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

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Sadsaddon'tshownowhimpersneak, Shkai'ra thought back. Aloud: "I will, my heart. You also. Go well,
both of you."
"This I don't like,kras ," Bukangkt said, as the column halted in the shade of the great trees. It had
probably been some ArkanAitzas's hunting preserve until recently, looked too manicured for wild wood.
"I think I can take care of myself for an hour or so, centurion," she said. Promotions had come thick and
fast among Shkai'ra's Slaughterers, this past month; five hundred lances were under her command now,
and doing well enough some regulars from allied contingents had tried slipping in as mercenaries. She
waved to indicate their surroundings. "I want that ravine about two klicks west checked thoroughly,
though."
The battalion Shkai'ra was commanding were on outrider screen today; the Arkans were backing again,
through an area that was mostly rolling plain. The wheat had been reaped and carted but there were big
cornfields just tasseling out, and occasional copses of oak and beech like this, many hectares in extent.
Deceptive country, you thought you could see as far as on a steppe, but there was enough cover to hide
substantial bodies of troops. They had just passed a village; the locals were mostly slaves and eager
enough to help—the Alliance army was trailing an enormous rabble of them now, armed with whatever
and making up for lack of training in bloodthirsty enthusiasm—but here they'd known nothing useful
except that a column of Imperial cavalry had passed through a day before, burning or stealing the grain
harvest. The local landowners had left a month ago.
"You command," Bukangkt said, saluting in Yeoli style. His company fell in to the trumpet and formed
column of fours, trotting off into the waves of yellow stubble.
That left Shkai'ra with her standardbearer and a few messengers; she spent the next several hours finding
tasks for them. Afternoon in high summer was no joke here in the southlands, and the woman with the
Slaughterer's banner—a fanged skull impaled on a sword; Shkai'ra thought it rather fetching, and had
been surprised at the odd looks—was an Aenir from the Brezhan, unaccustomed to such weather. Also
unaccustomed to Arkan steel sheet-armor, such as the whole unit was wearing now; her round pink face
shone and sweat dripped out of the sodden sponge lining of her helmet, falling on the breastplate with a
plink… plink sound.
"Here," Shkai'ra said, offering one of the canteens at her saddlebow; experienced troops always carried
extra. "Don't want you passing out from the heat."
"Tenk you,kras ," the trooper replied, surprised. She had gotten the coveted position of standardbearer
for conspicuous bravery. Her nickname of "Mad Cow" had been earned more recently, for a studied
indifference to discipline remarkable even in one of her race, and she had been expecting to be broken to
the ranks for weeks now.
Another half hour, and the Aenir woman was yawning and nodding, bringing her head up with a jerk
every time the chin-guard wentclink on the gorget.
"Unsaddle and sack out for a while," Shkai'ra said.
Mad Cow Zoltanova was probably the only soldier in the Slaughterers who would have obeyed that
order with quite so much unthinking eagerness. Her commander took the banner, waiting until Zoltanova
was snoring before kissing the victory ribbons and leaning the staff reverently against a tree. Then she
took the leading reins of her two spare horses and cut the trooper's beast loose, half-grinning down at the
sleeping form.