Scion of Cyador (78 page)

“Ser?” asks Esfayl.

“First, we’re going to charge and try to flame down the archers from behind. If they don’t have any pikes, we’ll run right up their backsides. They can’t be that well trained.”

“Ah… ser…”

“I’m leading the charge, and I expect everyone to be with me.”

“Yes, ser.” Esfayl smiles.

“Six-abreast, and three trailers,” Lorn orders.

“Six-abreast. Move up as needed! Lances ready!” Esfayl’s voice is tight, but clear above the muted din coming from the gently sloping way ahead.

The lancers’ mounts pick their way over and around perhaps a score of fallen greensuits, but the rear of the ever more swiftly moving phalanx is almost open. Lorn can see that Cheryk is retreating more quickly uphill and toward the Palace. Has the older captain seen Lorn’s force, and is he trying to lure Sasyk forward so that the former lancer will not check his rear? Lorn hopes so.

The halfscore of archers stands behind large mirror shields that require both arms for the guards who shield them. The archers continue to loft shafts toward the retreating lancers.

“Charge!” Lorn orders.

“Discharge at will! Short bursts!”

So occupied are the archers in lofting arrows toward the retreating lancers under Cheryk, that only two look up, initially, as Lorn and Esfayl’s single squad bears down on them.

Hssst! Hssst!

“Last rank to the rear! Last rank to the rear!” comes an order from somewhere among the green figures. Hssst!

One archer turns and tries to loose a shaft, but is transfixed by a firebolt from one of Esfayl’s lancers.

Lorn directs one burst, then two, with his own personal chaos, felling two archers immediately, then a third.

Within moments, most of the archers are down, but almost a halfscore of the green-suited shieldmen have banded together, and Lorn can see some of the pikemen trying to swing the polelike weapons to fend off Lorn’s attack.

“Now!” He digs his heels into the gelding’s flank. If they do not break the shield wall while it is forming, they will not break it at all.

“Follow the majer!”

Lorn lays chaos in all directions before him, slashing with the sabre that cuts as no blade should, and firing power-bolts from the lance. The gelding lurches, and Lorn has to fight to hold his seat even as he slashes down with the chaos-aided sabre to cut aside one shield-bearer, and then another.

“Major’s through! Widen the gap!”

The words seem to float past him as sabre and lance flare. Behind him a mount screams.

Every green tunic he sees that moves gets a bolt of chaos or a cut from the sabre, and he knows he must cut through the green tunics ahead. The tightness of Sasyk’s formation now helps, because the green-clad guards have nowhere to go, except to break formation and face the firelances and sabres before them, or risk being cut down from behind.

Lorn wheels the gelding short of the first line of pikemen still facing uphill, and begins to chaos-slash and hack his way eastward.

The disciplined phalanx has begun to disintegrate.

: “Charge!” comes the command from Cheryk, and a full company of lancers sweeps downward, chaos-bolts flaring.

Then pikes fall and the green-clad guards begin to run.

Lorn charges after three, cutting one down with his firelance, the second with the sabre, and the third with the lance.

He turns the gelding, using the short lance to knock aside a single pike, then aims it and dispatches the pikeman. He knows, somewhere, that he has no charges left in the lance, and that he is drawing chaos from where he can find it. He will pay for that-but pay he will… later… for if he does not use chaos now, there will be no “later” for him to consider.

So he rides one lane, then another, then a road, then a way, leading perhaps three lancers, perhaps four, although he does not turn to count, using sabre or chaos or both, as necessary, on fleeing forms in green.

It is midafternoon, or later, when Lorn reins up in the white stone street. He glances around, finally recognizing that he is still on Second Harbor Way West. The white granite is red-and-pink most places, those where it is not covered with blood-smeared silver shields or green tunics. Black splotches appear in places on the walls of the shops lining the street. Bodies-those of men and mounts-lie everywhere, but most are clad in green.

“Ser!”

Lorn wheels the gelding, sabre and firelance ready, but the call comes from Cheryk. The veteran rides toward Lorn slowly. “It’s over, ser.”

Lorn blinks. His eyes water, and he realizes that he can barely see, so bright are the flashes of after-chaos that flare before his eyes. His head throbs, and that will get worse, he knows. Or, rather, he will feel it more.

