Scion of Cyador (30 page)

LIX

In the glow of his quarters’ study lamp, Lorn looks over the maps yet again, checking the routes, the planned stops, the possible points of conflict-and the places that must be destroyed. He has not told any of the captains his exact plans, only that an unnamed town on the South Branch of the River Jeryna is their first goal. That much is true, for it is one of the towns where the raiders gather, and not all have yet gathered, but enough have, and so have their mounts.

Slowly, he puts the maps in the order he wishes, then rolls them up and ties them into a single bundle.

Tomorrow all six companies of Mirror Lancers will pull out of Inividra, something that has never been done before. So far as the stories and the records tell, no one has ever combined more than two companies of Mirror Lancers in making an attack, not in recent generations.

His lips curl. He may find out why that is so, but he can only do what he feels is best, for the older tactics are less and less effective, and the chaos-towers are failing. And Lorn, child of Cyad, will not stand and watch.

He laughs softly, mirthlessly. He also has no real choices, for to follow Dettaur’s instructions will mean either death or disgrace in slow increments, for Dett is most excellent in political maneuverings-far, far better than Lorn.

In the darkness, Lorn takes out the chaos-glass and sets it on the desk before him. His head still aches slightly from the use of the glass in the late afternoon, but he would see Ryalth and Kerial a last time before he casts his fate to chaos.

When the silver mists part, he watches the sleeping pair only for a few moments before he releases the image. He would not disturb their sleep.

While the chaos-glass will be in its wooden case in his saddlebags, he doubts he will have either the time or privacy to use it-but for an extended campaign he dares not leave it behind, either, not with Dettaur watching everything he does.

There is one more thing that will accompany him-Ryalth’s ancient silver-covered book. He holds the volume for a time before opening it, wondering not for the first time how her mother came to have it, and whether it means, as he believes, that she is nearly as much of a child of the Magi’i as he is. He laughs, softly, for the Magi’i will claim neither of them.

Then he pages through to see if any of the ancient verses call up echoes of what he feels, looking out at darkness and an uncertain future. He finds one, whose words strike him in a different way, as they often do, when his choices and circumstances have changed. He reads aloud, softly, to himself.

We stand in a world we did not know, reaping lives and deaths we did not sow. Some reach for roses of another place, a world beyond chaos in time and space. Some raise copper blades, strangely graced, to destroy new truths that cannot be faced.

Chaos is, as the river and the hills, and I will live my life as chaos wills, for Mirror Towers have fallen from the skies, and venerated truths become but lies when held as orders from our ill-starred past, talismans to recall what cannot last.

To build what must be built, and raise new halls, to guard what must be held in shining walls, to slay the demons of unreasoning hate- all those, and more, have come to be my fate.

Do I regret the stars that cast me here? No more than knowing life is fragile, dear and fleeting, or that my words die unread, for words cannot contain what souls have said.

“ ‘Words cannot contain what souls have said…’ ” Lorn muses, nodding to himself.

His eyes drift back up to another phrase-“demons of unreasoning hate.” There are so many who hate so fiercely that it is beyond reason, from the barbarians to Dettaur to those Lorn does not even know. The ancient writer had said his fate was to slay such. But the other poems had revealed the man’s sensitivity-and Lorn is not unaware of the irony of slaying demons of hate. Where each demon is slain, more hate is raised, yet hate unchecked also multiplies, and love alone will not brook hatred that holds a blade.

“So you will raise a greater blade?” Yet he has searched and can find no other choices, not that are open to him, in this world, at this time, for doing what others will is death indeed. And doing what others will is not the way to save Cyad so that what it stands for will continue to shine out. He finds another page and reads the concluding stanza.

Merage, altage, elthage, all bow to thee,

from Rational unity come these three,

and neither chaos, nor the lance, nor gold

shall seize this city of the stars foretold,

for Cyad holds the fate of all this earth,

and all of soul and skill that is of worth.

