Magi'i of Cyador

XXV

As HE HALF-LISTENS to Nytral, on yet another patrol, Lorn studies the road and the west end of the valley they are about to leave. The road curves northward, again rising into the lowest point between two hills. Directly to Lorn’s right, there is a sheep path or trail that angles eastward through two switchbacks and over the hill, probably into the next valley in what seems an endless series of hills and interlocked valleys. The cold wind is scarcely more than a breeze, but it still chills Lorn’s ears, despite the winter garrison cap with the ear-flaps.

… just can’t ever tell, ser … might be a raid now … might not be one for eightdays,” declares Nytral, as he rides beside Lorn in the chill, gray, and sunless afternoon. With the last of his words, the senior squad leader offers a shrug.

Lorn nods faintly at the phrases he has heard more than a few times over the past three eightdays, then glances northward at the sound of hoofs thudding on the frozen clay of the road. A lancer gallops southeast from the Third Company toward Lorn and Nytral, steam puffing from his mount’s nostrils.

“Never can tell, ser, but that’d be looking like a raid the scouts found.”

Not about to second-guess his senior squad leader, Lorn just keeps riding until the lancer reins up.

“Ser … there’s raiders over the hill, spoiling a herder’s place. Captain Zandrey’s orders be for your company to ride the path there, along the ridge, and then start down toward the herder’s place. Says you be making noise so as to spook’em out along the road, and that’s where he’ll be.”

“Tell Captain Zandrey that we’ll be following his orders.”

“Yes, ser.” The lancer offers a head bow, then turns his mount.

Lorn glances at Nytral, who smiles crookedly.

“Fifth Company! We’re taking that sheep trait-two abreast!” Lorn orders.

“Yes, ser!” answers Dubrez, the squad leader riding directly behind Lorn.

“I’ll ride back and tell Shofirg, ser,” offers Nytral.

Lorn nods as he guides his mount northward across the brown grass toward the trail that begins perhaps a half-kay northward of the road. The frozen brown grass crackles under the mare’s hoofs, and a few murmurs drift to Lorn on the light cold wind.

… they get the road … we climb goat paths …”

“ … leastwise … undercaptain’s up front …”

“ … supposed to be there …”

The trail is steeper and narrower than it had appeared from the road, so that the lancers ride single file. The sound of hoofs scrabbling on the frozen clay mixes with the mumbles of lancers, pitched low enough that Lorn can no longer distinguish anything but the general tone of dissatisfaction. He glances back, but the Third Company has vanished into the pass between the two hills.

The wind is stronger nearer the crest of the hill, and when Lorn finally reaches the top and is about to look down on the next valley, the chill gusts almost take his breath away. Below them the sheep path meanders downhill through a series of switchbacks to a small valley, an oval no more than two kays across at the widest point and less than four kays along its east-west length. A single clump of buildings set beside a long pond are the only sign of settlement-except for the dozen or so horsemen reined up outside the largest building, while other figures scurry around a long and narrow sod barn.

Lorn urges the mare into a slightly faster walk, the best he dares on the steep and hard ground of the path. His eyesflick from the path to the holding, and then to the line of lancers that follows him down the slope.

Nytral and Lorn have reached the second switchback on the way down the northern side of the hill when screams reach them-carried on the light wind. Lorn looks westward toward where the road enters the valley, but the undercaptain cannot see Zandrey’s company, and he wonders where the Third Company might be, since taking the road surely had to have been quicker than crossing a frozen field and then climbing and descending the hill.

One of the raiders gestures, as if to note Lorn’s company of lancers, but none of the raiders seem to stop their depredations-and another scream wavers through the chill air.

“Bastards, they are. Every last one of’em,” mumbles Nytral.

“They know we can’t reach them quickly.” Lorn still looks for Zandrey, but cannot see the Third Company anywhere. Is there a bridge down … or another group of raiders? Or is Zandrey going to let Lorn make the first attack?

As the last of the Fifth Company descends the path, finally lining up in formation, and begins its advance, the barbarians suddenly mount and begin to ride westward-away from Lorn.

