Scion of Cyador (33 page)

“First Company, first squad, forward and discharge lances at will!” orders Lorn.

Lorn can almost sense the Jeranyi puzzlement as a single squad rides out from the Cyadoran forces, then angles toward the center of the Jeranyi line.

I Hsst! Hsst!… Perhaps twoscore firebolts rake the front riders of the Jeranyi. Lorn watches carefully, and he sees no more than half a score of those bolts hit before the first squad from Rhalyt’s company rides back to its position on the right flank.

“First Company, second squad!”

Lorn watches closely as more firebolts slash the Jeranyi. This time, close to a score hit the defenders, and he can sense the movement among the barbarian riders. “Emsahl… Cheryk… Third and Fourth Companies- squads to four-abreast. Stand ready to charge.”

“Third Company…”

“Fourth Company…

Esfayl’s voice rises above those of the senior captains. “Second Company, first squad, forward!”

“Fifth and Sixth Companies! Four-abreast! Stand ready to charge!” Lorn orders.

Esfayl’s first squad has no more than begun to discharge firebolts when the entire Jeranyi line begins to move forward, slowly, then into a full gallop. After but a few steps, the Jeranyi have become a ragged line with no cohesion.

Even before the movement is readily apparent, the veteran Cyadoran captains are issuing their orders. “Forward! Discharge at will!”

“Concentrate the firelances on the riders with the axes!” Lorn orders. “Firelances on the axes!”

“Firelances on the axes!”

Dust lifts from the road and from the recently-tilled narrow fields flanking it, as the larger Cyadoran force knifes toward the outnumbered Jeranyi.

Lorn forces himself to hold back slightly, not to be in the absolute front of the line, but he still drops two Jeranyi with his firelances, and easily ducks under a clumsy blade to dispatch a third Jeranyi with his Brystan sabre. As he wheels the gelding, he realizes that the battle, if it could be called such, is almost over.

Half the Jeranyi have been wounded or downed before they reached the Cyadoran lancers, and half of those remaining are felled by the more experienced Mirror Lancers within moments. The others are so outnumbered that is not long before they, too, lie across the road and fields.

As he rides through the dust already settling in the early afternoon, toward his captains, Lorn frowns. Are the only barbarians who can fight, those who live on the edge of the Grass Hills?

“More like a slaughter.” Cheryk is shaking his head as he watches the sub-majer ride up.

“Send out the scouts. Let’s make sure it’s not a trap,” Lorn orders. “And set up two of the companies for attack in case another force arrives. Third and Fourth!”

“Yes, ser.”

“Sixth Company, guard the road behind us!”

“Quytyl! Have your men collect the blades and dispatch their wounded.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn remains mounted, studying the road and the areas beyond, but the only riders who finally near the Cyadorans are the scouts, riding along the road from the pass that leads down into Berlitos.

Lorn gestures for Emsahl, Cheryk, Esfayl, and Gyraet to join him, and the four captains ride over and rein up beside Lorn.

“Go ahead,” Lorn tells the lancer scout.

“There be a few folk on the bridge, ser, but it be like no one even knew we fought. We looked down, and the wagons are moving by the river, and a rider or two be on the roads, mayhap a carriage.”

Lorn shakes his head and looks over the captains. “Let’s take the town as we planned. Esfayl… the bridge. Third and Fifth Companies-the square, Fourth and Sixth-the wharf area. First Company on me.”

With a wry smile, Lorn realizes that Rhalyt and his men are assisting Quytyl. “I think we need to tell the undercaptains.” He turns the gelding and rides northward toward what had been the right flank of the Cyadoran formation.

“Ser?” asks Rhalyt.

“You lose anyone?”

“One man, ser. One of those axes.”

“What about their weapons?”

“There aren’t any sabres. A few axes, but most are the big iron blades.”

“All right. The scouts say the town is undefended. We’re going down, and First Company will follow me.”

“Yes, ser.”

“I’m going to tell Quytyl his orders, and then I’ll be back.”

Rhalyt nods as Lorn eases the gelding more northward until he reins up beside the other undercaptain who is watching as two lancers fasten blades to a captured mount.

“We didn’t lose anyone, ser,” Quytyl announces. “Two wounded, though.”

“Badly?”

“One won’t be fighting.”

