Scion of Cyador

LXXIX

In the early-morning light, Lorn rides toward the firewagon portico in the center of Assyadt, followed by the two lancers from Esfayl’s Second Company. The two will return the white gelding to the stable at Assyadt before leaving with Esfayl to ride back to Inividra.

As the three lancers pass the south side of the square in the early-morning light, Lorn can see a number of people under the porch of the Cuprite Kettle, the largest inn in Assyadt. Most of those on the porch seem to be watching him. His chaos-trained ears pick up the low words he should not be able to hear.

“Sure enough…that’s him, the one they call the Butcher.”

“Looks young…”

“…rode all the way to Jera…sacked every town…killed scores and scores.”

“…say he took over the compound here…made the head of the lancers in Cyad meet his terms.”

“…can’t be…just a sub-majer.”

“That’s what they say.”

“…looks like a nice young officer…”

“…what’s a real killer look like? No different from anyone else…”

Lorn keeps his shoulders square, and a smile on his face, even as he wonders how the whole town knows. Then, how could they not know, not when six companies of lancers held the compound for an eightday?

The three ride through the square and toward the white sunstone portico that lies another three hundred kays ahead.

“We’ll wait, ser, until the firewagon pulls up,” offers one of the lancers.

“Thank you. I think it will be awhile before Captain Esfayl is ready, anyway.”

“Rather wait here than help load wagons,” suggests the second lancer.

“Ser…how long ’fore the barbarians start raiding again?” asks the first.

“Midsummer, I’d judge. The raids will be small ones. I’d be surprised if you saw any large raids until next year. It might be longer if the Majer-Commander does something about Jera.”

The two lancers look at each other. Lorn understands the look. Neither ranker believes anyone will do anything. The three ride in silence to the smaller square that holds the firewagon portico. There, Lorn reins up on the far side of the paved way, in the shade of a weaver’s shop, waiting for the firewagon.

At the low rumbling of wheels on the stone pavement, Lorn turns, but he only watches as the firewagon comes to a stop under the portico. A handful of incoming passengers, which includes a young undercaptain, disembarks before Lorn dismounts and begins to unfasten his gear.

“Undercaptain!” he calls to the thin red-haired young officer.

“Yes, ser?” The undercaptain glances toward Lorn.

Lorn looks up at the lancers. “If you’d let him ride the gelding back…?”

“Be a pleasure, ser.”

“Ser?” asks the undercaptain.

“I’m leaving. Rather than walk, you can ride my mount back to the compound. That’s where you going, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ser. That is, I’m going there on the way to Inividra.”

“You’re in luck,” Lorn says. “Second Company is leaving this morning with Captain Esfayl. He and Commander Ikynd will be very happy to see you.” He looks to the lancers. “Best you be getting the undercaptain to the compound. I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn takes his bags and crosses the pavement to the portico and the waiting firewagon. He nods as he passes the undercaptain. “Have a good trip.”

“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.”

“You’re welcome.”

Lorn steps onto the sunstone platform, catching the undercaptain’s words to the lancers.

“…was that?”

“Sub-Majer Lorn.”

“The Sub-Majer Lorn?”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn manages not to wince as he crosses the raised portico and turns toward the front compartment of the firewagon.

The driver glances at the insignia on Lorn’s collar. “Sub-Majer…ser…you wouldn’t be the one…?”

“ ‘The one’?” Lorn asks.

“The one who put the barbarians in their place, I mean, ser?”

“I’m Sub-Majer Lorn,” he admits. “The Butcher of Nhais, the Butcher of Jerans, I suppose, too.”

“Much obliged to you, ser,” the driver says. “Shoulda been done years ago. Used to be at Isahl years ago, when Majer Brevyl first got there. Sub-majer, he was then. Not bad, he was, but we just rode out and chased ’em away. Never hit ’em where it woulda done some good.” The driver smiles. “Long past time, you ask me.”

“I thought so,” Lorn replies. “Not all officers agreed.”

“They’re not…?”

“No. I did get a sort of a commendation, and a transfer to work for the Majer-Commander.”

“Good thing, ser. Way folks were talkin’, the drivers, we were fearin’ they’d lock you away for doing what oughta been done generations back.” The driver grins. “Sorry, ser. Just the way we feel.” He pauses. “You need anything, ser, you let us know.”

“I will…and thank you.”

As Lorn places his gear under the seat, he can feel how much lighter it is-by at least three uniforms-than when he had left Cyad more than a year before. It is difficult to believe that it is only a little more than a year and a season since he had left.

Yet everything has changed. He has a son, and no parents. He has become the first Mirror Lancer officer in generations to undertake a campaign outside Cyador, even if it had been a relatively short campaign, and he has slain two senior officers on this tour, even if but one can be confirmed, and made both enemies and admirers throughout the Mirror Lancers-and, apparently, throughout at least some of Cyador.

He slips into the front compartment and unfastens the Brystan sabre, setting it against the outside wall of the coach before seating himself on the far left side, in the seat facing forward.

“Last call for outbound passengers! Last call!” comes the voice of one of the drivers.

A portly figure in purple scrambles into the front compartment. “Hurry…hurry…act like Mirror Lancers, order folks around…” The white-bearded man sees Lorn’s uniform as he looks up, and swallows. “Begging your pardon, ser.” His eyes catch sight of the sub-majer’s insignia, and he swallows again. “I truly do, ser.”

Lorn smiles politely. “I’m sure you meant no offense, and I took none.”

“Thank you, ser. Thank you.”

Lorn wants to sigh. At least, once he gets away from Assyadt, he will be just another sub-majer, and not the sub-majer.