“Maybe a halfscore escaped. Once you broke their back… they had nowhere to go.”

Lorn nods, slowly. “You’d better send out a few men as scouts… down to the Plaza… and to the west piers. Make sure there aren’t any more armsmen forming up.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn doubts his forces could fight more than a handful of armed men after the carnage and the cost of the street battle. He winces inside, thinking about the mirror shields and pikes. How could he have missed those? On an open field, the lancers would have an advantage, but not in the streets of Cyad, and Sasyk had known that. Then, Sasyk had been a lancer, a corrupt ‘ one, but corrupt did not mean stupid. And Sasyk knew he would be working against the Magi’i and had doubtless kept himself away from the shields and pikes so that their presence would not have been detected.

Cheryk turns his mount, and Lorn just sits on the gelding, trying to watch, his eyes watering, his head splitting, letting the remaining squad leaders supervise the collecting of weapons and the stacking of bodies in the wagons someone has commandeered.

After a time, shivering in the afternoon chill, he eases his mount into the full sun as the wind rises.

“Ser…” Cheryk rides back to Lorn and reins up. “No sign of any trouble anywhere. City is quiet everywhere.”

“Everyone’s in shock,” Lorn says. “The first time ever, or since Alyiakal, when there’s been blood on the streets here.”

“Was there any other way, ser?”

“No one seemed to know it. I didn’t.” Lorn pauses. “I haven’t seen Esfayl… Did he… ?”

“Yes, ser.” Cheryk looks at Lorn. “Only six of you broke through. You slaughtered close to fourscore, but…”

“There wasn’t anything else we could do. At least, I couldn’t think of anything that would work in time.”

“Ser… you made something work that no one else could.”

“We haven’t done the task as well as any would like.” Lorn smiles raggedly. “How many of them… ?”

“Our count is rough, but the men say we took down almost twentyscore here on the streets.”

Lorn shakes his head.

“Ser… could be more.”

“Cheryk… I’d guess your count was right. There were close to tenscore on the piers, and that doesn’t count the sailors we fired with the cannon.”

“Chaos-fire, ser…” Cheryk is the one to shake his head.

“Sasyk?” Lorn asks.

“You cut him down, ser. Don’t you remember?”

“There were so many. I just went for whoever was giving the orders. It was a bloody mess breaking that phalanx.”

They both look down at the stones that are no longer white.

Lorn straightens in the saddle, conscious that his entire body aches, that his eyes water, that he has trouble seeing, and that his head is being cleft with a dull ax. “I need to report to the Majer-Commander.”

Cheryk gestures, and two pair of mounted lancers ride toward them. “Escort the majer… wherever he goes.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn rides slowly back up to Mirror Lancer Court, the four lancers he does not even know by his side. There, he dismounts by the front entrance, and hands the gelding’s reins to one of them. “If you would wait…”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn turns and trudges up the steps, ignoring the squad leaders who step away from him as he walks into the lower foyer and starts up the staircase that seems all too long.

“Ser?” Tygyl looks at Lorn as the majer reaches the topmost level and takes several deep breaths.

Lorn looks down. His uniform is stained everywhere with blood and other, less-sightly remnants of the battle. “We won. If you consider the loss of a company, the slaughter of nearly thirtyscore greensuits, and the total destruction of two good merchant vessels a victory.” He takes a deep breath. “Is the acting Majer-Commander here?”

“Yes, ser. He’s pretty weak, but he said he’d see you when you returned.” Tygyl offers a tight smile. “He said you would.”

Lorn nods slightly and turns toward the fifth-floor study that had been Rynst’s. He opens the door and steps inside.

“You can close it, Majer.” Sypcal sits in one of the armchairs in front of the desk. His feet are propped on a stool. He still wears a commander’s insignia, and the uniform collar is not tight. “You will pardon me if I do not stand.”

“I doubt you should, ser.” Lorn stops five paces back from the senior officer, and bows. “For now, we hold Cyad, and Sasyk is dead. So are almost all of his armsmen.”

Sypcal takes a long look at Lorn. “When I heard the first reports and how many armsmen Sasyk had gathered… I wasn’t sure even you could break them.”

“We almost didn’t. According to a rough count, they had thirtyscore under arms with mirror shield men, archers, and pikes.”