“Can he ride and watch the pack animals? They both should.” Quytyl nods.

“You’ll be working with Emsahl to take the square-same as the last big town, Disfek or whatever it was. So, as soon as you’re finished, form up your men in column behind Third Company.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn turns, then rides back toward Rhalyt and First Company. He blots his forehead and under his eyes. Each day seems hotter, as if they were nearing midsummer, even though it is but early spring.

“Ready to ride, ser,” announces Rhalyt as Lorn nears.

A lancer rides up almost simultaneously and announces, “Captain Gyraet says Sixth Company is ready to ride, ser.”

“We’ll be riding shortly,” Lorn temporizes, his eyes and chaos-senses still surveying the field and the trees beyond. While nothing feels exactly wrong, it does not feel right, either, and Lorn finds himself pursing his lips.

Once the Cyadorans have re-formed and ride along the road that winds between two forested Mils, and then down the steeper grade toward Berlitos itself, Lorn continues to survey the hills, both with his eyes and chaos-senses, despite the double number of scouts before the main force. Neither he nor the scouts find any armsmen on the descent.

The first dwelling the Mirror Lancers reach on the outskirts of Berlitos, not quite before the road levels out, is set in a grove of sweetsap trees, and is long and narrow, with ancient and heavy crosstimbers framing and bracing the door. The shutters are equally heavy, and old, and fastened tight. What looks to be a small stable is barred equally firmly.

“Be hard to break in there,” observes Rhalyt.

Lorn does not comment, but wonders why a town with houses built so sturdily has armsmen so inept. Or are the houses sturdy for that reason? He suspects he will never know.

At the base of the hill, Esfayl takes Second Company northward to secure the bridge-a long and narrow stone-and-brick structure that angles from one island in the placid North Branch to another, and then to a stone pylon set in shallower water, before turning again and rising slightly to a low bluff on the northwest side.

The bridge is empty so far as Lorn can see.

The remaining five companies ride westward along the wide dirt road, leaving the empty bridge for Esfayl.

Unlike the dwellings they have seen elsewhere, those in Berlitos are all of wood, timbered dwellings painted bright colors and resting under more trees than Lorn has seen since he had been assigned to the Accursed Forest years before.

“Sturdy dwellings,” observes Rhalyt.

“We might be able to burn this town, but I don’t think we want to take it house by house,” Lorn says.

“If that’s the way they fight, do we need to burn it?” asks Rhalyt.

Lorn does not answer as he urges the gelding in the direction of the town square, past more of the barricaded dwellings and outbuildings. All the noise, all the dust, comes from the lancers. The dwellings are silent.

As the companies enter the town square, Lorn gestures to Cheryk. “Go on to the warehouses and the wharf! First Company and I will meet you there.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn reins up and surveys the town square. In the center of the square is a six-sided brick-faced platform roughly fifty cubits on a side. The sides are a cubit-and-a-half above the dirt and clay of the road that circles the platform. There is no railing, and no discernible purpose for the platform. The buildings around the square are all heavy, two-story timbered structures- like the rest of Berlitos, seemingly impregnable without the Mirror Lancers spending forever battering their way in.

“Have the company hold here,” Lorn tells Rhalyt before riding toward Emsahl. The sub-majer can see a chandlery, a cooper’s shop, a weaver’s, perhaps a fuller’s, before he reaches the senior captain. Lorn reins up and glances at Emsahl.

Emsahl shrugs.

“The wood here is old,” Lorn ventures.

“It will burn.”

“Burn it. Use torches,” Lorn commands. “As much of the square as you can, then ride your companies to the bridge.” Part of Lorn’s command is out of pique, and part is out of a feeling that the Jeranyi must not be allowed to think they can hide behind heavy walls and mock Cyador.

“Yes, ser. Probably the best way to handle this place.”

“I’m taking First Company to the wharfs. We’ll meet you at the bridge.”

“Torches!” Emsahl orders as Lorn turns back to Rhalyt and First Company.

“Ser?” asks the undercaptain.

“We’ll ride to the wharfs-it’s only a half a kay south.”

“First Company!” Rhalyt orders. “Forward…”

Lorn looks at the buildings beyond the square. They, too, are massive timber structures-massive and old.

