Scion of Cyador

LXIX

To the west of the road are two fields-the first Lorn has seen in almost half a day of riding along the West Branch of the Jeryna River. The neatly tilled fields, with but shoots of green appearing, are separated by a hedgerow of thorny roses, with irrigation ditches running from the river to the fields. On a low hill on the far side of the southernmost field is a dwelling, its walls of odd-shaped rocks mortared together. Both fields and ditchworks are empty under the hot spring sun that blisters through the green-blue sky of midday.

Lorn glances from the fields to the dusty road and then to the narrow river to his left, really a large stream that is no more than fifty cubits wide and perhaps five deep, just deep enough to make easy crossing difficult.

He squints as he sees the dust on the road ahead-the scouts returning, and returning in haste, a good sign that trouble lies ahead. With a long, slow deep breath he waits.

“Trouble, looks like,” offers Cheryk, who leads the Cyadoran forces with Fourth Company.

“The last few days have been too calm,” Lorn agrees. “We’re getting closer to the Grass Hills, and if there’s going to be a real attack, here’s where it’s likely to be.”

“Jerans is a strange place,” Cheryk observes. “It’s almost like the barbarians aren’t a part of it. But the Jeranyi are sending weapons.”

“Someone is,” Lorn temporizes.

The two officers ride in silence, waiting for the pair of scouts.

“Ser! Barbarians ahead!” calls the lead scout from a good fifty cubits away.

Lorn motions for them to ride beside him, then waits until they turn and draw abreast.

“There’s a raiding party of sorts riding up from the east on the other side of the river, ser, like they knew we were here,” reports the balding scout. “They be heading toward the ford.”

“How many?”

“Fourscore. Could be a bit less.”

“We’re back in true barbarian territory.” Lorn smiles.

“About how far to the ford?”

“Four kays, I’d say.” Those words come from the younger, ginger-bearded scout. “Could be a bit more.”

“We’ll probably stand down and water the mounts here, then ride on. Go on back to where you can watch the ford. Let us know if they cross early or if they don’t cross.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn looks at Cheryk. “I’ll need all the officers. Tell everyone to stand down and water the mounts now. We may not get a chance later.”

Lorn and Cheryk rein up, then wait in the still heat of the day while Semdyl passes the word and the other officers ride forward to join them.

This time Gyraet is the last to pull his mount alongside. “Sorry, ser, but we were having trouble with the rear wagon.”

“How much trouble?”

“Wheel’s beginning to split under the rim. We brought spare wheels, and that won’t be a problem, except I don’t know as it will last until we stop tonight.”

“We have more trouble-fourscore Jeranyi raiders ahead. The kind we see in the Grass Hills.” Lorn surveys the faces. “We don’t have many firelance charges left, do we?”

“My second squad has a few,” offers Gyraet.

“I’d like to put them up front, and have them use the firelances on the first charge.”

“We’ll be ready.”

“Good.”

“Esfayl…your men ride well, I’ve noticed. I’d like to pull them out and have them strike the barbarians on the flank. Which flank, we’ll see as we get nearer…” Lorn continues to outline his simple battle plan.

Once everyone is briefed, Lorn waters his gelding in the brownish waters of the West Branch of the Jeryna, water that does not appear too dirty, although he does not drink himself, but samples the last of his water bottle. Then he leads the gelding the score or so of cubits from the riverbank to the road, where he waits until he has word that all the mounts have been watered.

Finally, a messenger from Quytyl arrives, “Fifth Company and wagons are ready, ser.”

Lorn nods at Gyraet. “Let’s go.” He raises his arm, then drops it. “Column forward!”

“Column forward!” The order echoes back along the lancers.

The Cyadoran force has ridden another two kays or so when the younger, ginger-bearded scout rides up. “They’re across the ford, ser, and watering their mounts. Still a good two kays from here. Lyrsen’s watching from the rise…not much of one, but he’ll be riding out if they head this way.”

“Good. Did you notice any different weapons?”

“Didn’t see any of the axes with hooks. Don’t think they’re that good on a mount. With a longer pole, be good for a footman.”

Lorn studies the road ahead, then turns in the white leather saddle that has become more dun under the rigors of the past seasons. The road is wide enough and the shoulder even enough. He glances at Gyraet, who heads his second squad. “Have them go to four-abreast. Pass it along.”

“Four-abreast! Four-abreast!”

