Scion of Cyador (35 page)

Lorn nods. “I’m sorry. But we couldn’t leave them here to provide a guard for more shipments of blades.”

“No, ser. Not after all we’ve done.”

Esfayl eases his mount toward Lorn. “Ser?”

“Are your men in order?”

“Yes, ser.”

“I’d like you to find as much lamp oil as you can,” Lorn orders. “Around here, if you can. Bring some of it to the long pier out there, and some to the warehouses.”

Esfayl raises his eyebrows.

“We’re going to burn the piers before we leave.” Lorn mouth twists into the smile he dislikes. “It’s harder to land blades if you have to bring them in by boat. And the warehouses, once we take anything we need.”

Gyraet rides up. “We’re going through the nearer warehouse, ser. Spidlarian, looks like.”

“See what you can find, quickly, and records, if you can.” Lorn looks back at Emsahl. “Can you and Fifth Company stand guard while we do what has to be done?”

“Yes, ser.”

“We’ll try to be quick.”

Lorn rides back along the seawall. In a way, he feels ineffectual, for it seems as though all he has done is ride back and forth.

Rhalyt’s lancers are escorting a bearded figure in crimson from the foot of the pier toward the front of the last warehouse, a three-story timber structure that still flies the ensign of Hamor. The trader’s hands are bound behind him, and there is a slash across his cheek.

“We got him, ser, and some others who might be traders.”

“Hold him there, and don’t let him near the warehouse.” Lorn rides toward the foot of the pier, and the abandoned handcart filled with footchests, where he dismounts, absently handing the gelding’s reins to the nearest lancer. He steps to the handcart, and the chests, then notes the heavy leather bags beneath the footchests. He leans forward and manages to wrench one free. The weight and sound of coins confirm his suspicions. He motions to Rhalyt, who has remained mounted.

“Ser?”

“We’ll need a guard here. Several.”

Lorn looks back at the four chests, then lifts the top one and opens it, running through the papers. He shakes his head. They will need a wagon. It will take more time than he dares take in Jera to sort through the records.

“Rhalyt,” he calls again. “We need to find a wagon to carry this, and any supplies we can use. See if you can have one of the squad leaders round up one and some team horses.”

Rhalyt nods.

Lorn remounts the gelding and looks out into the harbor, where the Hamorian trader has also spread its sails. He shakes his head again, then rides the short distance to the end warehouse, the Hamorian one. He dismounts and ties the gelding to a post by the door. Rhalyt also dismounts and follows him.

In the front room are open wooden cases, one is half-filled with long dark iron blades, coated with oil and wax. The other nine cases have not been opened.

Lorn counts the blades in the open case-over a score. “It looks like there are over twentyscore blades just here.”

Two lancers slip in, and Rhalyt motions to the door. “Best you check the rooms before the majer.”

The graying veteran nods and steps through the doorway. After several moments, he returns. “No one there, ser.”

Lorn and Rhalyt enter the storage section of the warehouse. Some of the racks are empty, but most of the goods have been left in the warehouse. Lorn sees bolts of cotton, amphorae which may contain olives or oils, barrels of dried fish, dried fruits, even some barrels of clay from Biehl.

“Ser!” Rhalyt gestures.

Lorn rejoins the undercaptain, before whom are two wooden cases, each lettered in a grayish greaselike paint: sabres, cup., 2 sc., Smdck.

“Fourscore lancer-type sabres-made from cupridium,” Lorn says. “We’ll need to take these back. We’ll have to cart them and the other blades out front.”

Lorn steps back out from the storage area into the side room where his glass had shown that records had been kept, but the room is bare except for a flat table and a chair. Marks in the floor dust show where chests had been.

“Ser,” calls one of the lancers, “Captain Esfayl is here with a wagon.”

Lorn hurries out into the still-hazy afternoon sun. Two lancers stand by the bound trader, and beyond them, Esfayl is mounted beside a four-horse team. The large wagon behind the team carries eight huge barrels of lamp oil. Esfayl grins at Lorn. “We got the oil, ser.”