Unlike the buildings in the town square, the doors to the three warehouses that stand behind the river wharfs are all open, and lancers are carting out some provisions-and blades.

Gyraet rides to meet Lorn. “The warehouses here are mostly empty, ser. Doors were open. Not a soul here. Some wool, some hides, some barrels of oils, a halfscore of barrels of salted meat.”

“And no traders?”

Gyraet shakes his head. “They left some blades-almost tenscore, but there are no records, and it doesn’t look like there were any.”

“Any more cupridium sabres?”

“A score, perhaps.”

“We’ll keep those, and I want you and the captains to sign a paper saying that we found and dumped into the river the other ninescore blades. Actually, we’d better list all the blades we’ve dumped, from the first town onward.” Lorn’s lips twist. “Then… have a half-squad ride over to the bridge-Esfayl should have it in hand-and one of the lancers should use a weighted rope to find the deepest point off the bridge.”

“Yes, ser.”

This time there were blades, but no records.

“Emsahl is firing the square, and the buildings around it will catch fire soon. Can you finish here quickly?” asks Lorn. “Use torches to fire the warehouses.”

Gyraet laughs. “We’re near finished already. Not that much here.”

“Good. Let me know when your company and Cheryk’s are ready to ride.”

Lorn turns his mount, back toward the town square. As he looks northward, in the direction of thin lines of black smoke and the fires that will rage before long, and toward the bridge he cannot see, the bridge that will lead to Jera, Lorn is not even sure they have taken Berlitos so much as killed some inept armsmen, ridden through the place, looted and burned a few warehouses and the center of the town and ridden on. He wonders whether he is making an enormous mistake in pushing on toward Jera.

Yet the weapons have to come from somewhere, and go to someone who can use them, and he has to stop the easy flow of blades. If he can.

He shakes his head.

LXVI

To the south of the bivouac, the River Jeryna runs smoothly, its now-deep waters dark in the twilight. Somewhere out in the camp, Lorn can hear the twirrrp… of another of the ubiquitous traitor birds scolding some lancer. A few spring insects chirp down by the river bank, and in the greenish purple sky, stars are beginning to appear.

Lorn opens his saddlebags, and his fingers slide over the cool surface of the silver-covered book of verse. Even in the warm evening, after a hot day’s ride, with the sun pounding down on the saddlebags, the book is cool. For a moment, his fingers rest on the cool surface, and he thinks of Ryalth-and Kerial.

A faint smile comes to his lips.

Then, with a long slow breath, he extracts the soap he will take down to the river, and closes the saddlebag. His eyes lift into the clear night sky, seeking stars he cannot identify, for there is no chart of which are-or were-the Rational Stars.

Had the ancient writer felt as Lorn did, looking back as the smoke and flames engulfed the forested town of
Berlitos? Had that ancient wondered why he had to do what he did? Had he asked himself what difference his actions would make?

Lorn drops his eyes from the faint stars of twilight and laughs, a soft bitter sound, but loud enough for himself.

Of course the ancient writer had wondered. That is why so many of the verses are melancholy, why so many convey a sense of futility.

Lorn shakes his head. He can but do what he feels best, and he knows that blades coming from elsewhere to Jera are killing lancers for no good reason except to fuel and justify ancient hates-and perhaps to fatten the purses of traders who care little for the men whom their trades kill.

LXVII

In the morning light, the brown waters of the River Jeryna swirl through the bushes half-submerged at the water’s edge. Farther offshore, the currents occasionally show eddies and whirlpools that appear and disappear, but there is no white water on the lower reaches of the river, just a muddy expanse of brown a good two hundred kays wide and thirty deep. By looking along the river that flows to his left, Lorn can see touches of gray-blue on the horizon-the
Northern
Ocean
.

If his maps and calculations are correct, they are within ten kays of Jera, and before long they should be seeing increasing numbers of steads and dwellings. He shifts his weight in the gelding’s saddle and glances back along the river road at the column of Mirror Lancers, then back at the road before him. A grassy swale drops away on the right side, then rises into a long grassy slope for grazing-but there are no sheep or cattle anywhere to be seen.

As Lorn rides around the sweeping curve that brings the road to the right and more northward, he sees another of the stone-and-rail fences to the right of the river road, but all is still as the Cyadoran column rides toward the fence and the buildings behind it.