Behind him, the column widens and shortens, and Lorn coughs as the following wind swirls more dust into his face and lungs. Then he blots the combination of sweat and dirt off his face, and studies the road before them as it slowly rises as it heads southeast, so that there is a four-cubit bluff above the water on the south side of the river. If the scout is correct, the ford and the barbarians lie another kay beyond the top of the gradual rise up which the Cyadoran force rides.

At the top of the hill, the other scout rides to meet Lorn and Gyraet. Lorn signals for the column to halt.

“See, sers…They’re forming-up there, keep us from the ford.”

Lorn nods. According his maps, the road swings back to the north side of the river for at least forty kays farther, and the south side is almost impassable because it verges on one of the more rugged sections of the Grass Hills. Then, he does not understand why the raiders do not remain on the north side and force the Mirror Lancers to attack from the ford-unless they regard that as somehow cowardly. He shakes his head.

“Ser?” asks Gyraet.

“I don’t say I understand why they crossed the ford.”

“Ah…,” offers the scout. “Look there on the other side…see that shimmery white? That’s sand…once you get off the road, it’s sand, and it be soft, like powder.”

Lorn hopes the road is firm enough for the wagons, even as he understands the logic of the barbarians’ positioning.

Emsahl, Esfayl, and Cheryk ride forward, and all the officers look down the gradual slope.

“Now…sers…the river side of the road,” the scout goes on, “it be sand like the other shore. The grass and dirt is firm on the south side.”

“Esfayl…you’ll have to swing out from the right, then,” Lorn says.

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn looks down at the barbarian force. “We’ll have to go to a two companyfour-abreast front…probably by those bushes where the slope levels out. I wouldn’t ride uphill against us before that.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Gyraet, put your first squad on the river side, your second squad on the right shoulder. Cheryk…if the ground is firm, can you flank Sixth Company on the right?”

The older captain nods.

“First and Fifth Companies, follow until you’re on the flat…then, Rhalyt…you put your company behind Sixth Company, and see if you can come in from the left. You’ll have to feel that out.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn looks downhill. “We’ll have to do what we can.” He leans forward to touch his firelance. “I’ve got a few charges left, so I’ll stay with Sixth Company.”

As the Cyadoran force begins moving down the slope of the road at a walk, Lorn keeps watching the barbarians, but they hold ranks, waiting.

No sooner than has Sixth Company passed the bushes, and Third Company moved up beside them, than the Jeranyi riders charge.

“Wait until they close!” orders Gyraet. “Discharge at thirty cubits! Thirty cubits. Short bursts!”

“Now…charge!” Lorn orders, raising and dropping his arm.

The ground shivers under the impact of tenscore sets of hoofs.

Hsst! Hssst! Lorn tries to keep his lance level and moves from barbarian to barbarian as the raiders dash toward the Cyadorans. From the corner of his eye, he can see white-clad figures swinging southward, but he forces his attention onto the oncoming riders, who have begun to spread.

Hsst! Hsst!

“Short bursts!” Gyraet insists.

Even before the raiders are within twenty cubits, the sound of firelances dies away, except for an occasional burst from those few with more than a charge or two. Although the raiders have lost almost a score of riders to the lances, those remaining hold their big blades ready to beat through the shorter and lighter sabres of the Mirror Lancers.

Lorn uses the last charge in the firelance-the last of those he had put there the night before through his own efforts as a magus-on a rider who seems to be a leader, then drops the weapon and pulls out his second sabre, half ducking, half sliding the blade of a barbarian, then offering a backslash to another as he passes.

Dust swirls around the riders, and air is filled with the dull clanging of metal on metal, the muffled thuds of metal on flesh or bone. Lorn finds himself through the three-deep line of the barbarians, and turns, riding back to pick off a dazed younger barbarian who can barely raise his blade.

A graybeard turns toward Lorn, and his big blade whistles. While Lorn manages a half-parry, half-slide, his left arm is numb even from the glancing impact. His right is not, and he twists and brings the Brystan sabre across the graybeard’s upper arm. The blade drops, and Lorn forces his left arm into a slash-thrust, then ducks and rides clear as the older warrior slowly topples out of the saddle.

Two of the big barbarians charge out of the pack toward Lorn. He cannot quite bring the gelding around quickly enough, and barely can slide the first big blade.

A glittering lancer-sabre slashes down across the shoulder of Lorn’s second attacker, and the first barbarian turns toward Quytyl-who has wheeled his mount to help Lorn. Lorn leans forward, almost off-balance, but manages a thrust to the giant’s throat. The sabre catches, and Lorn has to jerk to free it, then almost loses his seat as the blade abruptly comes free.