“They’re running!” comes a yell from behind Lorn.

“For now,” counters Nytral. “Hold formation!”

“Hold formation!” Lorn orders as well.

As the Fifth Company reaches a flatter area of brown grass perhaps five hundred cubits south of the midpoint of the long pond, a series of flashes appears to the west-flashes of firelances.

Lorn conceals a frown. Has Zandrey been waiting beyond the low rise all along-letting the holders be killed and tortured-until Lorn charged the raiders into ambush?

“Third Company’s got’em!”

“Hold formation!” Nytral orders again.

As his Mirror Lancers near the holding itself, Lorn studies the ground, noting the closeness of the earthen dike that holds back the waters of the shallow pond, and the narrowspace between the northern end of the pond, and the steeper hills that define the northern side of the valley.

The firelances of the Third Company flash again, and amid the flashes come the screams-of mounts-not of men.

Close to half a score of the raiders wheel their mounts and turn away from Zandrey’s firelances, heading toward the northeast, as if to circle the frozen and narrow pond that extends almost a half-kay to the north, even though it was created by an earthen dike no more than four cubits high.

Lorn glances at the raiders’ course, and then at the pond, and the orders seem obvious, so obvious that his words seem ponderous and slow. “Dubrez! Take your squad around that pond! On the far side!”

“Yes, ser!” Dubrez offers Lorn the first smile the undercaptain has seen from the dour veteran.

“We’ll take this side in case they turn,” Lorn tells Nytral.

“Best send a half-score along the edge of the pond on this side,” suggests Nytral.

“It’s that shallow?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Do it!”

“Shofirg!” bellows Nytral. “Take a half-score on this side of the pond, up toward the north end.”

“Yes, ser!”

“We’ll take the rest down this side.”

Lorn, Nytral, and the remaining half-score of Shofirg’s squad quick-trot southward along the southern and western edge of the long pond. They near the holding buildings and ride toward the melee that now seems to involve all of Zandrey’s company and all the raiders except the handful that had already fled.

Suddenly, two more riders in leathers turn their mounts from the melee and begin to gallop toward the pond, heading eastward and almost directly in front of Lorn and the half squad that rides behind him. As the pair sees the small squad, they veer more toward Lorn’s right, trying to ride between the lancers and the frozen pond.

Lorn turns the mare nearly due north and urges her into agallop, half aware that Nytral and the other ten riders have fallen back momentarily.

As they race eastward, the two raiders lean forward in their saddles, yet manage to draw long blades that glisten like order death, even while spurring their mounts toward the low embankment that forms the south side of the pond. Lorn leans forward, giving the mare her head.

Both raiders rein up, and seeing the single lancer officer, turn and charge Lorn.

With a cold smile, Lorn reins up the mare. By the time she has halted, the raiders are less than a hundred cubits from him, and closing rapidly. He pulls his own firelance from the holder and levels it at the left rider of the pair.

Hssst! The reddish-white chaos-bolt bisects the barbarian chest-high.

Hssst! The second bolt takes the right shoulder and the head of the second raider.

The two raider mounts slow to a walk, as if hampered by the limp figures slumping in their saddles.

“ … order dung!”

“ … never seen an officer do that …”

Lorn hears the comments, but keeps the lance leveled for a few moments longer before flicking the fire stud to the safety position and replacing the weapon in its holder. The acrid and metallic scent of chaos fills his nostrils for a moment, then is carried off by a gust of cold wind. He turns the mare slowly as Nytral and the rest of the squad rein up. “Have someone get those mounts.”

“Ah … yes, ser.” The senior squad leader gestures. “Get the mounts!”

“Yes, ser!”

Nytral’s face is stiff, not quite pale, as he looks at his undercaptain. “Ser … that must’a been a good hundred cubits.”

“More like seventy.” Lorn knows his smile is lopsided, knows that he should have waited until the riders were closer. “Might have been a bit lucky.”