Lorn grins back, momentarily. “We’ll use six on the pier, and one each for the two large warehouses. There’s oil in this one, anyway. Have your men space the barrels evenly along the piers-one at the outermost end. Put a small hole in each and roll them in so that the oil spreads over the wood. Then, I’ll go out and set them afire.”

Esfayl nods.

“We’ll use the wagon for the blades and the coins and supplies-and the records we’ve gathered. Leave it here so Rhalyt’s men can load it.”

As the lancers begin to unload the barrels and roll them along the rough cobblestones toward the pier, Lorn turns to the Hamorian trader. “You seem to have a prosperous warehouse here-especially in blades.”

The Hamorian trader, his hands tied behind him, spits on the cobblestones. “You are a worthless piece of dung… a man whose mind is as narrow as the lance you carry.”

“If I didn’t need you to deliver a message… you’d be dead,” Lorn says quietly. “I might burn off your right hand, though, if you aren’t silent.”

The trader closes his mouth, and his eyes radiate hate.

“Cyador doesn’t like Hamorian traders making golds off blades that kill its lancers.” Lorn fixes his eyes on the trader. “Think long about why we’re here. We’re going to leave you here. Someone will find you, I’m sure, and you can explain everything.”

The bearded trader looks down.

“Oh, I know you won’t explain it to the locals.” Lorn laughs. “They might cut your throat. But you’re going to have to explain it to your backers, and perhaps to the Emperor of Hamor.” He shrugs. “You might get away with not telling them… until the Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers conveys the same message to the Hamorian traders in Cyad. He might even mention that you’d been told.” Lorn offers a nasty smile.

“I will convey your message, but you are but an impetuous young majer, and you will change nothing,” the trader says slowly. “Lancers come, and lancers go, and nothing changes.”

“I won’t change the hearts of traders,” Lorn admits. “You’ll always place a gold above a life… but I just might change where you trade for those golds.”

The bearded trader looks down.

“Tie up his legs and leave him on the edge of the seawall, out of the way. And have someone check all those bags, for golds or trading records.” Lorn walks to the gelding, where he pulls out the firelance. Then, carrying it carefully, he makes his way out to the end of the long and spindly pier… setting his boots carefully on the slippery wood. At the end, he looks out to the
Northern
Ocean
, but both trading vessels have vanished into the limitless gray-blue expanse.

He turns and lowers the lance. Hssst! From the small firelance-bolt flames lick upward and across the wooden planks. Lorn walks back toward the shore. He uses the firelance nearly a halfscore of times, although much of the chaos comes from what he draws as a magus, and his head aches, and his eyes water by the time he steps off the end of the pier. The seaward end is already a raging blaze, and the sea breeze carries the heat inward.

“The warehouses… they’re ready,” Rhalyt calls. “We’ve also got the chests and bags in the wagon, and some dried meat and hard cheese-and the boxes of sabres. We can’t fit all those blades in the first wagon.”

“Let’s see if your squad leaders can find another.” Lorn tilts his head. “Did your men make sure they got oil on the wall timbers as well? And everyone’s out of the warehouse?”

“Yes, ser.”

After three firelance-bolts, one side of the warehouse is in flames, and the crackling orange flames and black smoke rise into the hazy afternoon sky.

Lorn has Rhalyt repeat the process with the warehouse of the Spidlarian traders.

Then he gathers the captains. “Now we’ll move toward the city square closest and up the hill. Bring torches. Keep saving the firelances. We’re going to burn anything else that will burn as we leave,” Lorn orders the captains. “I want it to be a long, long time before traders can make golds bringing blades here.”

He remounts the gelding and waits as the Mirror Lancers re-form, and as the three wagons that they have gathered are lined up. Behind him the flames mount-because the traders will stop at nothing to gain golds, and he has but one chance to halt their killing trade.

LXVIII

In the late afternoon, Lorn glances downriver and back at the clouds of black-and-gray smoke that have drifted across both the river and the harbor, the result of the flames that continue to consume the city that had been Jera. With all the trees and the old wooden structures, with few of stone or brick, Lorn doubts much will remain by morning. The decaying port town had been little more than a collection point for Hamorian and Spidlarian traders to drop off arms… but it doubtless had been home to many, who will suffer from his actions. Some are innocent, insofar as anyone who benefits from living in a city that prospers from trade in killing implements is innocent.