The dead barbarian’s mount slams into Lorn’s leg, even as he tries to get the gelding past it to help Quytyl, who has been engaged by yet another pair of Jeranyi.

Desperately, Lorn throws the firebolt of a magus at one of the barbarians, whose chest flares into flame, but before he can use either blade or form another firebolt, the big blade of the remaining barbarian slams through Quytyl’s guard.

All Lorn can do is flame the last barbarian after Quytyl slumps in the saddle, then turn his mount to seek out others, his blades slicing almost without thought, as he becomes a butchering machine, his blades edged with rage and chaos.

Again, as in so many battles, one moment Lorn is fighting, and the next, the field is empty, except for Mirror Lancers. He glances toward the river, where less than half a score of raiders ride eastward on the far shore, then back around him, where scores of mounts are riderless.

“Ser!” calls a voice.

Lorn turns the gelding and rides toward Yusaet, Quytyl’s senior squad leader. He wipes the sabres and sheathes them as he does. He is abruptly aware that he is seeing in double images, and that his skull is being pounded like an anvil by an unseen hammer.

“Ser…” Yusaet looks at the sub-majer. “I saw…you tried to get to the undercaptain.”

“I wasn’t quite fast enough,” Lorn admits. “I got one, but…”

“I saw you kill three, right there, ser. No one could have tried harder.”

“Thank you. He would have been a good captain.” Lorn straightens. “For now, you’re in charge of Fifth Company.”

“Yes, ser.”

“See about what wounded you have, and gather any stray mounts. You know what to do.”

Yusaet nods. “Yes, ser.”

Lorn eases the gelding toward the depression where the road turns and drops toward the river, where Cheryk, Gyraet, and Esfayl have gathered momentarily. Behind him, there are the murmurs.

“…sub-majer…see the way he used those sabres?”

“…saw him cut four out of the saddle, got another four with his lance…”

“…maybe more…”

“…never saw a senior officer fight like that…”

“Never will again, either. Keep it in the Company.”

The last voice is Yusaet’s.

“…but…”

“Keep it in the Company,” Yusaet repeats.

A quick and bitter smile crosses Lorn’s face, one he erases as he nears the three officers.

“Are you all right, ser?” asks Esfayl, an expression that is half frown, half of concern.

As Lorn reins up, he looks down at his trousers, then at his sleeves. His uniform is smeared and splattered with blood, and everything around him seems to pulse, because his double vision wavers. He moves his arms, stands slightly in the stirrups. His arms ache, and his head still throbs, but he can find no wounds. “I’m all right.” He looks at the three. “Do we have any idea…how many we lost?”

“Almost a score, ser,” Gyraet reports. “And Emsahl.”

Lorn winces.

“Some bastard got him from behind.” Gyraet pauses. “And you know about Quytyl?”

“I was there, but I couldn’t reach him. I’m not sure his arm healed right, but he never said anything about it.” Lorn’s words feel slow on his tongue.

“Not having the firelances hurts,” Cheryk adds.

“That’s one reason why we did this,” Lorn points out. “We’ll have fewer and fewer firelances every year. Next year I’m not sure anyone will be able to do what we did. Not without more lancers and greater losses.”

“Most commanders worry about this year’s losses,” Gyraet says slowly.

“It is not a comfort to me,” Lorn says, “to save a score of men for a year so that threescore will die next spring.” He laughs harshly and bitterly. “It’s not a comfort to lose a score on the way home, either.”

“That is why you are a majer-”

“Sub-majer,” Lorn corrects with a laugh.

“…and you will go on to be a commander or more,” Gyraet finishes.

“If I survive being a sub-majer.” Lorn looks over the three, trying to focus his vision, and failing. “I’m sorry, captains. I’d hoped we could do this with a few less casualties.” He pauses. “Let me know when you’re ready to move across the ford.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn eases his mount a hundred cubits or so uphill, where he looks out over the site of the brief and bloody battle. Threescore barbarians dead, and a score of lancers, the lancers because a sub-majer had an idea for reducing casualties, and the barbarians because…. Lorn still is not sure he knows. Is it hatred too deep to wash away with either blood or water? Or the needs of the barbarian culture fueled by the greed of the traders?

He shakes his head and studies the West Branch, whose waters have dwindled into a stream barely ten cubits across, and then at the northern side of the Grass Hills.

He doubts they will face more attacks before returning to Inividra. That is where his real problems will begin.