L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

“They were already there before we left the beaches. At the hamlet,” Lorn adds, after a moment.

While the first hamlet that the Jeranyi had raided was little more than a group of dwellings and barns where herders grazed and raised cattle, so small that it had no name beyond its borders, Lorn still regrets that they had not been there when the raiders arrived. Now the nameless hamlet will remain so, since the Jeranyi had left no survivors. Had such a hamlet existed near Isahl, there would have been walls and berms, and frequent patrols by Mirror Lancers. East of Biehl, folk are not prepared for the raiders.

The trail that Lorn and the lancers and guards have followed southwest from the hamlet indicate that cattle or other livestock have been driven regularly toward a tributary of the River Behla, some forty kays southwest, where presumably they were added to those floated downstream on railed rafts for sale in Biehl and Ehyla. Intermittently, hides come with the cattle, according to Neabyl.

Taking such a small hamlet as the raiders have already would not have satisfied such a large group of Jeranyi, as Lorn is certain, and the raiders are following the livestock tracks and dirt roads to a larger town on the tributary-Nhais was once the name, although Lorn is far from certain that the name has continued, so old was the map he had found in the back room of the administration building. His glass-screed and hand-drafted maps have so far proven more accurate than those few surviving in the Biehl lancer compound.

Beyond Nhais to the south and west are other, and richer targets, such as the vintner’s warehouses at Escadr and the cuprite mines at Dyeum. Whether the barbarians will dare to travel that far is yet another question. But if none stop them, Lorn fears the worst.

Lorn glances across the browning grass that reaches above the chestnut’s knees. As if to underscore Swytyl’s words about the barbarian atrocities, a thin line of smoke circles into a green-blue sky that holds but high and thin hazy clouds. The air is hot and still. “Did they see any signs of riders?”

“No, ser. Not even dust.”

The dust would not rise high in the still air, but with no dust in sight, the barbarians are at least four or five kays west or southwest of Lorn’s force.

Lorn nods. “We’ll catch them.”

He hopes to reach Nhais and the river before they do, circling around and in front of them. He also hopes he has not waited too long in setting forth, but he has pushed Commander Repyl as much as he had dared without revealing exactly what he had known beforehand.

Lorn has reined up, turning the chestnut more to the south so that he is no longer squinting against the low afternoon sun that has been angling into his eyes from the right. His neck is red and raw, and burns from sun and sweat. The sweat that oozes from under his garrison cap keeps stinging the corners of his eyes. Yellowish dust coats his trousers and those of all the lancers, as well as the legs of all their mounts. The eight squad leaders and Lorn form a rough semicircle, listening to the sandy-haired and round-faced Swytyl.

“They are but little more than five kays before us, and they will be drawing up into their camp before long. We can reach them if we hasten-before they reach Nhais…” suggests Swytyl.

Several heads around the circle nod. The black-haired Tashqyt is not one of them. Nor is the grizzle-bearded senior squad leader of the District Guards.

“They ride slowly,” Lorn says. “We have been hastening, and the day has been long. What if they turn, and what happens to our mounts and their riders?”

This time both the older District Guard squad leader and Tashqyt do nod.

“We are not looking for a battle a quickly as possible. We wish a great victory with few casualties,” Lorn points out. “We will catch them on the morrow-when they reach the river there. The town is west, but the river winds. They will follow the river. So we will turn more westerly, and arrive at the town before they do.”

“If they do not follow the river?” asks Swytyl.

“Then we are between them and the town, and the town will not suffer, and there will be no heaps of bodies of the people of Cyador.”

The other squad leaders nod.

“There is always the chance that they may find another hamlet,” Lorn says slowly. “The maps do not show such, but it could happen. But we are the only force here, and we dare not let the barbarians by us to ravage a town such as Nhais, with scores of folk.”

Tashqyt nods, then the other squad leaders.

Not for the first time does Lorn hope he is correct, but if he is wrong this time, the herders and the townspeople will suffer less. The last time, a hamlet suffered because his screeing had not picked out that the herding hamlet even existed-and because, he reminds himself, he had miscalculated his force’s abilities and those of the raiders.

Still, while he would not have wished harm on the people, fighting there at the base of the Grass Hills would have been difficult, and impossible to contain the raiders.

Lorn looks around at the faces that study his. Is he putting too much trust in plans and maps? Doubtless he is, but the tracks across the grasslands show he faces more than tenscore barbarians, perhaps as many as fifteenscore, and his four companies could number little more than half the barbarians, and half his men have no firelances. Yet there is Nhais, undefended except for him, and Escadr and Dyeum beyond. So he must try to pick where and how he fights.

If he can.

Lorn had forgotten what patrols are like in the heat of the Grass Hills-or the valleys nearby. Dust is everywhere, settling into boots, clothing, ears, eyes, and nose. His exposed skin is red, and his neck is peeling. Sweat burns his eyes, and they water much of the time. While the wind is welcome for its cooling, it brings more grit to his eyes and nostrils. Water must be rationed, and finding water for the mounts and then watering them in the scattered streams takes more time than he had recalled.

Even though it is harvest, and not the height of summer, heat rises in waves off the browned grasses by late afternoon. Then, by late at night, the air is chill, and Lorn and the lancers shiver under their single blankets.

In the hot early afternoon, he has reined up the chestnut mare on a low rise overlooking one of the few narrow streams feeding the river. Below him, the companies are finishing watering their mounts. While they do, Lorn studies the maps and the terrain around him, now becoming more hilly as they approach the river, and the town of Nhais. From what his maps show, Lorn judges that Nhais lies another twenty kays or so to the southwest, while the river is no more than ten to south. He and the lancers should be able to reach the town, or within five kays of it well before twilight-if his maps are accurate, and if the dirt track remains passable.

He looks up as three riders near-Swytyl and two of the lancers used as scouts. The lancers bear a look of concern, but Lorn waits until they rein up. Then he only says, “You have something new?”

“Ser…the barbarians have forded the river, and they have raided another small hamlet, perhaps of halfscore dwellings. They have halted…” Swytyl pauses, and Lorn understands all too well why the barbarians have halted.

“There is little we can do now.” Lorn nods and keeps his sigh to himself. Another miscalculation, of sorts, but not one that would change his course, even had he known, for in the heat, he cannot push his men too hard and expect them to fight their best. And that they must do, outnumbered as his force is.

“They look to be traveling tomorrow along the south side,” Swytyl adds. “The hills are high, and the river narrower and deeper to the south. There are several hamlets on that side, and none on this, not before Nhais. Not that we can see.”