Magi'i of Cyador

LXXXIV

IN THE MID-AFRERNOON sun, Lorn stands in the stirrups to let damp trousers dry as much as to stretch his legs. As on every afternoon in the recent days nearing harvest, the few scattered clouds provide little relief from the damp heat, andthe late-day rainstorms only add more moisture to the steamy heat. Each patrol day ends with uniforms soaked in sweat, and the soil of the deadland is powder under the hoofs of the patrol mounts, rising and infiltrating boots and uniforms, and leaving every lancer’s skin dry and itchy from salt and sweat and dust.

Lorn glances to his left, along the line-abreast of lancers, riding almost a hundred cubits apart now that first squad has but thirteen lancers out of the twenty when he had arrived three seasons earlier. The second squad has but twelve. No replacements are scheduled until the end of fall or the beginning of winter, and Lorn wonders how small Second Company will have gotten by then.

As he looks back to his left, as he takes in and ignores another zzzzzppp for a dead bloodsucking flowerfly, he can sense the intermittent pulses of chaos in the cupridium cables that link the crystal wards. Another tree is down across the wall, but how far from Second Company he cannot tell.

“Hot … never gets any cooler … be glad when it starts to frost,” grunts Kusyl from the outer edge of the wall road.

“Then we’ll have to slop through mud,” Lorn reminds the squad leader.

“I think I’ll take that.”

“That’s what you say now.” Lorn grins.

As they ride through the afternoon, Lorn keeps looking to the southeast, until his eyes confirm what his chaos senses have told him far earlier. Yet another trunk has fallen across the ward-wall.

“Another tree is down.”

“Five abreast!” Kusyl turns in the saddle and calls to Lorn. “Olisenn’s already seen it. His squad is going to five front now.”

“Set up the containment pattern for the crown,” Lorn tells. Kusyl. He no longer bothers with checking the trunk first. If there are giant cats, they will attack no matter where the lancers are. Stun lizards are slow enough to be chased down if necessary, and the night leopard packs are always in thecrown. As for the giant serpents, Second Company has seen but the one in three seasons.

“Five abreast! Move out to the tree crown!” Kusyl orders. “Ubylt! Ride out and inform squad leader Olisenn that we’re riding out to join them to block the tree crown!”

“Yes, sers!” Ubylt turns his chestnut northward.

As Lorn and the second squad angle their way toward the tree crown yet several kays away, Lorn tries to estimate the size of the fallen giant, judging that its base diameter is about twenty cubits, larger than many, but not so large as the mammoth trunks they have sometimes encountered.

“Think the forest’d run out of big trees,” mutters Kusyl.

“With ninety-nine kays on a side to work with?” Lorn laughs.

“Didn’t used to be so many.”

“Maybe it was waiting for the big trees to get bigger.”

Kusyl snorts.

The two squads join at the perimeter road to the northwest of the crown. Lorn estimates that the nearest part of the twisted greenery lies almost three-quarters of a kay from them.

“First squad … you take the left side, second squad the right.”

“You heard the captain.”

“First squad to the left!” booms Olisenn.

With roughly a hundred fifty cubits between them, the two lancer squads ride toward the forest crown, lances at the ready.

Lorn blots the sweat from his forehead, ignoring the heat from the continual sunburn on the back of his neck and the way his sweat-soaked uniform clings to him. He shifts his weight in the saddle, but his eyes remain on the crumpled green canopy.

The first creature that lumbers outward, angling more to the east and the first squad, is a smallish stun lizard-if a lizard a mere three cubits at the shoulder and fifteen cubits in length can be termed small.

MMMnnnnn … The silent mental scream halts several mounts, and one lancer sways in his saddle.

“First squad,” Lorn orders. “Discharge at will! Now! Short bursts!”

“Short bursts at will!” repeats Olisenn.

MMMnnnnn … The stricken lancer slumps in his saddle, and one mount rears.

“Second squad, lances ready! Stand by,” Kusyl orders.

Hhssst! Hssst! … The orange-golden-red of firelance discharges flares across the lizard, which, uncharacteristically, turns as if to retreat into the tangle crown foliage. The firelances lash again and again, and the lizard is still.

“First squad, let the second squad lead a little,” Lorn orders, nodding to Kusyl.

The lancers of the second squad move forward faster, closer to the tip of the crown. Lorn looks back, and it appears as though the stunned lancer is beginning to recover, being supported in his saddle by another lancer.

Lorn glances toward the vegetation ahead, now well less than two hundred cubits away. “Company halt!” He reins in the gelding, watching the mass of green and brown, sniffing for the musky odor that goes with the cats, but for the moment, he smells but the astringency of crushed leaves.

First company reins up to Lorn’s left, their lances at the ready as well.

The forest canopy is silent, almost too silent, Lorn thinks.

Then, both Lorn and Kusyl see the telltale shifting of branches and the rustling of leaves that always precedes an attack by the black night leopards.

“Stand by to discharge! Short bursts!” Even as those orders are in the air, Lorn has to add, “Discharge at will!”

Nearly a score of the night leopards bound from the greenery, straight at the second squad.

Hsst! Hssst! …

Firebolts from lances flare, and golden-red chaos collides with streaking blackness.

Three leopards converge on Lorn, and while his lancestrikes two, the third flattens itself and springs toward the gelding.

Lorn slashes down with his sabre, reinforcing it with his own personally guided chaos force, and the night leopard drops, leaving but a thin scratch along the gelding’s shoulder.

Dark bodies strew the deadland soil.

“Ser! There it goes!”

Lorn’s eyes follow the sole surviving leopard. It has sprinted back toward the ward-wall, then to the east, and then outward toward the perimeter road well clear of any area where lancers are positioned to intercept the lithe dark cat.

“Ser! We can’t catch it!”

“Hold where you are!” Lorn orders, ignoring the grim, almost pleased smile on Olisenn’s broad face. He takes a deep breath, thinking about another leopard’s escape about which he will doubtless hear, one way or another. No one will care that of nearly a score of the night leopards, they have killed all but one.

“Hold fast!” Both Kusyl and Olisenn echo his orders.

Lorn blots the sweat from his eyes with the forearm of his sleeve. He studies the canopy again wondering if they will see a giant cat again-or a serpent-or anything.

He has been commanding Second Company for nearly three seasons of patrols … and encountered a fallen trunk practically every second or third patrol. Is the Forest going to continue probing the northeast ward-wall? Even if it does, what could he do about it? Except position his lancers and watch every move Olisenn makes?

“Stand by,” Lorn orders tiredly. “We need to send a messenger to Eastend.”

Again.