His eyes go to the rear of the column and the wagons that creak after the Mirror Lancers. The first wagon is filled with chests containing golds and silvers, more than five thousand golds at rough count, and all sorts of trading records that Lorn must read. The second holds weapons-Hamorian longswords and Brystan sabres-as well as the cases of unused and recently-forged cupridium sabres clearly forged in Cyad-without lancer markings. The third holds provisions, as do the packhorses that bring up the rear.

Once he returns to Inividra, Lorn will recommend that the fireships of Cyad-those remaining-land lancers, and rebuild the town as a Cyadoran colony. Controlling the River Jeryna will choke off an easy supply of weapons to the Jeranyi, and holding one town will be far less costly than facing endless lines of barbarians across the north of Cyador.

He smiles to himself. Again, he is thinking as though he had real power to do or recommend such. While his efforts have been somewhat successful, he has no doubts that he will face severe disciplinary action-assuming he can even return to Inividra with most of his forces. Yet, as always, his real choices have been limited.

“Strange city,” ventures Quytyl, riding beside him.

“In many ways,” muses Lorn. “The warehouses near the pier were new, built over the ruins of older buildings. There were abandoned buildings, and the armsmen were Hamorian.” He shakes his head.

“Why were the Hamorians there?” asks Quytyl.

“Trade, golds… it’s almost as if they were starting to take over the city.”

“Could they? It’s a long voyage from Swartheld to Jera, isn’t it?”

“They held part of it,” Lorn points out. “Those records will tell. I’ll have to read through them before we get back.”

After several moments of silence, he glances back once more at the gray-and-black smoke that still rises from the burning city.

They have another eightday, at least, of riding, and fighting, to return to Inividra. While Lorn can “inspect” a few firelances, and add some chaos, his energies are limited, compared to the number of lances. As with everything, what he can do is limited.

Lorn shakes his head slowly.

LXIX

To the west of the road are two fields-the first Lorn has seen in almost half a day of riding along the West Branch of the Jeryna River. The neatly tilled fields, with but shoots of green appearing, are separated by a hedgerow of thorny roses, with irrigation ditches running from the river to the fields. On a low hill on the far side of the southernmost field is a dwelling, its walls of odd-shaped rocks mortared together. Both fields and ditchworks are empty under the hot spring sun that blisters through the green-blue sky of midday.

Lorn glances from the fields to the dusty road and then to the narrow river to his left, really a large stream that is no more than fifty cubits wide and perhaps five deep, just deep enough to make easy crossing difficult.

He squints as he sees the dust on the road ahead-the scouts returning, and returning in haste, a good sign that trouble lies ahead. With a long, slow deep breath he waits.

“Trouble, looks like,” offers Cheryk, who leads the Cyadoran forces with Fourth Company.

“The last few days have been too calm,” Lorn agrees. “We’re getting closer to the Grass Hills, and if there’s going to be a real attack, here’s where it’s likely to be.”

“Jerans is a strange place,” Cheryk observes. “It’s almost like the barbarians aren’t a part of it. But the Jeranyi are sending weapons.”

“Someone is,” Lorn temporizes.

The two officers ride in silence, waiting for the pair of scouts.

“Ser! Barbarians ahead!” calls the lead scout from a good fifty cubits away.

Lorn motions for them to ride beside him, then waits until they turn and draw abreast.

“There’s a raiding party of sorts riding up from the east on the other side of the river, ser, like they knew we were here,” reports the balding scout. “They be heading toward the ford.”

“How many?”

“Fourscore. Could be a bit less.”

“We’re back in true barbarian territory.” Lorn smiles.

“About how far to the ford?”

“Four kays, I’d say.” Those words come from the younger, ginger-bearded scout. “Could be a bit more.”

“We’ll probably stand down and water the mounts here, then ride on. Go on back to where you can watch the ford. Let us know if they cross early or if they don’t cross.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn looks at Cheryk. “I’ll need all the officers. Tell everyone to stand down and water the mounts now. We may not get a chance later.”

Lorn and Cheryk rein up, then wait in the still heat of the day while Semdyl passes the word and the other officers ride forward to join them.