Scion of Cyador (22 page)

“Thank you.” Still smiling, Lorn turns toward the outer double doors of the headquarters building.

XLV

Lorn rides beside Yusaet, the senior squad leader being dispatched to Inividra as a replacement squad leader for the Fifth Company there. Yusaet is fair-haired, almost boyish-appearing, except for gray eyes that are as cold as the iron of a barbarian blade. The noontime post-harvest sun beats down on them as they lead the column through the narrow swale that enters the valley holding the outpost.

“…still another five kays,” notes Yusaet.

“They mostly herders in the valley?”

“Sheep… some goats, some cattle, and some do nothing except offer their daughters for the amusement of the lancers.”

Lorn winces. “That is not good.”

“What can one do, ser? The duty is hard; the men are lonely; most have no consorts, and many will not live to have such. As for the peasants, and they are such, their daughters are also livestock, for many are no different from the Jeranyi. They look the same, and they act the same, save our peasants obey the Emperor’s Code, even if we must enforce it with a firelance or a cupridium blade.”

“Years ago, I was told that the raids near Inividra were the worst in the fall. Do you know if this remains so?”

Yusaet gestures over his shoulder, at the column of threescore replacement lancers, and the five wagons behind that carry recharged firelances and rations.

Lorn laughs. “There could be that many going to Pemedra.”

“Nearly so many, but not quite, ser.”

“It’s getting worse.”

“I would judge that be so.”

For a time, both men are silent, and the sounds that fill the valley are the murmurs of lancers, the hiss and whisper of the hot wind across browning grasses, the muffled clopping of hoofs on the hard and dusty road, and the creaking of the wagons.

As they near the outpost at the northeastern end of the valley, Lorn studies it with care. The compound at Inividra could have been a duplicate of that at Isahl, except that it is set upon a broader hill, rather than enclosing one with its walls, and that the valley in which the compound is set is narrower, with more rugged and drier-looking hills to north and east.

The outpost is at the east end of the long valley. The outer sunstone walls are a good eight cubits high and enclose corrals and barns. The inner wall contains, as at Isahl, the armory and several long barracks-all built of stone and roofed in tile. There is also a raised water cistern and a spring, with protective walls running from the spring to the armory.

Lorn guides the big white gelding northward onto the short road toward to the compound gates. As at Isahl, four guards hold the gates-two standing outside and two above them on the low parapets. All four watch as Yusaet, Lorn, and the replacement lancers approach.

With a nod to the senior squad leader, Lorn eases the gelding forward toward the two fresh-faced lancers who stand by the open gates. “Sub-Majer Lorn, reporting to take command.”

“Yes, ser.” Both stiffen at his words and at the sight of the triple bars on his uniform collar. So do the pair on the low parapets.

Once inside both the outer wall and, a third of a kay farther north, the inner one, Lorn guides the gelding to the right, toward the square tower he feels he knows, even though he has never seen it. He dismounts a dozen cubits from the square-arched doorway and ties the gelding to the unused hitching post. He leaves his gear on his mount for the moment.

The single guard standing in a narrow patch of shade inclines his head. “Ser!”

“Sub-Majer Lorn, Lancer.”

“Lancer Weit, ser.”

“Who is the senior staff squad leader here?”

“That be Nesmyl, ser. Inside, ser.”

“Thank you.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn steps into the tower and takes several steps along the dimmer inner corridor as his eyes adjust.

A senior squad leader appears from the back corridor. His eyes widen.

“You’re Nesmyl? I’m Sub-Majer Lorn.”

“Yes, ser.” Nesmyl is slender, brown-haired and balding. His brown eyes survey Lorn rapidly. “How would you like to proceed, ser?”

“Let’s see the study, and get my gear and put it someplace, and then I’d like to meet some people.”

Nesmyl nods and turns. Lorn follows a half-dozen steps past the narrow table that is Nesmyl’s duty station.

The study is not large for an officer who commands an outpost as large as Inividra, for the room is less than fifteen cubits by ten, and contains but a table desk, a single scroll case, the wooden armchair behind the desk, and four armless straight-backed wooden chairs that face the desk. High windows on the wall behind the desk offer the sole source of outside light, although two wall sconces contain unlit oil lamps.

