Scion of Cyador

XLVII

Third Company, with Emsahl and Lorn riding in the van, makes its way through a warm drizzle more like summer than of fall, and along a narrow track that turns northwest as it rises out of a wide flat valley. A good two kays behind the column, and behind the last riders of Quytyl’s Fifth Company, lie the berms and barns of another small hamlet, and scattered fields already harvested.

The scouts ride a good three kays ahead, over the crest of the low pass between hills.

“Do you think we’ll see barbarians?” asks Emsahl. “With a force this large?”

“We’ll see them,” replies Lorn. “They’re less and less afraid of Mirror Lancers. That could be because they’re getting more and better blades from Hamor.”

Lorn is careful not to comment directly on what he knows, although he has studied the chaos-glass, in his private quarters, and has found two raiding parties in the Grass Hills. One was angling more toward the territories protecting Pemedra, the other clearly headed for a hamlet to the northwest of Inividra-one with lower berms-and more cattle-and farther from the normal raiding patterns. And that is the one toward which he and the two companies ride.

“You brought back such blades, it is said.”

“Over fourteenscore. I left them in the armory at Biehl, but I had the Emperor’s Enumerator there attest to their numbers. Most had Hamorian forge marks. A few were Brystan.”

“You have reduced the number of patrols in each eightday,” Emsahl probes gently.

“I think you’ll find that we will be just as effective with the newer patrol patterns and larger forces.” While Lorn is using the chaos-glass to target his patrols, he dares not explain, but one advantage of being commander is that he does not have to explain-except to Ikynd and Dettaur-and neither can ask that often or that directly unless they come to Inividra, and Lorn suspects that will be highly unlikely in the near future.

“That is true,” observes Emsahl, lapsing into silence.

Lorn blots the damp rain from his forehead and readjusts his garrison cap. Tomorrow-and the barbarians-will come soon enough.