L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

Hssst! Hssst! The short bursts of lances flare through the already-hot midday air, and more than half the defenders are dead even before the first two squads of lancers plow through them-though not without casualties.

Lorn parries a big blade with the sabre, ducks, and backhands the raider who has tried to bring the large blade to bear on the overcaptain.

Still, the defenders have created enough of a delay-as has another group farther westward along the road-that the barbarians have reformed in a bowed semicircle in the bend area to the south of the road.

Lorn also doesn’t like the ragged breaking-up of his own forces, and he barks out the orders. “Halt! Halt and re-form! Five-abreast! Five-abreast!”

His orders are echoed, and within moments…across a space of two hundred cubits, two forces face each other.

The sound of hoofs tells of the arrival of the brown-clad District Guards, their cupridium lances gleaming in the noonday sun.

Lorn-still in the front center of his re-forming Mirror Lancers-snaps, “Half the Guard on each flank! Half the Guard on each flank!”

Surprisingly, to Lorn, the barbarians do not charge, even as the red-trimmed brown tunics of the guards move into position on each side of the two Mirror Lancer companies. That they do not charge bothers Lorn, but he waits, ready to order a charge at any moment, but wanting to make sure that the guards cover the flanks.

In the hot stillness, four barbarians ride forward, reining up a good hundred cubits from Lorn. The lead rider-a bearded blond giant-holds a figure before him in the saddle-that of a small girl. He holds a dull dark blade at the girl’s throat.

“See, white demons! We have your women, more than a score. You let us return, white demon, and we will not harm these…”

Lorn stiffens inside. He glances to his left, then his right. The guards to his right are not quite in position, but all his other forces look to be. “You have invaded our land, and I should let you leave untouched, after all those you have killed?” He calls back to the blond warrior, easing the chestnut forward as he does, so that he is a good twenty cubits forward of his forces, where he can be seen. He has not spied any archers, and he hopes there are none. He keeps his lance low, although he has raised it some.

“These lands you took from our forefathers. They are not your lands. They were never yours, and soon they will again be the lands of the Jeranyi.” The Jeranyi leader jerks his head sideways. To his left is another rider holding a child, and Lorn can see women bound to mounts farther back in the barbarian forces. “We have your women, you see.”

Lorn eases the chestnut farther forward.

“Do not raise your devil lance, or she will die. So will the others!”

Lorn forces himself and his lance swings up. Hssst!

The chaos-bolt drives through the bearded blond’s chest. Almost as quickly, the big blade of the warrior beside the leader and the captive slashes through the girl’s neck.

Hssst! The barbarian who has slain the woman slumps across his mount’s mane.

“Charge! Discharge firelances at will!” Lorn orders. “Charge!” Lorn urges the chestnut forward, hoping the charge will force at least some of the barbarians to choose between fighting lancers and killing captives.

“Kill them!” shouts a barbarian, and the tall warriors charge to meet the Mirror Lancers.

Hssst! Hssst! Firelance bolts flash across the less-than-hundred cubits separating the two forces.

A high-pitched scream disabuses Lorn of the delusion that a few hostages might survive even before the firebolts from his lance rake across two barbarians. Then he is alternating slashes and parries with the sabre and triggering short blasts of chaos-fire on those few occasions when he can find enough space to take on a barbarian without striking a lancer or guard.

Dust swirls up, and horses scream. Men yell.

Lorn finds he is behind the barbarians, somehow alone for a moment. He lifts the lance.

Hssst! Hsst! Two bolts in succession drill through the back and neck of two barbarians.

Lorn turns to his right and looses another bolt, to bring down yet a third barbarian from behind. He gets in three more bolts before a giant of a figure with a blade nearly so long as Lorn’s firelance comes charging past a dying lancer and toward the overcaptain.

Lorn barely manages to slide the other’s blade off his sabre. The firelance crumples as he uses it to parry the barbarian’s backswing, but the big blade remains caught in the thin cupridium of the lance long enough for Lorn to jab the point of the sabre through the other’s neck, and wrench it back out. At times, the point he had added to the Brystan sabre has made the difference. He drops the lance and manages to yank clear the second sabre, smiling mirthlessly. Then he urges the chestnut toward a lancer beset by three barbarians.

Lorn takes the first from behind, and the second from the side with the official lancer sabre, and then he is past and fighting off another huge figure.

The dull sound of metal on metal becomes more common, and the testing of firelances dies away.

Abruptly-or so it seems-there are but lancers and guards looking blankly at each other, eyes darting this way and that, seeking another barbarian.

Lorn reins up, and looks across the grassy grass, grass now splashed with splotches of blood and other substances, and littered with bodies, some of horses, but mostly of men-and a handful of children and women. He tightens his lips and sheathes his lancer sabre, switching the Brystan one to his right hand. He is aware that whichever magus has been using a chaos-glass to view the battle is no longer doing so. “I hope you saw enough blood…” he murmurs under his breath.

After scanning the field, he reins up by a fallen barbarian, his eye caught by the shimmer of the blade beside the body, and dismounts. He takes the blade and studies it slowly.

“Ser! Ser!” Tashqyt guides his mount up beside the overcaptain’s.

Lorn glances up at Tashqyt.

“It’s over,” the squad leader reports. “We even checked the edge of the bluff, but no one escaped that way.”

“I know.” Lorn lifts the big blade, Hamorian-forged and — ground, from the workmanship. “I want all the blades collected and saved. Put them on the spare and captured mounts. The Majer-Commander will need proof.”

“Proof?”

“That Hamorian traders are sending blades to Jera, and that those blades are being used to kill lancers.” Lorn mounts slowly. His legs are tired, and his eyes stab. Then he glances down at the body of a woman, sprawled on the grass. He does not see how she died, but she is barely younger than Ryalth or Myryan. Or the grower’s daughter he had killed.

After a long moment, he looks up and meets Tashqyt’s eyes. “This time…it’s over.” He clears his throat. “What about our men?”

“Ah…we took some losses, ser.”

Lorn waits.

“A good score-and-a-half from the lancers, almost a score from the guards. And Whylyn, and two of the Guard squad leaders.”

“Threescore…” Lorn’s smile is tight. “Too many, but not bad for a first battle for most of them, and not at all bad against fifteenscore.”

“Eighteenscore, ser. Ah…I thought we needed to know.” Tashqyt looks down. “They killed most of the captives, ser. Almost a score. Five survived.”

Eighteenscore dead-more than in some small towns in Cyador. Lorn nods slowly. “Do we have any captive barbarians?”

“Halfscore, a bit more. They’re all wounded.”

“Where are they?” Lorn remounts the mare.

“Over by the bluff. There.” The sharp-featured Tashqyt gestures.

In the late-afternoon light, Lorn rides toward the captives. He dismounts and hands the chestnut’s reins to Tashqyt. He walks forward. There are fifteen men, all bearded, all with their hands bound behind them. One lies unconscious, on his side, in the dusty grass. The captives are surrounded by Drayl’s squad-half dismounted with sabres drawn; the others mounted, also with blades drawn.