Alliance camp, the Arkan words fitting just as
well.Some things get shared, across the field, somehow. Strange, war .
In the still air now she could hear someone snoring, the sound echoing as if his head were still in his
helmet.His tent-mates and neighbors must love him , she thought.I'll fix that soon enough .
She could almost walk through with her eyes closed the pattern was so regular. The high commanders'
tents were near the center, the pickets off that way, upwind so the horses wouldn't smell her, the supply
carts over there. On the other side of the neatly laid out section, past the privy trenches and facing
toward the Yeolis, was the clump of camp followers and hangers-on, sleeping where they could.
No mercenaries attached to this camp, especially since that general, Abatzas Kallen, had tried to
doublecross the Schvait and make them fight their own kin at Michere, back in Yeola-e. The story was
well known. Three companies of blackshirts had deserted, coming out straight through the sleeping
Arkan army—through, in every sense of the term. Arko was having trouble hiring anybody but scum
nowadays; using them as sword-fodder in a losing campaign, they didn't have many left.
She froze again as the sentry paced by, torch half-burned. Her nose wrinkled at the strong odor of
someone who ate beef more than three times a week, and was tense. Waiting for something frightening to
happen… she cackled inwardly. Hotblood waited outside the palisade, wanting to come and eat a few
moreblondprey , as he had started calling them.
She stopped by the infirmary tent, near an ash tree. In this forest country it was too much trouble to clear
a camp entirely by logging it. Megan reached inside for themanrauq , the pool of blue/violet behind her
eyes. As she found it, she caught her breath, as if making a dive into cool water that tasted blue and
sounded of vinegar. The more she practiced it the clearer and sharper it became, as addictive in its way