So shine forth both in sun and into night

bright city of prosperity and light.

He looks into the darkness for a long time before he stands and then walks to his bedchamber where he places both the silver-covered book and the chaos-glass in the saddlebags he will carry in the morning.

LX

With his saddlebags over his left shoulder, Brystan sabre at his belt, lancer sabre and map scrolls in his left hand, Lorn looks at Nesmyl. “You have a half-squad, and the cooks and other staff. I wish it could be more, but we will need every man.”

“Many be the lancers who would have given much to see what I see, ser. It be long past time that the raiders be bearded in their lands. I’d almost be wishing I be with you, ser,” replies the slightly bent senior lancer. His smile is crooked. “Almost.”

“Times have changed, Nesmyl, and we must change with them.” Lorn gestures toward the study. “If Majer Dettaur should arrive here, not that I expect him, you can tell him that, in accord with his wishes, I have all the companies on patrol in order to better protect the lands and people of Cyador.”

“That I will, ser. That I will.”

“I suggest closing at least the inner gates, once we ride out.”

“That I had considered already, ser.”

“Do you have any last questions?”

“This be not a question… but… ser… should you bring back much booty and success, best you take it and lay it at the feet of the commander at Assyadt.”

“If… if we are so fortunate…” Lorn nods a last time and walks to the door, and then out into the gray light of a sunless morning just after dawn. His boots carry him across the courtyard to the stable, where Hasmyr has the white gelding waiting for him.

“There be a small pouch of grain there, ser. Most you dare carry. Try to find such for all the mounts, as you can.”

“I will,” says Lorn as he fastens his gear behind the saddle, then checks the firelance and his water bottles. His eyes go to the spare mounts, which carry another score of spare firelances, few enough for the forces he has mustered.

He mounts and then rides across the paving stones of the courtyard toward the most junior undercaptain, Quytyl.

“Ser?”

“How’s the arm?”

“Still a touch stiff, ser, but strong.”

“Good,” Lorn says, even as he doubts the young officer’s words. “Fifth Company will be second for now, behind Third Company.” While he had given the order the day before, he wants to reemphasize it.

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn checks with each of the other officers, then rides to the front of the column where Emsahl and Third Company are formed up. “Let’s go.”

“Yes, ser.” Emsahl raises his arm, then drops it.

The sound of hoofs on stone fills the courtyard, and the road to the inner gates, as six companies ride out from Inividra.

The early morning remains gray, with high thin clouds and a light but warm breeze out of the southwest, as the column turns toward the road to Jerans. Lorn looks backward at Inividra, where two older lancers close the inner gates-an outpost empty except for Nesmyl, the cooks, and less than a halfscore of lancers.

Neither for the first time, nor the last, Lorn suspects, he wonders if he can manage to accomplish what he plans.

From what he had seen in the glass the afternoon before, and again early in the morning, the only barbarians stirring are those to the northeast, far closer to Syadtar. That makes some sense, because the later snows, the spring snows, had fallen more to the west, but the roads are muddy in only a handful of places, and the barbarians appear involved either in planting or dealing with their flocks and other spring farming or herding tasks.

Lorn squares his shoulders and studies the road ahead.

LXI

Lorn continues to wear his oiled white-leather winter jacket, but leaves it open for the hint of breeze that occasionally rises. He is warm, but not quite sweating, as he rides northwest on the narrow trail-like road that leads out of the Grass Hills. The high clouds have remained with the Cyadoran forces for all three days since they have ridden out of Inividra, but the rain has been light and intermittent. None has fallen on the Cyadoran forces since shortly after dawn, but mist rises off the hills to the northwest, where the warmish rain has been melting the last of the snows. Roughly five kays beyond those hills, if his maps are correct, lies the first barbarian town on his route through Jerans.

