L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“Dubrez … have someone watch the little girl … and check on anyone else here. No liberties with her! Or anyone else. None!” Lorn’s voice cuts like the sabre at his side, and he gestures at the four nearest lancers. “You four! Follow me!”

He turns his mount westward, riding back out through the gate and turning westward to follow the barbarians who have ridden away from the road, and toward the nearest hill.

Two hundred cubits or so beyond the sod wall, he glances at the lancers who follow. The leading rider, the youngest, is white-faced.

Lorn smiles and returns his attention to the faint track of chaos that he follows through the high and browning grass.More sweat drips from under the brow of the lightweight and white summer garrison cap, sweat that he blots away as they continue riding westward.

The lancers cover a kay through the browning late summer grass, then two kays. Lorn can sense that, as they reach the slightest of inclines leading toward a thin stream marked by young willows, the barbarians are not that far away, and he lets the mare slow her walk.

The half score of barbarians have watered their mounts and watch from their saddles as Lorn and the four Lancers ride toward them.

“Blades ready,” Lorn says quietly. He knows the firelances of the four are without chaos charges. His fingers touch his lance, but do not grasp it, as he continues to ride forward.

“You will die, white demon,” announces the broad-shouldered giant in the center of the ten barbarians. The man is doubtless two heads taller than Lorn, and four stones heavier, without a finger’s worth of fat anywhere.

“Why do you kill the holders? They don’t attack you.” Lorn’s voice is level, as he continues to let the mare walk slowly toward the barbarians.

“These lands were our lands in the time of our grandsires’ grandsires. They will be ours again.” The language is the guttural barbarian tongue only loosely related to Cyadoran or the Anglorian from which it came.

“Why did you kill the girl?” asks the captain.

“Women serve men. She would not serve us. Besides, she was white-spawn.” The man laughs, mockingly.

Lorn lazily raises the light lance, seemingly without pointing it, then concentrates, as he sweeps it sideways. The thin line of chaos bisects the six barbarians in the center of the group-and their mounts-one after the other. The giant is still clutching for his immense blade as his upper torso crashes into the tall grass.

“ … dung-frig …” hisses a lancer behind Lorn.

The pairs untouched-two men at each end-look almost blankly as mounts scream and riders fall. Without pausing, Lorn turns the lance to the two at the south side.

Hsst! Hsst! With two almost-delicate bolts of chaos, two more barbarians fall.

After sheathing the firelance, almost automatically, Lorn turns his head to the remaining two raiders. “Go!” He forces the words out, fighting against dizziness, and a headache that threatens to cleave his skull in twain. “Tell your clan what happens to those who kill girls and women.”

The two raiders glance at the slender Mirror Lancer captain and the four lancers who flank him.

“Tell them!” Lorn forces a cold laugh. “Brave warriors, tell them.”

“Never!” The younger warrior raises his blade, order-death edged iron, and charges toward Lorn.

Despite the dizziness, Lorn draws his own shimmering cupridium blade, then spurs the mare, leaning forward, focusing into the blade that chaos he can draw from the air and land around him, and from the dead and dying.

Reddish white light flickers from the cupridium, seemingly lengthening the blade, until it is almost a lance.

The young barbarian’s eyes widen. He tries to lever the bar-like greatsword toward Lorn more quickly, but he is too late, and the light fades from his eyes as the chaos lance flicks past the death-ordered iron. He spews from his saddle.

The older barbarian warrior has turned his mount and gallops northward.

Lorn clutches his saddle with his knees, barely hanging onto his sabre. His head rings as though it were a bell struck with an iron mallet, and knives of white pain lance through his eyes.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he eases the cupridium sabre back into its scabbard. Then his fingers close around the water bottle. Each movement is slow, deliberate, as he lifts the bottle to his lips and drinks.

Only then does he turn the mare back toward the wide-eyed and silent lancers who have ridden with him.

“Darkness, ser! Never seen a light lance do that,” blurts the youngest.

Lorn offers a lazy smile over the anger boiling inside him,a smile forced despite the dizziness and agony that he must fight to stay mounted. “Do what?”

“ … ah … what you did, ser.”

The shrug is an effort, but Lorn makes it seem effortless. “I killed some barbarians. That’s what we’re here for. Gather the good mounts and follow me.” Ignoring the moans from one bearded figure lying on flattened grass, a man who will die shortly, Lorn turns his mount back eastward, back toward the raided holding.

After a time, he can hear the mounts of his lancers as they hurry to catch up with him. He does not look back until the youngest lancer draws nearly abreast.

“Only got two mounts. One other lame-you killed the others, ser.”

“Two will be fine, Yubner.” Lorn’s voice is professional, neither warm nor cold.

“Yes, ser.”

Yubner drops back, and the murmurs begin, voices low enough not to be heard, except by a lancer officer trained in chaos use.

“ … ever see that …”

“ … more’n once, Yubbie … more’n once, and you’d not be saying a thing outside the squad. Understand?”

“ … just … killed’em … doesn’t matter which hand holds sabre ….”

“ … they’d do that to you, boy … done it to a lot of lancers … see those girls? Why you think we’re out here?”

“But …”

“ … not a word … See how many a’ us come back … look at the other companies … Captain Jostyn …’member that?”

The murmurs die away as Lorn and the four near the gate to the holding.

From his saddle, Dubrez studies Lorn as the five ride slowly through the broken holding gate. The last two lancers following Lorn each lead a barbarian mount. The senior squad leader rides toward the captain, then reins up as Lorn does.

Dubrez nods slowly, then announces, “Lost seven lancers, ser. Took down near-on two score, maybe more.”

“There were ten who tried to get away. We killed nine,” Lorn says flatly.

“Your lancers didn’t have any chaos charges left in their lances,” Dubrez murmurs quietly. “None of us did. They aren’t charging the lances as much as they used to.”

“That’s why one got away,” Lorn lies. “I didn’t want to risk our men, and we did get all but him.”

“Nine out of ten … can’t outwager that.” Dubrez laughs, once, harshly.

“Who survived among the holders?” Lorn asks.

“Two older women, two boys, one woman, and the girl. That’s all, ser.”

“They’ll have to ride back with us, at least to some other holding, if not to Isahl.”

Dubrez glances at the dead raider by the house, the one whose head Lorn had burned off. “We must have killed close to three score … and they’ll be back in an eightday or a season-who knows-and we’ll have to fight with less chaos in our lances.”

“Maybe …” Lorn offers. “Can you get a few of those barbarian mounts for the holders? They can’t stay here, and we might as well head back. Not much more that we can do here.”

“True, ser.” Dubrez’s smile is grim. “Should be able to find six good mounts.” He turns his mount. “Stynnet! You and Forlgyt get six gentle mounts. Holders’ll ride out with us. We’re headed back to Isahl, captain says.”