“ … once … luck … not twice …”

Nytral’s eyes go to the lancer whose voice had carried, and the eight lancers all close their mouths. The remaining two are farther east, leading back two riderless mounts.

Lorn looks to the northeast, where the flashes of firelances have died away. He gestures toward Nytral. “Let’s make sure everything’s right with Dubrez and Shofirg.”

“Follow the undercaptain!” Nytral orders.

Lorn lets the mare walk evenly back eastward along the southern side of the pond.

Dubrez and his squad are formed up at the northeast end of the iced-over pond. Shofirg and the half squad he had taken have already joined with Dubrez’s squad, and Shonrg offers a head bow to Lorn as the undercaptain nears. Lorn returns the gesture. After searching the dead raiders, several lancers mount hurriedly, without looking in Lorn’s direction.

One lancer’s saddle is empty-or rather two lancers are strapping a lancer’s body across it. Two other lancers are tying seven mounts into a tieline of sorts. Three other mounts are loping northward, the steam of their breath lost against the frosted brown of the hills.

“Stopped’em all, ser. Fought like black angels, but did’em no good.” Dubrez gestures. “Got some mounts, too. Leastwise, good for cart horses or the knackers.”

“I imagine the sub-majer will decide that,” Lorn says. “You did a good job.”

“What we’re here to do, ser.” Dubrez pauses. “Any come your way, ser?”

“Just two,” Lorn answers. “We stopped them. You and your men did the hard work.” He gestures toward the southwest. “Let’s head back to the homestead there and join up with the Third Company.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Four abreast!” orders Nytral.

“Column by fours!” echo Shofirg and Dubrez.

“Captured mounts to the rear,” adds Nytral.

For a time, the only sounds are those of the mounts’ heavy breathing and their hoofs on the frozen ground.

“Are the raiders always like that in the winter?” asks Lorn.

“Pretty much, ser,” answers Nytral. “They’ll run if they can, and fight if they can’t. In the spring and summer, they fight. Don’t ever seem to run then.”

Lorn nods, his eyes searching the area to the west, but the slight rise beyond the holding blocks any view of the Fifth Company, and there are no flashes that would indicate the use of firelances.

As they ride westward, past the dike and the end of the stock pond-if that is what it is-Lorn studies the buildings of the holding. The door of the house hangs crookedly on one iron strap hinge, and a single figure in gray lies beside the door. Lorn cannot tell whether the corpse is a man or a woman. Another dark-haired figure lies on a bale of hay beside the barn door. That figure is of a girl, one not yet a woman, all clothes ripped off her. Lorn swallows as he sees the slash across her throat. He swallows again.

As they reach the west side of the holding, beyond the barn, Lorn can see over the rise where the Third Company has formed up. Zandrey’s lancers are walking their mounts toward the holding and Lorn’s company.

As the captain sees Lorn and his company, Zandrey gestures for the Fifth Company to halt.

“Halt them,” Lorn tiredly tells Nytral.

“Company halt!” orders Nytral.

“Squad halt,” echo Shofirg and Dubrez.

Zandrey rides up toward Lorn, and Lorn continues toward the captain. Both officers rein up with less than a score of cubits between their mounts.

Lorn’s eyes are flat, cold, as he waits for the senior officer to speak.

“Good job!” booms Zandrey. “Not a one got away. Most of the time, we can’t do that with one company, and some escape.”

Lorn nods.

“You did just the right thing in charging them toward us,” Zandrey continues. “Too bad about the peasant holders, but if we’d have charged before you got down the hill, most of the raiders would have escaped.”

The wind whines, and the chill drops around Lorn. He glances up to see that, sometime during the fighting, the sun has dropped behind the hills to the west, and the cold of winter in the Grass Hills had returned.

“We’ll overnight here,” Zandrey says. “Barn’s big enough for the men, and the dwelling for us and the squad leaders.”

Lorn nods, unwilling to speak for the moment, his thoughts on the dark-haired, dead herder girl not that much younger than his own sister Myryan … and the charge that Zandrey had never considered making.