Magi'i of Cyador

XXI

LORN BENDS FORWARD in the saddle and pats the shoulder of the big white mare, then straightens and looks ahead along the road that curves its way between yet another set of hills. The grass that covers the hills is brown, but it does seem endless, with each hill that the detachment rides over giving way to yet another, and then another. After the first morning, for two days all Lorn and the lancers have seen are grass hills. Part of that sense of endlessness is because they are not crossing the hills directly, but angling northwest from Syadtar.

Every so often there are small copses of bushes or low trees bearing their gray winter leaves, generally along streams so small as to be almost invisible from more than a hundred cubits away. The wind is cold, but not bitter, and blows out of the northwest, almost into Lorn’s face, carrying a clear odor of wet grass and the hint of mold.

At the top of the hill on the north side of the road are two lancers Nytral has sent out as scouts. One remains reined up, watching the column of riders, while the second vanishes beyond the hill crest, shadowing and following the road from the heights as it winds generally northwest.

Lorn glances over his shoulder at the forty-odd new lancers riding behind them. Most appear painfully young, even to Lorn, and some struggle managing the firelances in the holders, even though the lances are little more than three cubits long. Lorn scarcely notices his any more.

“You ride pretty well, ser. You come from a lancer family?” asks Nytral.

Lorn turn in the saddle and looks at his squad leader. “I had to learn it on my own, Nytral. Spent a lot of extra time in officer training working with mounts. Seemed a good idea.”

Nytral frowns.

“I came from a Magi’i family. I didn’t take to being kept in a granite tower playing with chaos. The Magi’i didn’t want me dabbling in trade. So it was strongly suggested that I become a lancer.”

“Ah … being a magus family, ser …?”

“When the head of the Magi’i, who sits at the right hand of the Emperor, suggests that a young man become a lancer officer, it’s generally a good idea to agree. Besides, it got me out of the towers,” Lorn points out.

Nytral glances at Lorn. “That be making more sense, ser.”

“Because Isahl is one of the places that the barbarians always raid, and we lose a lot of lancers and officers here?”

“They tell you that, ser?”

“No.” Lorn laughs cheerfully. “They sent me here.”

Nytral shivers and looks away.

Lorn shrugs. Best that Nytral knows Lorn’s background early on, and understands that Lorn doesn’t intend for it to bother him, or adversely affect him. He turns and studies the riders behind him again. Then he turns his mount and rides back along the column, looking at each lancer as he passes.

Only a handful meet his amber eyes.

Near the end of the column, where the wagons rumble along, he turns the mare again, and lets her keep pace so that he rides beside the lead teamster.

“How are the wagons going?” he calls.

“Be fine, ser,” answers the gray-bearded lancer with the crossed green sheaves on his sleeves, his right hand on the leather leads for the four-horse team. “A mite heavier than I’d like, but the roads stay dry, for another day, and all be well.”

Lorn nods, raises his hand, and urges the mare back toward the front of the column, riding almost on the shoulder of the road and letting her move just slightly faster than the lancers, so that he can study each as he rides past, without seeming to do so.

When he reaches the front of the column, the road has begun to curve between yet another set of hills, and Lorn can see that it slopes gently upward at an angle along a ridge that extends a kay or more both east and west.

“Have to climb this one, ser.”

Lorn nods as he eases the mare closer to the squad leader’s mount.

“Sent out another pair of scouts,” Nytral says quietly. “Been a few attacks here,’cause you can’t see the road.”

Lorn follows Nytral’s gesture. A pair of scouts has reined up at the ridge crest, where they pause before one turns his mount and rides down the road at a quick trot.

“Trouble …” mumbles Nytral. “Knew it!”

The scout has barely reined up before the words of his report tumble out. “Barbarians, ser. On the rise a kay northeast of the top there.”

Lorn glances past the scout at the half-kay of road that remainsbefore the first of the column reaches the crest. “How fast are they moving?”

“They’re not riding, ser. They’re waiting.”

“A kay away and they’d have to ride down and then up?” asks Nytral.

“Yes, ser.”

“We’d be better to get to the top,” suggests the squad leader.

“Order it,” Lorn says.

“Quick trot! Quick trot!”

Lorn keeps the mare abreast of Nytral, letting the squad leader set the pace as the column hurries toward the ridge top, raising heavy dust that the teamsters and the trailing riders will have to breathe. After reining in the mare at the crest of the hill, beside Nytral and the two scouts, Lorn looks out, squinting against the sun that barely warms the mid-afternoon.

“Barbarians …” Nytral says. “Don’t look like raiders, but you can’t ever tell, crazy as they are.”

The score of mounted figures on the opposite hilltop are less than a kay away. The riders are bearded, with large blades in shoulder harnesses. Several have shields fastened somehow to their saddle in front of their left knees, and some have shields strapped over the bags behind their saddles.

“They won’t attack … not now,” Lorn observes.

Nytral raised his eyebrows. “With them … you never know.”

“Do they use those shields?”

“Yes, ser.” Nytral looks toward the barbarians. “They could have those out in a moment.”

“Let’s just wait and see if they do.”

Nytral turns his mount. “Form up-eight abreast. Lances ready! Four abreast. Lances ready!”

Lorn watches the barbarians as Nytral chevies the raw lancers into formation. Abruptly, the barbarians turn their mounts and begin to ride back northward along the ridge line.

“They won’t do that in the spring,” Nytral prophesies ashe turns his mount and eased up beside Lorn. “And they’ll have more.”

Lorn has few doubts about that.

“We should wait, ser. Make sure they’re well along.”

“Good idea. That will let the wagons catch up, too.”

“Wagons … wish the firewagons and the paved roads came out this far,” murmurs the squad leader. “We’d get more supplies faster.”

Lorn laughs. “No, we wouldn’t. They’d just move us farther north, then.”

“Probably right about that.” Nytral shakes his head, his eyes still on the riders headed northward.

After a moment, Lorn says, “Oh … Nytral. There’s a lancer back there, about the third back on the left. Tall fellow, but he’s swaying in the saddle. Might be sick … or something worse.”

Nytral looks at Lorn. “That be Beryt. Used to be a squad leader. He likes the malt too much, ser.”

“But he fights well out where there isn’t any ale or brew?”

Nytral smiles. “Yes, ser. One of the best.”

Lorn nods, then readjusts the white garrison cap, still watching the barbarians as they dwindle from sight.