Magi'i of Cyador

XCI

ALTHOUGH LORN HAS expected more treefalls as a reaction to his “practice” sessions along the ward-wall, there have been none for two full round-trip patrols to Eastend and back since Shynt’s arrival. The only remnant of Lorn’s efforts in the nights along the ward-wall is the occasional sense of melancholy he feels when he looks beyond the white granite of the ward-wall at the towering trunks and high canopied greenery of the Accursed Forest. He has also had one more dream about walls that burn and rivers being wrenched from their beds.

The lancer captain pushes that thought away as he rides with junior squad leader Shynt on the wall road, his eyes scanning the ward-wall, the Accursed Forest, and the granite stones of the road. As always, the Forest retains its greenery, even as winter is arriving beyond the ward-wall, with chill winds and graying winter leaves, even as Lorn and Second Company ride through a gray early morning on the second day of another outbound patrol from Jakaafra. He is reminded once more of the differences outside and within the wall by the zzzzpp of an expiring flowerfly against the chaos-net.

Lorn wonders how long before they will confront another fallen tree, and how long before Majer Maran again appears at Jakaafra and under what pretense. Lorn also ponders how he also must carry out his commitment to Ryalth in a manner that meets the full requirements of consortship, yet in a way which protects her more than it threatens her. And he must continue to improve his control of chaos and order while not letting his lancers know that is what he does. That is one reason why he bears two firelances in a specially adapted holder. He smiles at that thought, for no one, not even Kusyl, has asked about the twin lances.

“Cool and damp, maybe get wetter, ser,” offers Shynt.

“Colder, I’d say, but not wetter.” Lorn is beginning to sense irregularities in the chaos net and the flow of chaos force along the wall, but says nothing, just keeps watching the wall ahead as the lancers ride southeast.

It is not quite mid-morning when Lorn senses what he has known must be coming, and not much after that when a lancer reports, “Fallen tree ahead, ser!”

“Shynt, have them form up five abreast and ride out to the perimeter road,” Lorn orders.

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn turns the gelding across the dampened but not yet muddy earth of the deadland, and he and the first squad cross soil that smells vaguely of a harbor, and more so with each hoof that strikes it.

Kusyl and the second squad are waiting at the perimeter road for Lorn and the first squad, reined up a good kay to the south of the point on the road directly north of the fallen tree.

“First squad stands ready, ser,” Kusyl reports as Lorn and Shynt ride up.

“Good. We’ll stay on the road until we’re opposite the crown, and then reform into two squads. The men know we’ll be trying something different this time?” He looks at Shynt, then Kusyl.

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn nods and urges the white gelding along the perimeter road, his eyes checking the tree canopy as they ride closer, but he sees no creatures on the trunk or beyond the canopy, not that he would expect such.

Finally, he turns, “Halt here.”

“First squad, halt!”

“Second squad, halt!”

Lorn turns the gelding off the road and rides forward perhaps a hundred cubits before reining up and waiting for the two squads to form up flanking him.

“Second squad forward!”

“First squad, right turn.”

As the squads draw into their staggered five-abreast formations,Lorn continues to watch the fallen tree, but sees nothing. To his left, he knows, perhaps as few as five kays southeast, lies the non-functional midpoint chaos tower, but it is just beyond his vision.

“Second squad stands ready, ser!” Kusyl calls.

“First squad ready.”

Lorn raises his hand, then begins to ride forward, alone between the squads as they close the distance to the crushed canopy of the fallen tree. Approximately seventy-five cubits separate Lorn from the first squad on his right, and seventy-five cubits from the second squad on his left. He now wears the Brystan sabre on his waist, although he has never called attention to his switch in weapons. And he carries the two firelances in their specially adapted lance-holder.

When Lorn is about five hundred cubits from the tangled and crushed crown vegetation, he removes one of the two firelances, and calls, “Lances ready! Prepare to discharge.”

Both squad leaders echo his command.

In near silence that follows, as Second Company rides closer, Lorn’s hearing seems to sharpen and he can pick up a few phrases across the distance.

“Why is he doing it like that?”