Lorn shakes his head, remembering how Majer Brevyl had pointed out that the most dangerous outpost was “Inividra in the fall.”

“You can see, ser. Everything is ready for you.”

“First, I’d like to meet all the officers who aren’t on patrol.”

“Ah… none are, ser. They were ordered to stand by for you.”

“There are five, then, three captains and two undercaptains?”

“Yes, ser.”

The sub-majer nods. “Where are my quarters?”

“Up above here. There’s a back stair.”

“All right. I’ll unload my gear, and leave it there, while you summon the officers.”

“As you wish, ser.” Nesmyl follows Lorn down the corridor and out into the hot harvesttime afternoon.

The senior squad leader walks across the courtyard toward the barracks building that holds the officers’ quarters and the large officers’ study.

Lorn unfastens his bags from behind the gelding’s saddle, and then carries them back past the sentry, into the tower, and along the short back corridor to the rear staircase. He has to put one bag in front of him and one behind him to make his way up to the next level.

As Nesmyl had said, the commander’s quarters are in the upper level of the square tower, above his official study. They are also far smaller than those at Biehl, comprising but a small kitchen with an eating area, an equally small study, and a bedchamber barely large enough for the double-width bed and a narrow armoire.

Lorn sets his bags at the foot of the bed, extracts his orders and the few documents and reports he has brought, and heads back down the steps to his study.

He has barely set his orders and papers on the table desk when the senior squad leader returns.

“They will all be here shortly, ser.” Nesmyl bows.

“Good. Once they’re all here, show them in, if you would.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn looks around the study. The built-in shelves are mostly empty, except for a worn copy of the Emperor’s Code, the thin Mirror Lancer manual, and several other volumes he does not recognize, including one entitled The Navigator. He picks it up, leafs through the pages, and sets it aside. Then he opens the first footchest on the left. It contains patrol reports- those of the First Company. He smiles. There are six footchests lined against the back wall, and he can guess the contents of five. He moves to the one at the right end. It contains accounts of supplies, mounts, provisions, firelances. Lorn closes it. Those records he will need to study.

Thrap.

Lorn looks up at the gentle knock. “Yes?”

“The officers are here.”

“Have them come in.” Lorn stands behind his desk as the five file in. Then he waits for Nesmyl to depart and close the study door. He remains standing. “I’m Sub-Majer Lorn. If you would each introduce yourself so that I can put a name to a face, I’d appreciate it.”

“Captain Emsahl…”

“Captain Cheryk…”

“Captain Esfayl…”

“Undercaptain Rhalyt…”

“Undercaptain Quytyl…”

Lorn looks over the five. Two of the three captains-Emsahl and Cheryk-are veterans, older than he is, clearly. Esfayl looks to be newly promoted to captain, while Rhalyt and Quytyl are recent undercaptains. In short-two competent senior captains, one captain that might have promise, and two undercaptains who need watching.

“I’m not the kind who keeps much hidden,” Lorn says. “So… since I’m sure there are rumors about me, I’ll fill in the details. I’m from Cyad. My first three-year tour was at Isahl, under Majer Brevyl. Then came a tour on the northeast ward-wall of the
Accursed
Forest
. We had the dubious distinction of handling more creatures and tree-falls than all the other three companies combined over that period. After that, I was commander of the port detachment at Biehl, and in charge of rebuilding it from less than a company to more than two. We were the ones who discovered the first Jeranyi raiding party trying to go through that part of the Grass Hills. They had eighteenscore. We had two lancer companies and two District Guard companies. They lost all eighteenscore, we lost a company and a half.” Lorn smiles. “When the Majer-Commander found out, from what we captured, that Hamorian blades were being traded into Jera, I was transferred here.”

Lorn looks over the five. The gray-bearded Emsahl nods. Cheryk fingers his long and pointed chin. The curly-haired Esfayl tries to conceal a frown. The red-haired Rhalyt and the whip-thin Quytyl merely look wide-eyed.

“Captain Esfayl,” Lorn says quietly. “You look concerned.”

“Ah… no, ser.”

Lorn can sense the lie. “Don’t lie to me. I won’t pull it out of you, not here, but I can tell when you are.”

