L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

I have engaged an enumerator. He is nothing to compare to the first. He is most polite, but he keeps calling me sire. He says it is habit. There are but two other houses and no clans headed by merchanter women ….

“Here comes the overcaptain,” Cyllt murmurs.

Lorn slips Ryalth’s scroll under those from his father and Myryan but does not move the report or the blank paper on which he will reply to Ryalth.

The brown-haired and stocky Zandrey glances at the heavy goblet beside Cyllt. “Wine can become too much of a friend here in Isahl.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn keeps his nod to himself, recalling Jostyn, who’d taken to carrying bottles in his saddlebags-first Alafraan and then the cheapest fermented fruit dregs-until the barbarians had caught him off-guard. For a time, Sub-Majer Brevyl had banned all wine in the study and at Isahl, to punish the officers for not letting Brevyl know that Jostyn was a danger.

“You knew,” Brevyl had said to the remaining officers when he’d gathered them together. “You knew, and no one told me. Good lancers were killed, and that shouldn’t have happened.”

Besides the wine leaving Isahl-if but for a season-so had Overcaptain Chyorst, as a mere captain. And they’d later heard he’d died patroling the Accursed Forest, although his body had never been found.

“Ask Lorn there about what wine did to other officers,” Zandrey says. “Or not, as you choose.” His smile is mirthless, and he turns and walks toward Lorn.

Unlike Cyllt, Lorn stands, if easily. “Ser.”

“Sit down, Lorn.” Zandrey pulls out a chair.

Lorn re-seats himself.

“Nice patrol … Kielt talked to Dubrez,” the overcaptainsays conversationally, although in a low voice. “Over threescore barbarians … that’s a lot for Ram’s End. I checked the old reports. There hasn’t been a raiding party that large there in more than a score of years. Assyadt out west, yes, but not this far east and north.”

Lorn lifts the report. “Would you like this? I just finished it.”

The overcaptain shakes his head. “Drop it in my box in the morning. Did you notice anything different?”

“They formed a wedge to charge us. It wouldn’t have worked as well if we had full lance charges.”

“I got a scroll from Eghyr. He said they were doing that at Abyfel.” Zandrey’s lips form a crooked smile.

“He’s the overcaptain for the west sector there, isn’t he?”

“He is. He’ll probably make sub-majer in another two years.”

“He’s very sharp,” Lorn says.

“Not so sharp as you. You could be an overcaptain for one of Jeranyi sectors, Lorn,” observes Zandrey. “Another two years and you’d be ready.” A short laugh follows. “Two years after that, it might happen.”

“That’s what the younger sons of the Magi’i do, isn’t it? Most of them? Before they die, I mean?” Lorn’s words are gentle, almost flat.

“Those who aren’t talented enough to become Magi’i or stupid enough to get killed by the barbarians,” ripostes Zandrey. “Or who don’t get too fresh with their overcaptains.” The hint of laughter beneath his last words undercuts their seriousness.

“I don’t think I’ll be an overcaptain for a barbarian sector.” Lorn’s voice is languid, an ease of tone unmatched by the coldness in his amber eyes.

“You’re meant for something.” Zandrey shrugs as he stands. “Nothing ever seems to get to you.” Then he grins. “Just remember the rest of us poor struggling lancer officers when it happens.”

“If you’ll do the same for me, ser.” Lorn stands and returns the grin.

Cyllt’s eyes harden as he glances from Zandrey to Lorn and then back at the departing overcaptain.

Lorn reseats himself to finish the scroll to Ryalth, which will be sent to a trader in Fyrad, from there to make its way to her through some indirect route of which he is totally unaware. His lips curl in a slight smile. That is to protect her, except that she was the one to arrange it, to protect him. As in this, as in everything in Cyador, little is as it seems, even under an emperor of the Rational Stars.

At the other table, Cyllt takes a long swallow of the Byrdyn.

THE HOT WIND blows out of the northwest, away from the raiders and directly into Lorn’s eyes. He squints slightly as he looks along the low rise, easing his white mare along the side of the Fifth Company until he is barely forward of all the lancers, if on the flank.

The barbarians have formed into two wedges, almost a half a kay away. As Lorn watches, a series of yells echo through the afternoon air, and the two wedges begin to move, then to hurl themselves across the late summer grass at the Fifth and Second Companies. Dust rises over the browntipped grass that is but knee-high on a mount.

“Cyllt! First squad on the right wedge!” Lorn orders. “Dubrez, have Shofirg’s squad support the Second Company.”

“Yes, ser!” Dubrez answers.

“Yes, ser.” The undercaptain’s response lags Dubrez’s.

Lorn slips his lance from the holder, keeping it low, and aiming it with his chaos-senses, at the knees of the horse that leads the left wedge of the raider attack.

Hssttt! The single line of chaos flame is brief, going unseen and unheard beneath the thunder of the sixscore barbarians who charge the Mirror Lancers. The horse goes down, and so close are those that follow that another fourhorses are tangled in the mass, slowing the entire left wedge. As the barbarians near, Lorn can make out clearly that most now bear polished iron shields, small round ovals that they raise to deflect the chaos bolts from firelances that no longer hold the power of years previous.

“Lances ready!” Dubrez orders. “Lances ready.”

Lom uses his lance covertly once more, for he draws chaos from where he can find it, not from the inadequate chaos charges within the lance haft. A second well-chosen mount topples, and more physical chaos snarls the left wedge of the charging barbarians.

“Now! Dubrez! Forward and discharge at will! Short bursts!”

“Forward! Short bursts!” orders the senior squad leader. “Short bursts!”

Hhsst! Hhsst! The short bolts of golden-white chaos drop many of those barbarians at the front of the wedges, but the mass of horses and riders strikes the advancing Mirror Lancer line, which slows and bends.

A barbarian, unbalanced by the weight of both shield and hand-and-a-half blade, slashes too wildly. Lorn’s cupridium sabre flashes like a short stroke of lightning, and he is past the dying barbarian, driving the chaos-reinforced blade through another’s shoulder.

Lorn senses another rider to his left, and twists his body out of the way of the unwieldy big blade, using a backswing. to sever the attacker’s neck from the back. He recovers in time to turn the mare and take down another raider from behind, then spurs his mount out of the center of the melee, using the sabre to weave a shimmering line of defense.

Once clear, he wheels the mare, then waits for a moment, before engaging a raider about to blindside a lancer tied up with one of the barbarian giants. Although the barbarian senses Lorn’s approach, he is too late-and takes a deep slash across the shoulder. His big blade spins downward, and he tries to smash the iron shield across Lorn’s sabre hand-his left-but that too is slow and late. The sabre slashes across the struggling barbarian’s neck, and Lorn pulls clearof the swirl of barbarians and lancers, a swirl that suddenly separates into two forces once more.

Almost as quickly as it has begun, the skirmish is over, and Lorn watches as perhaps three score raiders ride northward. Several sway in their saddles.

Around Lorn rises the chaos of death and the stench of blood. He glances at his own sabre, smeared with blood. Dark splotches also decorate his left forearm, and dapple his trousers. He wipes the sabre clean with the cloth attached to his saddle, then sheaths it.