Lorn rides at the head of the column, beside Emsahl, on a road which is damp clay, but with few puddles or muddy sections. Directly behind them is Emsahl’s senior squad leader, and the junior squad leader for Third Company’s first squad.

“We’re headed away from Clynya, are we not, ser?” asks Emsahl.

“The raiders who strike Assyadt come from the northwest, mostly from the towns along the branches of the River Jeryna,” Lorn says. “That’s where we’re headed.”

“You’ve been planning this for a time, ser.” Emsahl’s words are a statement.

“At least since Rhalyt asked why we just sat and watched.” Lorn frowns as he studies the hills. “The first town ought to be on the far side over there, through that odd-looking pass. There’s a stream on the other side, the first real one north of the Grass Hills.”

“You know you were coming to Inividra, ser?” asks the older captain.

“I knew I’d be sent somewhere to fight barbarians,” Lorn answers.

“You’ve been collecting maps and stuff on the barbarians for a long time. Have to be, with all you know.”

“When you’re not born a Mirror Lancer, you know you’ll fight barbarians,” Lorn points out. “It makes sense to learn as much as you can.”

“Folks don’t always do what makes sense.”

“True enough.” Lorn laughs. “Let’s hope that what the scouts find makes sense as well.”

The bearded Emsahl grunts an assent.

Still, it is midmorning before Lorn sees the scouts riding toward them. He turns toward the captain. “Emsahl, would you have one of your lancers summon the officers?”

“Yes, ser.” The older captain turns in the saddle. “Dwyt, send a messenger. Majer wants the officers quick-like.”

“We’ll rein up here, and let the men stand down for a bit.” Lorn turns in the saddle. “Companies! Halt!”

“Companies halt!” The orders echo back down the long column while Lorn rides forward another fifty cubits or so to wait for the scouts.

Emsahl rides up to join him, followed by the other officers, one by one, coming as they do from farther back in the column. Gyraet, bringing up the rear with Sixth Company, is the last to rein in his mount with the others, only moments before the two scouts arrive.

“Go ahead and report,” Lorn says.

“Yes, ser,” offers the square-bearded and older lancer scout. “We took the back side of the hills, ser, like you ordered, and looked down. There be no one even looking at the roads. Men in the fields are plowing, and others be doing ditchwork and such.”

“How many people?”

“Twentyscore, I’d judge, from the dwellings, but that be including women and children.”

“Probably eightscore men of all ages,” Lorn muses aloud. “The ditch-work is along the river?”

“Yes, ser.”

“The far side?”

The younger scout nods. “Mayhap a halfscore there, could be a few more.”

“Are there many herders or others farther out in the fields?”

“Could be some. Didn’t see any, ser.”

“What about flocks or herds?”

“None more ‘n kay from the town, then, ser.”

“Thank you. If you’d stand down for a few moments…” As the scouts move away, Lorn dismounts, almost slipping on the damp clay, and waits for the others to do likewise, and for the scouts and two other lancers to hold their mounts. Then he unrolls the map and hands one side to Rhalyt to hold while he points out the landmarks and begins to explain. “Here’s the town. The road comes in here. There are the ditches, and here’s the center of the town. Rhalyt-your company crosses the stream at the ford here, and heads east. Your task is to take out all the men working on the ditch. Use sabres or short bursts, and make it quick. Then come back down the road to the north of the ditches. You can kill any man old enough to bear a blade, but don’t touch the women or the children.”

“Yes, ser.”

“We’ll also send one company around the town to the road that leads northwest. That company will be Second Company.” Lorn looks at the young captain Esfayl. “Your task is to make sure no one rides out of the town-no one. We don’t want word being spread that we’re here-at least not if we can help it. You ride west on this side of the river-there’s a lane ahead, I think, and then cross the stream and hold the road west out of the town.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn looks at Gyraet. “Captain-you’ll stay with the main body until we reach the crossroads here on the other side of the ford. Then you take the lane out this way, to the north, and sweep through that area.”