“ … maybe since the old squad leader got killed …”

“ … like he’s mad …”

“ … more like bait,’cept he’s got teeth …”

“Cats get him sometime …”

“You haven’t seen him …”

At two hundred cubits from the tree’s canopy Lorn can sense the tension ahead, and calls out again, “Prepare to discharge lances!”

The gelding has carried Lorn to within a hundred and fifty cubits from the canopy when the pair of giant cats break from the screen afforded by the twisted limbs. They bound, predictably, toward Lorn, drawn by the sense of chaos and order he embodies.

Lorn raises his firelance, aiming at the rear cat, the one that will always turn and angle away, given the opportunity,waiting until the beast is almost within the range of a traditional firelance.

Hhsstt! The animal drops as the single bolt drills through it, a firebolt that does not curve that noticeably under Lorn’s chaos control.

The first giant cat seems almost to stumble, then launches itself toward the lancer captain.

Hhhsssttt! The line of fire burns away its eyes and upper skull. Lorn does not lower the firelance until he is certain the beast is dead.

“ … see what I mean …”

“ … no one that good with a lance …”

“ … captain is …”

“First squad! Close in about fifteen cubits!” Lorn orders, mentally checking the angles as he overtly switches firelances. Next, once they are within a hundred cubits, will come an attack by the night leopards.

Lorn slows the gelding until the first squad has eased toward him, closing the gap that had widened back to about seventy-five cubits, before he lets his mount resume a slightly faster walk southward and toward the creatures that await them.

The strange sense of melancholy passes over him, but he pushes it aside, his eyes and senses centered on the danger ahead.

The canopy branches rustle, then tremble, but no leopards appear. Lorn slows the gelding, knowing that the attack will and must come, that it will follow patterns that the Accursed Forest has set.

“Stand by to discharge lances! Short bursts!”

That command is barely repeated before the two packs of leopards emerge and accelerate toward the lancers.

“Discharge at will!”

Hhsst! Hssst! Hssst!

Firelance bursts flare across the packs. Lorn wheels the gelding to the right, charging just behind the first squad, moving to anticipate the pair of lagging leopards who will sprint northwest to escape the lancers.

Focusing his firelance on the leading black cat of the two that trail, he discharges the entire lance before the cat staggers and tumbles. The trailing cat, cut off by Lorn’s charge, abruptly shifts and springs straight toward the captain.

Lorn takes down the last leopard with the Brystan blade-or actually-the chaos-fire he extends beyond the cupridium tip of the curved blade. At the angle he has used, he doubts that his lancers have seen what he has done, and even if they have, few if any will understand or remember that the sabre seemed impossibly long for one short moment, but Lorn has no intention of allowing the cat close enough to harm him or his mount.

Breathing heavily, Lorn reins up the gelding. He still holds the depleted firelance and the Brystan sabre. Once he is certain both fleeing leopards are dead, he switches firelances, and turns the gelding back toward the point where, as he has ordered earlier, the two squads have drawn up facing and flanking the crushed canopy of the fallen tree.

The two squad leaders ride from their squads and toward Lorn, reining up perhaps fifteen cubits away from their captain.

“First squad reports, no creatures escaped, ser,” reports Shynt.

“Second squad reports, no creatures escaped, ser,” states Kusyl.

“Good.” Lorn nods. “I’ll have the message for the Mirror Engineers in a moment.” His eyes burn, and his head throbs from his use of order and chaos. As he continues to look at the two squad leaders, his vision blurs, and for a time, there are two images of the two men.

He blinks, and the images merge, but the headache remains. Also, he is aware that his uniform is far damper than those of his squad leaders and lancers, and even the muscles in his thighs are close to cramping. Still, he turns in the saddle and says easily, “Kusyl, Shynt, have the squads stand by with lances ready, but if there’s no movement for a while, then you can set up the sentries for the afternoon and evening.”

“Yes, ser,” reply both squad leaders in near-unison.

Lorn slowly replaces the sabre and the firelance, and then pulls out the message blank for the Engineers. Even at one tree-fall every three patrols, it will be a long winter.