The Chaos Balance

XXXV

To the left of the highway, to the north beyond the flatter grasslands where grazed the herds of the Lord of Cyador, lay the grass hills, green enough in the winter, but brown by late spring, and sere and dusty by summer.

At times, Majer Piataphi could glimpse those hills, hills similar to those through which he must lead his force once they reached the terminus of the Great North Highway in Syadtar on the next day.

The wind that ruffled his hair was warm and far drier than the moist breezes that made Cyad and Fyrad so comfortable. He stood in the white saddle to stretch his legs and looked ahead to the white and green banners of the van.

A single steamwagon passed, its trailers loaded with sealed barrels, hugging the north shoulder of the highway, headed west toward distant Cyad.

“I wish we were done and headed in that direction,” said Miatorphi. “There’s no honor in defeating barbarians.”

“We have to defeat them and keep them defeated before we need concern ourselves about honor,” answered the majer.

A messenger galloped up. “Majer!”

“What is it?” Piataphi eased his mount around Captain Azarphi’s horse.

“Serjeant Funssa-he wants you to know that steamwagon seven is leaking, and that he has no more spare fittings.”

“Watch the van, Miatorphi,” ordered the majer. “I need to find out what seven’s cargo is. They may need to shift things.” He turned his mount westward and rode back toward the steamwagons that followed the first three divisions of Mirror Lancers.

“If it’s not one thing with those damned wagons…” murmured Miatorphi to Azarphi.

“They carry a lot, though.”

“When they work. Half the time they don’t, and it’s getting worse. Fewer of them, too. Once there were hundreds. Now…what? They’ve got a score that really work, and they run them all the time, and even more break down. Give me a good horse team any day.”

The two captains looked to the banners that led the Cyadoran force. Neither glanced back to the trails of smoke that marked the steamwagons.