Scion of Cyador

LX

With his saddlebags over his left shoulder, Brystan sabre at his belt, lancer sabre and map scrolls in his left hand, Lorn looks at Nesmyl. “You have a half-squad, and the cooks and other staff. I wish it could be more, but we will need every man.”

“Many be the lancers who would have given much to see what I see, ser. It be long past time that the raiders be bearded in their lands. I’d almost be wishing I be with you, ser,” replies the slightly bent senior lancer. His smile is crooked. “Almost.”

“Times have changed, Nesmyl, and we must change with them.” Lorn gestures toward the study. “If Majer Dettaur should arrive here, not that I expect him, you can tell him that, in accord with his wishes, I have all the companies on patrol in order to better protect the lands and people of Cyador.”

“That I will, ser. That I will.”

“I suggest closing at least the inner gates, once we ride out.”

“That I had considered already, ser.”

“Do you have any last questions?”

“This be not a question…but…ser…should you bring back much booty and success, best you take it and lay it at the feet of the commander at Assyadt.”

“If…if we are so fortunate…” Lorn nods a last time and walks to the door, and then out into the gray light of a sunless morning just after dawn. His boots carry him across the courtyard to the stable, where Hasmyr has the white gelding waiting for him.

“There be a small pouch of grain there, ser. Most you dare carry. Try to find such for all the mounts, as you can.”

“I will,” says Lorn as he fastens his gear behind the saddle, then checks the firelance and his water bottles. His eyes go to the spare mounts, which carry another score of spare firelances, few enough for the forces he has mustered.

He mounts and then rides across the paving stones of the courtyard toward the most junior undercaptain, Quytyl.

“Ser?”

“How’s the arm?”

“Still a touch stiff, ser, but strong.”

“Good,” Lorn says, even as he doubts the young officer’s words. “Fifth Company will be second for now, behind Third Company.” While he had given the order the day before, he wants to reemphasize it.

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn checks with each of the other officers, then rides to the front of the column where Emsahl and Third Company are formed up. “Let’s go.”

“Yes, ser.” Emsahl raises his arm, then drops it.

The sound of hoofs on stone fills the courtyard, and the road to the inner gates, as six companies ride out from Inividra.

The early morning remains gray, with high thin clouds and a light but warm breeze out of the southwest, as the column turns toward the road to Jerans. Lorn looks backward at Inividra, where two older lancers close the inner gates-an outpost empty except for Nesmyl, the cooks, and less than a halfscore of lancers.

Neither for the first time, nor the last, Lorn suspects, he wonders if he can manage to accomplish what he plans.

From what he had seen in the glass the afternoon before, and again early in the morning, the only barbarians stirring are those to the northeast, far closer to Syadtar. That makes some sense, because the later snows, the spring snows, had fallen more to the west, but the roads are muddy in only a handful of places, and the barbarians appear involved either in planting or dealing with their flocks and other spring farming or herding tasks.

Lorn squares his shoulders and studies the road ahead.