Scion of Cyador

XXXV

Lorn has reined up, turning the chestnut more to the south so that he is no longer squinting against the low afternoon sun that has been angling into his eyes from the right. His neck is red and raw, and burns from sun and sweat. The sweat that oozes from under his garrison cap keeps stinging the corners of his eyes. Yellowish dust coats his trousers and those of all the lancers, as well as the legs of all their mounts. The eight squad leaders and Lorn form a rough semicircle, listening to the sandy-haired and round-faced Swytyl.

“They are but little more than five kays before us, and they will be drawing up into their camp before long. We can reach them if we hasten-before they reach Nhais…” suggests Swytyl.

Several heads around the circle nod. The black-haired Tashqyt is not one of them. Nor is the grizzle-bearded senior squad leader of the District Guards.

“They ride slowly,” Lorn says. “We have been hastening, and the day has been long. What if they turn, and what happens to our mounts and their riders?”

This time both the older District Guard squad leader and Tashqyt do nod.

“We are not looking for a battle a quickly as possible. We wish a great victory with few casualties,” Lorn points out. “We will catch them on the morrow-when they reach the river there. The town is west, but the river winds. They will follow the river. So we will turn more westerly, and arrive at the town before they do.”

“If they do not follow the river?” asks Swytyl.

“Then we are between them and the town, and the town will not suffer, and there will be no heaps of bodies of the people of Cyador.”

The other squad leaders nod.

“There is always the chance that they may find another hamlet,” Lorn says slowly. “The maps do not show such, but it could happen. But we are the only force here, and we dare not let the barbarians by us to ravage a town such as Nhais, with scores of folk.”

Tashqyt nods, then the other squad leaders.

Not for the first time does Lorn hope he is correct, but if he is wrong this time, the herders and the townspeople will suffer less. The last time, a hamlet suffered because his screeing had not picked out that the herding hamlet even existed-and because, he reminds himself, he had miscalculated his force’s abilities and those of the raiders.

Still, while he would not have wished harm on the people, fighting there at the base of the Grass Hills would have been difficult, and impossible to contain the raiders.

Lorn looks around at the faces that study his. Is he putting too much trust in plans and maps? Doubtless he is, but the tracks across the grasslands show he faces more than tenscore barbarians, perhaps as many as fifteenscore, and his four companies could number little more than half the barbarians, and half his men have no firelances. Yet there is Nhais, undefended except for him, and Escadr and Dyeum beyond. So he must try to pick where and how he fights.

If he can.