L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

… just can’t ever tell, ser … might be a raid now … might not be one for eightdays,” declares Nytral, as he rides beside Lorn in the chill, gray, and sunless afternoon. With the last of his words, the senior squad leader offers a shrug.

Lorn nods faintly at the phrases he has heard more than a few times over the past three eightdays, then glances northward at the sound of hoofs thudding on the frozen clay of the road. A lancer gallops southeast from the Third Company toward Lorn and Nytral, steam puffing from his mount’s nostrils.

“Never can tell, ser, but that’d be looking like a raid the scouts found.”

Not about to second-guess his senior squad leader, Lorn just keeps riding until the lancer reins up.

“Ser … there’s raiders over the hill, spoiling a herder’s place. Captain Zandrey’s orders be for your company to ride the path there, along the ridge, and then start down toward the herder’s place. Says you be making noise so as to spook’em out along the road, and that’s where he’ll be.”

“Tell Captain Zandrey that we’ll be following his orders.”

“Yes, ser.” The lancer offers a head bow, then turns his mount.

Lorn glances at Nytral, who smiles crookedly.

“Fifth Company! We’re taking that sheep trait-two abreast!” Lorn orders.

“Yes, ser!” answers Dubrez, the squad leader riding directly behind Lorn.

“I’ll ride back and tell Shofirg, ser,” offers Nytral.

Lorn nods as he guides his mount northward across the brown grass toward the trail that begins perhaps a half-kay northward of the road. The frozen brown grass crackles under the mare’s hoofs, and a few murmurs drift to Lorn on the light cold wind.

… they get the road … we climb goat paths …”

“ … leastwise … undercaptain’s up front …”

“ … supposed to be there …”

The trail is steeper and narrower than it had appeared from the road, so that the lancers ride single file. The sound of hoofs scrabbling on the frozen clay mixes with the mumbles of lancers, pitched low enough that Lorn can no longer distinguish anything but the general tone of dissatisfaction. He glances back, but the Third Company has vanished into the pass between the two hills.

The wind is stronger nearer the crest of the hill, and when Lorn finally reaches the top and is about to look down on the next valley, the chill gusts almost take his breath away. Below them the sheep path meanders downhill through a series of switchbacks to a small valley, an oval no more than two kays across at the widest point and less than four kays along its east-west length. A single clump of buildings set beside a long pond are the only sign of settlement-except for the dozen or so horsemen reined up outside the largest building, while other figures scurry around a long and narrow sod barn.

Lorn urges the mare into a slightly faster walk, the best he dares on the steep and hard ground of the path. His eyesflick from the path to the holding, and then to the line of lancers that follows him down the slope.

Nytral and Lorn have reached the second switchback on the way down the northern side of the hill when screams reach them-carried on the light wind. Lorn looks westward toward where the road enters the valley, but the undercaptain cannot see Zandrey’s company, and he wonders where the Third Company might be, since taking the road surely had to have been quicker than crossing a frozen field and then climbing and descending the hill.

One of the raiders gestures, as if to note Lorn’s company of lancers, but none of the raiders seem to stop their depredations-and another scream wavers through the chill air.

“Bastards, they are. Every last one of’em,” mumbles Nytral.

“They know we can’t reach them quickly.” Lorn still looks for Zandrey, but cannot see the Third Company anywhere. Is there a bridge down … or another group of raiders? Or is Zandrey going to let Lorn make the first attack?

As the last of the Fifth Company descends the path, finally lining up in formation, and begins its advance, the barbarians suddenly mount and begin to ride westward-away from Lorn.

“They’re running!” comes a yell from behind Lorn.

“For now,” counters Nytral. “Hold formation!”

“Hold formation!” Lorn orders as well.

As the Fifth Company reaches a flatter area of brown grass perhaps five hundred cubits south of the midpoint of the long pond, a series of flashes appears to the west-flashes of firelances.

Lorn conceals a frown. Has Zandrey been waiting beyond the low rise all along-letting the holders be killed and tortured-until Lorn charged the raiders into ambush?

“Third Company’s got’em!”

“Hold formation!” Nytral orders again.

As his Mirror Lancers near the holding itself, Lorn studies the ground, noting the closeness of the earthen dike that holds back the waters of the shallow pond, and the narrowspace between the northern end of the pond, and the steeper hills that define the northern side of the valley.

The firelances of the Third Company flash again, and amid the flashes come the screams-of mounts-not of men.

Close to half a score of the raiders wheel their mounts and turn away from Zandrey’s firelances, heading toward the northeast, as if to circle the frozen and narrow pond that extends almost a half-kay to the north, even though it was created by an earthen dike no more than four cubits high.

Lorn glances at the raiders’ course, and then at the pond, and the orders seem obvious, so obvious that his words seem ponderous and slow. “Dubrez! Take your squad around that pond! On the far side!”

“Yes, ser!” Dubrez offers Lorn the first smile the undercaptain has seen from the dour veteran.

“We’ll take this side in case they turn,” Lorn tells Nytral.

“Best send a half-score along the edge of the pond on this side,” suggests Nytral.

“It’s that shallow?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Do it!”

“Shofirg!” bellows Nytral. “Take a half-score on this side of the pond, up toward the north end.”

“Yes, ser!”

“We’ll take the rest down this side.”

Lorn, Nytral, and the remaining half-score of Shofirg’s squad quick-trot southward along the southern and western edge of the long pond. They near the holding buildings and ride toward the melee that now seems to involve all of Zandrey’s company and all the raiders except the handful that had already fled.

Suddenly, two more riders in leathers turn their mounts from the melee and begin to gallop toward the pond, heading eastward and almost directly in front of Lorn and the half squad that rides behind him. As the pair sees the small squad, they veer more toward Lorn’s right, trying to ride between the lancers and the frozen pond.

Lorn turns the mare nearly due north and urges her into agallop, half aware that Nytral and the other ten riders have fallen back momentarily.

As they race eastward, the two raiders lean forward in their saddles, yet manage to draw long blades that glisten like order death, even while spurring their mounts toward the low embankment that forms the south side of the pond. Lorn leans forward, giving the mare her head.

Both raiders rein up, and seeing the single lancer officer, turn and charge Lorn.

With a cold smile, Lorn reins up the mare. By the time she has halted, the raiders are less than a hundred cubits from him, and closing rapidly. He pulls his own firelance from the holder and levels it at the left rider of the pair.

Hssst! The reddish-white chaos-bolt bisects the barbarian chest-high.

Hssst! The second bolt takes the right shoulder and the head of the second raider.

The two raider mounts slow to a walk, as if hampered by the limp figures slumping in their saddles.