Sypcal smiles. “Vyanat’mer has already been here. He said that all the merchanters would accept whoever the Emperor’s testament named as heir.” Sypcal’s laugh is weak, but his eyes are bright. “He said that, thanks to the Mirror Lancers and Ryalor House, there were no dissidents left. The Traders’ Council will pick the heir to Dyjani Clan. Sasyk murdered all those next in line.”

Ryalor House? Lorn will discover that later, he fears. He decides against raising that question on a day that has raised all too many. “What about the Magi’i?”

Sypcal shakes his head once. “We have heard nothing. I doubt we will anytime soon. Possibly not until the heir is officially announced.”

“Is there any word on who that might be?”

“None. It may be that the heir named by Toziel is already dead.” Lorn winces. “Then what?”

“Then… Then, matters will become more interesting.” Sypcal coughs before speaking, and Lorn can sense the weakness in the man. “I suggest, Majer, that a half-squad of your lancers… no… I am ordering a full-squad to guard your dwelling. Go to it, and rest. We may need you and your skills again.” There is another smile. “I doubt it will be again today, and probably not tomorrow. After that… who knows?”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn bows.

“And Majer… the Mirror Lancers owe you more than they can ever repay. I tell you this because I cannot afford to have all of what you did made known. But we pay our debts. Now… get some rest.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn turns and walks slowly from the study of the Majer- , Commander.

Hoping that Sypcal can hold himself and Mirror Lancer Court together, Lorn slowly makes his way down the stairs. Several of the senior rankers make their way to the balcony railings and watch. Lorn can hear the murmurs.

“…see why… Rynst brought him here…”

“…talking to the lancers came with him… said he broke a shield wall himself… killed nearly twoscore himself, giving orders and directions the whole time… none of ‘em ever saw anything like it…”

“…don’t take on the Butcher…”

“…Butcher… maybe… but none more honest…” Lorn winces but keeps descending the white stone stairs, feeling that every eye around the open foyers is upon him.

Is that what it takes to keep Cyador from falling into anarchy? Lorn asks himself. The ability to butcher mercilessly? He laughs once, harshly. Who is he to judge, with the blood on his hands and spirit?

He mounts slowly for the ride back to the barracks… for he still has much to do before he can rest.

The sun dips below the dwellings and the hills in the west as he rides slowly back down to the harbor. Behind him, the four lancers are silent.

CLXI

Outlined in the green-maroon sky of dusk, Lorn steps down from the veranda door and into the foyer. Ryalth hurries through the archway from the sitting room, then stops, relief flooding her face.

“Thank chaos… you’re all right,” Lorn says.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she says almost at the same moment. “You’re… you’re not wounded… are you?” Ryalth looks at him, at the blood on his uniform and the tiredness in his eyes.

“Not in body.” He sees the blackness in her eyes. “I heard that there are no dissidents among the merchanters, thanks to Ryalor House. Kernys and Denys?”

She nods slowly.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks.

“I’m fine. What I did was easy.”

Again… her words are not fully true, yet he can sense the concern behind what she says… and the tiredness. “I’m not sure about that. That was why you were worried last night.”

“And about you.”

“I’m fine. Mostly,” he adds.

“You can barely stand or see, and your head is splitting.”

“How do you know?” he asks.

“I can sense that, remember?”

“Kernys and Denys?” he asks again.

“I had them over to Ryalor House, on the promise to ask for your support. Brinn and tyacl in wine. It takes about a half-day, and it is tasteless.” She takes a deep breath. “They had promised another fivescore armsmen to support Sasyk and the Dyjani Clan.” She pauses. “You look exhausted. At least come into the sitting room and sit down.”

“Where dare I sit?” Lorn glances down at his uniform. “Kerial? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. Ayleha is feeding him mashed pearapples in the kitchen.” Her lips curl into a semblance of a smile, if but momentarily. “He does take after you in that.”

“Let me get out of this uniform. I want it burned.” She but nods once more as he walks heavily toward the stairs, and up to the bedchamber, and then into the washroom, where he begins to peel off the stained and bloody tunic. “Sasyk murdered all the heirs to Dyjani House, Sypcal told me. I assume that means Husdryt and Torvyl.”