L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“Find the wounded first!” snaps Dubrez. “Dispatch any of the barbarians. They’d do worse to you.” His words are directed at three of the newer lancers, for whom this has been the first or second barbarian attack.

Their sabres out, the three men walk slowly from fallen figure to fallen figure.

“One of ours, here.”

Two other lancers appear with dressings, and the three continue onward through the bodies. Once a sabre flashes, but none of the three speak.

Ignoring the headache that comes with drawing chaos from the grasslands, Lorn lets the mare carry him slowly to a section of the trampled grass free of fallen mounts, or dead or dying lancers and barbarians. He takes a slow, deep breath, his eyes on the northwest part of the grassy ridge. The raiders are well out of sight beyond the first range of hills to the north.

Lorn turns his mount.

Dielbyn, the senior squad leader of the Second Company, rides slowly toward Loon.

Lorn waits.

“The undercaptain … ser …”

“He fell,” Lorn acknowledges. “Bravely.” All officers die bravely.

“Yes, ser.” Dielbyn’s eyes do not look away from his captain’s.

After a moment, Lorn nods, then asks, “How many in the Second Company can fight?”

“The second squad took most of the charge … six left there, ser. Ten from the first squad. Four of’em won’t be much good in a fight.”

Lorn considers. The Second Company had been a halfscore under strength before they had started the patrol. “Can the wounded ride?”

“Yes, ser. Slowlike. Except for Cymion. Won’t last much longer, though.”

Dubrez sits on his mount thirty cubits away, waiting.

“Get them ready to move out,” Lorn says.

“Yes, ser.”

After Dielbyn returns to reform the Second Company, Dubrez rides closer to Lorn before reining up. “Lost four, ser. All in Shofirg’s squad. Three with wounds in Gylar’s squad.”

“Thank you.” Lorn considers. After starting the patrol with thirty five lancers, the Fifth Company still numbers nearly a score and a half, but the Second has less than a score of lancers. Majer Brevyl will not be pleased with two companies returning, but two raider bands as large as the one the Fifth and Second Companies had vanquished would be unlikely, and if Lorn presses on, few if any of the wounded will survive. Lorn also knows that neither company will be soon reinforced, nor are fully recharged firelances likely to arrive to replace those discharged in fighting the barbarians.

Lorn’s smile is fixed as he prepares to order the return to Isahl. Behind the smile, he wonders. How long can he continue to hold back barbarians with fewer men and firelances less fully charged? At times, he is already feeling that he can draw no more chaos for his own use without risking his own life.

LORN REMAINS STANDING before the desk-table in the square tower, the late afternoon light from the high windows cascading around him, illuminating the dust motes that hang in the air, some of which seem to glitter with minuscule pointsof chaos. His eyes watch the newly promoted Majer.

“ … you destroyed three score, but lost more than a score yourself. Then you turned back without completing the patrol.” Brevyl’s voice is flat. So are his green eyes.

“Yes, ser.”

“You could have pressed on,” the Majer observes. “Others have. That is what lancers do, if you don’t recall, Captain.”

“Yes, ser, I could have.” Lorn keeps his voice even, emotionless. “We would have lost all the wounded, and we wouldn’t have seen any raiders. If you wish, ser, we’ll return to patrol tomorrow.”

“If any of your wounded survive, Captain.” Brevyl pauses. “I liked you better when you were a polite and subservient undercaptain.” The Majer snorts. “You’re supposed to kill barbarians, Captain, not offer me reasons why you aren’t.”

“Yes, ser.”

“You’ll return the day after tomorrow. I’ll transfer a half score from Zerl’s company to yours. Not the Second. Combine both squads under Dielbyn and use them as a third squad. You can have a score of charged lances. That’s all.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn bows. “We’ll be ready, ser.”

“And Captain …”

“Yes, ser?”

“The Majer-Commander likes lancer officers who follow orders and die. He has little use for lancer officers who impose their own priorities.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn meets Brevyl’s eyes.

After a moment, Brevyl is the one to look away. “You may go, Captain.”

Lorn bows again. He also inclines his head slightly to Kielt, the senior squad leader and the Majer’s doorkeeper, on his way out of the tower.

He crosses the courtyard and turns northward toward the barracks.

Dubrez stands by the side of the barracks building as Lorn approaches. “Ser?”

Lorn smiles. “Tell the men they have tonight and tomorrow off. I’ll talk to Dielbyn. The Majer is restructuring theSecond as a third squad of the Fifth. That will probably be until we get another officer and some reinforcements.”

“That could be spring, ser,” ventures the senior squad leader.

“It could be. It could be in a pair of eightdays, too.” Lorn pauses. “Don’t tell the men about the Second yet.”

“No, ser. Best to let Dielbyn tell’em.” Dubrez’s smile is ironic. “Won’t hurt to have another squad, a full one.”

“No. It won’t.” Lorn glances toward the stables, where he can see several lancers still grooming mounts, then back to Dubrez. “I’m going to the infirmary. Then I’ll find Dielbyn.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn’s boots barely whisper on the hard stones of the courtyard as he walks along the north side of the barracks. He steps through the untended and time-darkened white oak door. The infirmary consists of a long bay at the north end of the barracks, with a dozen pallet bunks on each side. In more than two years, Lorn has never seen more than a half score lancers in the infirmary, and he has used his healing talents secretly and sparingly, for the energy required is great, and he does not wish that talent known. What he plans is a somewhat greater risk, but if all the wounded die, he risks even greater displeasure from the Majer.

There are three lancers laid out in the infirmary bunks, lying in the alternate bunks on the south side. Lorn’s eyes flick to the first man, almost sprawled on his back, his undertunic half ripped away from his chest. With each intermittent breath, the lancer gurgles, then shudders. His eyes are wide open, seeing nothing. The captain can sense the whitish red of chaos that envelops the man, chaos so raw and pervasive that Lorn knows the man will die within the day.

Slowly, Lorn walks past the dying man and an empty pallet to the third bed, where a stocky blond lancer is propped up with horsehair pillows, covered with a faded gray cotton cloth.

“Ser?” asks the lancer, who wears a wood and leather brace around his lower left leg.

“I wanted to see how you’re doing, Eltak.” Lorn offers a smile.

“Be all right, ser.”

“I’m sure you will be.” Lorn nods and leans forward, his fingers touching the brace. “It’s not causing a sore, is it?”

“No, ser.”

Lorn has to struggle to summon the smallest bit of dark order, so opposed to the flow of chaos, to squeeze away the clump of red chaos that lingers where the broken bones meet. He keeps smiling as he straightens. While the bone is set, and healing, and Eltak will recover, he will limp. “You’ll be riding again in a season.”

“Thought so, ser.”

Lorn nods and moves past another empty pallet to the third lancer, where he stops. An angular young man with wiry black hair lies propped up with pillows, a dressing across his right shoulder. Lorn has to search his memory for the man’s name, although the lancer is in Shofirg’s squad. After a moment, Lorn asks, “How are you feeling, Stynnet?”