L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

“What my brother said,” adds Swytyl. “Came back without his arm. Said he was lucky. Said what they did to the women-”

“That’s right.” Lorn overrides the squad leader quietly. “You all saw that, and we don’t want it to happen in Nhais. We need to move on now.”

“Yes, ser.” The assents are almost in unison.

The day continues to warm as they ride eastward along the river. By early midmorning, in the distance to the east, Lorn sees dark birds circling, but cannot make out whether they are vulcrows or smaller scavengers. Outside of the tracks of their own scouts, the road dust shows no signs of riders.

As they ride, once more the feel of a chaos-glass sweeps across Lorn and is gone. The overcaptain purses his lips and keeps riding, silently.

They have ridden another five kays when the first of Swytyl’s lancer scouts returns.

Lorn has the column stand down, and sends a handful of men down the steeper slope to the river to fill water bottles while he hears the scout report.

“You were right, ser. They’re a-comin’ down this road, slow-like, maybe another five kays, on the far side of the road.”

“On the other side of this hill here-that’s where the road and the river bend north, is it not?” asks Lorn. “And then here’s another hill farther along?”

The scout looks at Swytyl, then at the overcaptain. “Yes, ser. Runs that way near-on two kays, maybe like three, ’cause there be another hill there.”

“How far are they from that far hill, the one the road goes over?”

“Another six kays, mayhap.”

Lorn nods and turns in his saddle. “Swytyl! Get me the squad leaders.” While they gather, Lorn dismounts and checks his maps, and then hands the chestnut’s reins to one of the younger new lancers. He glances up toward Tashqyt. “We’ll need a few lancers to hold mounts. I want you all to look at a map.”

“Yes, ser.”

Once the four Mirror Lancer squad leaders and Wharalt are gathered, Lorn spreads the map on the dusty grass beside the road and outlines the geography. “Here we are…and that is about where the barbarians are. They probably are going to stay near the road here, and swing along the river like so…I can’t see them climbing the hills there, as they’re getting steeper, when there’s a flatter and easier way to Nhais by the river road…” He pauses, and glances at the grizzled Wharalt. “Can your men hold a line until the barbarians are within a hundred cubits before you mount a charge against them?”

“Aye, we can do that.”

Lorn nods and begins to outlines what he has in mind. “Wharalt…the barbarians have scouts, but they only ride about a kay or so ahead of the main body. They’ll probably ride past the bend until where the road looks clear to Nhais. You wait behind that slope there, either until they turn back or until they’re a good kay farther west…”

“Then we come up and block the space between the steep hill and the river, so they either charge us or turn into that space in the bend?”

Lorn nods. “If the scouts pass you, you’ll have to have a man or two detailed to watch for them.”

“We can do that.”

The overcaptain gestures toward the river. “The road curves to follow the river, and because there’s a hill to the south. We’ll circle the back side of the hill, so there aren’t any tracks on the road, and wait. Once they’re past, we’ll use the firelances to push them west, and they can either ride into the guards or draw up defensively on the flat ground of the bluff with their backs to the river-”

“If they don’t push, ser…?” asks Wharalt.

Lorn laughs. “Then we reverse the plan, and we hold the line and you charge.”

“That be splitting our forces.”

“We won’t be that far apart,” Lorn points out.

“They’ll fight like black angels, you don’t give them anywhere to go,” suggests Drayl.

“They do anyway.” Lorn points to the east where the vulcrows still circle. “That’s another hamlet filled with bodies, I wager. We don’t want them going anywhere.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn rolls up the map. “Get the water bottles filled, and the squads ready.” He walks toward the chestnut, slips the map into the case behind his saddle.

“…never seen maps like that…”

“…around the overcaptain much, and there be much you never saw…”

Not too much, Lorn hopes, as he mounts.

He leads the two companies around the back side of the hill, far slower going as they dodge brush and patches of thorny green cacti that Lorn has not seen before.

Still…it is well before midday when they reach the back side of the slope that overlooks where the road turns north into the bend in the river. There, just below the crest of the hill, Lorn and Tashqyt wait, listening for hoofs, voices…anything. Below and behind them are the two companies of Mirror Lancers from Biehl.

The sun is more like that of late midsummer than of late summer or early fall, and sweat continues to collect under the brow of Lorn’s garrison cap. The perspiration oozes toward his eyes, and he continues to blot it away with the back of his sleeve. Beside him, Tashqyt shifts his weight in the saddle.

The chestnut whuffs , and Lorn leans forward and pats her shoulder. “Easy…easy, there. Waiting is hard on all of us.”

Lorn almost senses someone, something, and eases the chestnut uphill, just enough that he can peer eastward if he stands in his stirrups.

A pair of barbarians ride along the road, moving at a quick walk. Lorn ducks and eases the chestnut back farther downhill, out of sight.

As he and Tashqyt wait-as do the Mirror Lancers behind them-the sound of low voices carries over the crest of the hill, but not the meaning of whatever the two warriors are discussing. Tashqyt looks at Lorn. Lorn shakes his head, and gestures toward the east. “Not long,” he murmurs, hoping he is correct.

The sun rises higher, and more sweat oozes down the back of Lorn’s sunburned neck. He wishes there were trees or cliffs or some form of shelter, but the only types of vegetation that are more than shoulder-high are a very few straggly trees and the willows that intermittently flank the river.

A low murmuring drifts toward them, and Lorn straightens in the saddle. So does Tashqyt. Both wait until it is far louder, seemingly right below them.

Lorn continues to wait, then edges the chestnut forward up the slope.

The rough column of barbarians-riding three- and four-abreast-is more than halfway past Lorn. He ducks and eases his mount back downslope. From his single quick survey, he believes there are closer to fifteenscore riders.

Finally, he raises his arm-and drops it. Tashqyt does the same.

Behind them the squads, riding four-abreast in each squad, move up and over the crest of the hill, coming downhill at a quick trot before increasing their speed on the road and the flat that flanks it.

Three barbarian warriors trailing the main party look back and uphill at the charging lancers. All three wheel.

Lorn levels his firelance.

Hssst! Hsst! One of the men drops; the one on the far right twists in the saddle.

Hssst! Hsst!

“Short bursts! Short bursts!” Lorn orders.

“Short bursts!” echo Tashqyt, Swytyl, Whylyn, and Drayl.

Ahead, shouts come from the barbarian warriors.

As he rides toward the end of the barbarian column, Lorn watches as the barbarian force seems to separate-the leading riders spur their mounts and swing northward off the road, while perhaps twoscore of the trailing riders wheel to attempt to stop the Mirror Lancers.

With the Bristan sabre in his left hand, and firelance in his right, Lorn finds he is still leading the charge. He also senses the presence of a chaos-glass, then pushes that thought and feeling away.