The pale gray eyes of the veteran Cheryk narrow, and Lorn meets them-and smiles before speaking. “We’re likely to receive the brunt of the attacks from the barbarians, and I’ll be changing patrol assignments. You’ll probably find yourself riding fewer patrols, but on those you do ride, you’ll find more barbarians.” His smile broadens slightly. “And I’m sure you’d want to know that I will be directing patrols in person, not from the safe confines of Inividra.”

“Ser…” ventures Emsahl, his voice slow and almost drawling. “Some had said that you’d be relieving a patrol commander or shuffling us around so that the five of us commanded four companies and you handled the fifth.”

Lorn shakes his head. “I don’t feel that’s a good idea. You know your companies, or you should, and you will”-his eyes fix on Rhalyt and Quytyl-“and I’ll need that experience and knowledge if we’re all to come through the next year with as few casualties as possible.”

The two older captains exchange puzzled looks.

“Don’t believe all the rumors. The truth is that I was brought here to be a hands-on field commander. That part is true. But I’m not taking over anyone’s company. That’s bad policy and worse tactics.

“Now… I’d like to meet with each of you individually, one at a time, in order of seniority. You’re the most senior, Emsahl?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Then you have the honor. If the rest of you would stand by out in the front foyer… ?”

Once the four others have left and the door shuts, Lorn motions for the gray-bearded captain to sit, then takes the chair behind the desk. It creaks as he sits. He laughs, softly, then looks at Emsahl. “Do you have any questions you didn’t want to raise in front of the others?”

Emsahl looks stolidly at the front of the desk, his eyes not quite meeting Lorn’s. Lorn waits.

“Ser… what they call you… lancers don’t like to think they’re blade fodder.” The captain looks down.

“A few officers have called me ‘the Butcher of Nhais’ or some such. Is that the name you heard?”

Emsahl nods.

Lorn offers a wintry smile. “You can check anywhere, from Majer Brevyl on… I lose fewer lancers than any other officer for the number of kills and battles. I’ve lost a few more than some companies, but many other companies, facing the numbers my forces have, lost more-a great deal more. I slaughtered all eighteenscore barbarians. They’d already killed fivescore men, women, and children, and you know what they did to the girls and women in the hamlets they sacked before we got them. I had them all killed because I couldn’t keep my forces that far from Biehl and I wanted to make sure that it was awhile before they could send another raiding party.” Lorn pauses, sees the unspoken next question, and answers. “I fight. I don’t command from the rear. You’ll see.”

Emsahl nods slowly. “Hoped it was something like that. You’re not a lancer born, ser?”

“No, and my consort-I have one-is a merchanter.” Before Emsahl can pursue those lines, Lorn asks, “What do you think our biggest problem will be?”

“Not enough firelance charges… and too many raiders attacking each company.”

Lorn nods. “We may start using two companies on each patrol.”

“With you in charge?”

“Yes. If the barbarians are raiding in larger groups, then they can’t be in as many places, either.”

“You make that work, ser… lot of lancers be glad to see it.”

“We’ll make it work.” Lorn pauses. “Anything else?”

“No, ser.”

“If you have things you see… or suggestions, I listen. Remember that.” Lorn stands. “If you’d have Cheryk come in…”

Emsahl smiles briefly. “Yes, ser.”

Lorn goes through a similar process with each of the officers, and the comments of the others are little different from those of Emsahl. They have obviously been sharing concerns and worries while waiting for him. At the end of the afternoon, for the most part, his initial assessments of each have changed little. He hopes that is because of the accuracy of those assessments, but only time will verify or disprove his judgment.

XLVI

The Emperor sits on the less massive malachite and silver throne that graces the smaller audience chamber. Behind his right shoulder, in her chair, sits his consort. Before him stands Bluoyal’mer, the Emperor’s Merchanter Advisor. Save for the guards, and a senior Imperial Enumerator in blue and green, with the gold slashes on his sleeves, who stands by one of the guards by the door, no others grace the chamber.

“You summoned me, Your Mightiness?” The Merchanter Advisor’s voice is clear and firm, and a faint smile follows his words.

“I did.” The Emperor Toziel leans forward in the malachite-and-silver throne. “Did you not affirm that you would support the Emperor’s Code, Bluoyal’mer?”