L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

Lorn looks at the engineer captain, then points to the ships. “Those will be Dyjani vessels. Or they will carry Dyjani guards. We will see.” Then he turns to Esfayl. “Best you pull the lancers back.” He dismounts and hands the gelding’s reins to the young curly-haired captain.

“Yes, ser. We’ll await your orders.” Esfayl eases both mounts back toward the still-mounted squad. “Back behind those sheds.”

“How long will it take to fire the cannon after I give the order?” Lorn asks Ghyrat.

“A few moments, no more.”

“So, if I said to fire now…”

“One…two…three…now,” Ghyrat says. “That long.”

“Can you widen the chaos-bolt so that it is as wide as the pier?”

“Ah…we could…but it wouldn’t be as strong.”

“Would it be strong enough to kill men in light armor?”

“Oh…yes.”

“How long would it take to change the bolt back?”

“Not much longer than to fire the cannon.”

“Then have them widen the bolt and have it centered on the middle of the pier for now.”

“Yes, ser.” Ghyrat turns and walks back to open cannon hatch where he leans partway inside. Shortly, he returns. “It is as you ordered, ser.”

“Good. Now we wait.”

The wind has risen somewhat, but gotten warmer, when the first vessel swings in toward the pier, and two seamen jump from the slowly moving ship, carrying light lines. As soon as they have planted themselves by bollards, each pulls in, hand over hand, the heavier hawser, and with practiced movements, use hawser and bollard to kill the vessel’s momentum. On the ship itself windlasses creak, and the lines are drawn tighter, easing the vessel up to the pier.

“We’ll wait as long as we can,” Lorn says. “I’d really like them both to be tied up at the pier.”

“Will they?”

“I hope so. All that they can see is a vehicle and few souls. I’m trusting that won’t put them off. I doubt any have seen a firecannon that is not on a ship.”

The second vessel swings in farther along the outer pier than the first has, and, again, linemen leap onto the pier.

Two gangways drop onto the stone surface of the pier from the first vessel, to tie up, and almost as quickly from the second.

“Now?” asks Ghyrat.

“Not yet. Wait until they have armsmen formed up.” Lorn hopes that they will have such.

His hopes, or fears, are well-founded, for green-clad armsmen scurry down the gangways and form into ranks. Lorn frowns as he sees the shimmering, near-body-length shields in the first rank, and the long cupridium-sheathed pikes being passed down.

“Almost fourscore already…” he murmurs, noting that the two groups of twoscore each appear almost ready to march down the pier. He turns. “Now.”

Ghyrat runs forward to the firecannon, thrusting his head inside, then turns and runs back to stand behind Lorn.

The two wait.

HHHSSSTTT! With a whooshing hiss, the narrow flame sprays along the pier. Even from fifty cubits behind the cannon, Lorn can feel the intense heat. The mirrorlike shields have provided no protection, and the fourscore or so green-clad armsmen stand momentarily like charred posts before slowly toppling onto the stone of the piers.

Lorn can see nearly as many armsmen on the open decks of the ships.

Then, suddenly, seamen are scrambling up the rigging. Lorn can see that someone is using an ax to cut the hawser on the rearmost vessel-the one closest to him and the cannon.

“Chaos!” Lorn turns to Ghyrat. “Rake the ships. First one, then the other. Use the wide flame. Then tighten it and cut the masts! Now!”

Ghyrat hurries to the cannon, issues an order, then hurries back toward Lorn.

HHHSSSTTT! With another loud hiss, the narrow flame sprays the nearer ship. Almost immediately, the sails-which had just begun to billow-are half flames, half charred canvas. Some of the spars have caught flame.

The second blast is not as well-aligned, and the forward mast of the more distant vessel escapes part of the flame discharge.

“Ghyrat!” Lorn bellows. “Take the masts of the far ship first! The far one first!”

The engineer officer sprints back to the cannon.

Hssst! Hsst! It takes two blasts, but the ship farthest out on the pier is demasted and a mass of flames even before the cannon turns slightly and shears all three masts of the innermost vessel, reducing it to a flaming pyre.

Lorn turns, and gestures. “Esfayl! My mount!” He hopes his voice carries, but Esfayl either hears or guesses correctly, for the captain appears from behind the shed, riding toward the base of the pier, leading the white gelding.

Ghyrat walks from the cannon toward Lorn. His face is white.

“Thank you, Captain,” Lorn says. “You and your men did a good job.”

“Yes…ser.”

Lorn looks back at the burning hulls, then at Esfayl, who has just reined up a half score of cubits away. “Have we heard from Cheryk?”

“Yes, ser. They have mirror shields. He’s giving ground…as slowly as he can.”

Lorn turns back to the Mirror Engineer captain. “We need to reinforce Cheryk as fast as we can get there. Captain-hold your position here. If any of the green guards attack from the city, use the cannon on them. If another ship appears, do what I did here.” Lorn mounts the gelding.

“Those are your orders, ser.” Ghyrat swallows.

From astride the white gelding, Lorn looks hard at the young-faced and goateed captain. “They are the orders of the Majer-Commander and the Emperor.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn turns the gelding. For perhaps the first time, he truly understands, with both feelings and mind, why the loss of the fireships is such a blow to Cyador.

“Ser…there’s little left…” Esfayl notes. “If we had one of those in the streets…”

“With one of those in the city, I’m not sure we’d have a city left to hold,” Lorn says.

“Oh…hadn’t thought that way.”

“What else did Cheryk’s messenger say?”

“Sasyk has his force moving up Second Harbor Way, where the shops are wall-to-wall. They have pikes and mirror shields, and except at the infrequent intersections, there is little way for the lancers to strike them.”

“We’ll try an attack from the rear, then,” Lorn says.

Esfayl’s squad rides behind him as he leads them along the seawall road and then to the west, and then onto the lower section of Second Harbor Way West near the harbor. Even from there, he can hear the hss ing of firelances, the occasional dull sound of metal on metal, and men yelling, both orders and imprecations.

“Firelances at the ready!” he orders. “Four-abreast.”

“At the ready,” Esfayl echoes. “Four-abreast.”

As the small column nears the fighting from the south, Lorn can see his fears have indeed been realized. Not only has Sasyk developed a shield wall, but behind the shields, and protruding forward, are long cupridium pikes, the cupridium untouched by the chaos-bolts of the firelances.

Cheryk has his lancers firing their lances at legs well enough, but the shields are long, and for each man that falls, another appears with a shimmering shield, and step by step the phalanx is pushing the lancers back uphill toward the Palace of Eternal Light.

From behind the shield wall come arrows, arching over the ranks and into the lancers. Those arrows have taken a toll, for Cheryk looks to have lost almost a squad.

Lorn watches for a long moment, but only for that. There are no pikes left on the back side of the phalanx and the shields there are few and spread.

“Ser?” asks Esfayl.

“First, we’re going to charge and try to flame down the archers from behind. If they don’t have any pikes, we’ll run right up their backsides. They can’t be that well trained.”