Maran glances at Lorn, the brown eyes momentarily flat, instead of warm.
“Tell me, Maran,” Lorn adds, deliberately omitting the senior officer’s title. “When does a senior officer have the right to threaten the lives of a junior’s company and men for the sake of secretive plotting? Or for the interests of a few senior officers in Cyad?”
Maran raises his eyebrows, and the warm smile returns to his deep brown eyes. “I do not believe that has ever occurred. Threatening the lives of lancers, that is.”
“By the way,” Lorn says, “I thought you might wish to know that you have made my decisions far easier … oh, and that I have taken the liberty of taking a consort.”
“You did not consult with the Commander, or me, and that is usual. Then, you seldom do the usual.”
“But not required,” Lorn says, “not under the Lancer Rules of Procedure.” He continues to smile.
“There are many things which are not required, but wise, nonetheless,” Maran adds, “as you will doubtless discover in your short career.”
“No,” Lorn replies quietly. “As you will discover in a shorter career.” He draws the Brystan sabre that looks littledifferent from a lancer sabre now that it shimmers with a cupridium finish.
“You do anticipate, Captain, but …”
Hssst! The firebolt of a full magus flies at Lorn.
Lorn raises the sabre and twists it, also twisting the shields he holds, and flings the firebolt, energy he has now encased in black order-ordered chaos-fire-back at the majer. He turns the gelding so that he faces Maran’s right side.
“Trifling.” Maran languidly raises a hand as if to dispel the firebolt.
Lorn follows the returned firebolt with the sabre, letting it fly, guided by chaos-order, and filled with the twined order and chaos he has learned from the Accursed Forest.
“Uhhh!” As the firebolt shatters, the Brystan sabre’s sharpened point drives through the majer’s shoulder.
The warm smile vanishes from the majer’s face, and Lorn uses his chaos senses to drive another order-chaos beam at Maran.
“Black … angel …” Those are Maran’s last words. There are no hisses, no screams-Maran’s body just flares as the glowing golden white of chaos, enfolded by the deep black of order, flows around it. Then, there are no traces that he had ever been there, except for a handful of buckles, some coins-and the two sabres, Lorn’s and Maran’s, all of which slide off the white leather of Maran’s saddle.
Lorn sits stock-still for a moment, somehow both surprised that his attack has been so successful and gratified that his understanding of Maran has been so accurate. He also silently thanks Majer Brevyl.
After that short moment, Lorn rides forward and grasps the reins of Maran’s stallion, then dismounts.
First, he reclaims the Brystan sabre, gleaming as if it had never drawn blood. Then, he gathers Maran’s sabre and the metal in his gloved hands. He walks toward the ward-wall.
There he lifts the sabre … and tosses it over the ward-wall, followed by the other metal remnants. As the weapon crosses the chaos-net, it flares, and the heat-shimmering blade tumbles into the greenery on the inside of the granite.
After remounting the white gelding, Lorn leads the majer’s mount along the road for a time, although the stallion tosses his head more than once. After another kay, Lorn loops the reins over the saddle and then, with a yell, he slaps the fractious stallion’s rump. The bigger mount trots a distance, then slows, but continues to the southwest.
Lorn watches until he is certain the stallion will travel for at least a time before he turns the gelding and begins the ride back to the compound.
As he nears the gates, Lorn reins up and addresses the pair of guards. “Majer Maran should be back later. Tell him I’ll be in my study.”
“Yes, ser.”
Suforis hurries from the tack room even before Lorn has fully led the gelding into the stable.
“You see? It wasn’t all that long, and I never had him at more than a fast walk.”
“That be good, ser.” Suforis studies the gelding, then nods.
Lorn leaves his mount with the ostler and crosses the courtyard to re-enter the company study.
“Ser?” asks Kusyl.
“Majer Maran had a few words for me.” Lorn does not smile. “He said he would be back later when I had a chance to consider them.”
“Ah … yes, ser. I’m sorry, ser.”
“We often have to do what our seniors wish, Kusyl.” Lorn’s laugh is harsh. “As I’m sure you know.”
“Ah … yes, ser.”
With a nod, Lorn closes the door to the inner study.
He looks out the window once more. From now on, even more than in the past, he must watch and weigh every action, every word. And he must anticipate.
He wishes he could talk to Ryalth, but perhaps it is better that he not, for a time.
Lorn shakes his head and seats himself at the desk, where he continues work on the patrol summary report that Maran had interrupted. He will send that off, as required, with the next Engineer firewagon. Then he begins drafting yet anotherrequest to Commander Meylyd for replacement lancers. He has completed the second draft and is reading it when there is a knock on the door.
“Ser? There be some lancers here, asking of Majer Maran.”
Lorn frowns. “He hasn’t come back? Have them come in.” He remains seated as two lancers step into the inner study.
“Ser …. squad leader Jugyt, ser, and Shalar, ser,” offers the broad-shouldered junior squad leader. “We had been expecting the majer … but none be seeing him.”
Lorn offers a puzzled look. “We took a short ride. He said what he had come to say, and then said he would be back later. I came back, and I haven’t seen him since. I thought he had come back and left with you, since I hadn’t heard anything.”
“No, ser.”
Lorn fingers his chin. “The last time I saw him, he was riding the wall road, toward Westend, but we were only a few kays from here.” He stands and calls, “Kusyl!”
“Yes, ser?” Kusyl re-appears.
“Do you know if anyone has seen Majer Maran?”
“No, ser.”
“He said he was coming back, but his men here haven’t seen him,” Lorn explains.
“I don’t know as anyone has seen him since he left the compound, ser.”
Lorn purses his lips. “If you’d check with the guards and any of the men-or see if Juist’s company saw him. They rode back in a while ago.”
“Yes, ser.”
After Kusyl leaves, Lorn looks at the two lancers. “All we can do is look and see if anyone saw him. I’ll have my company check the area. It seems strange that he’d leave without you, but maybe he did.”
“He rides alone at times, it be true, ser, but always he returns,” says Jugyt.
Lorn shrugs helplessly. “I scarcely know what to say. We can check to see if there has been a tree-fall nearby, or ifthere are any tracks on the deadland.” He glances toward the window, and gestures toward the sun that hangs just above the compound walls. “Best we hasten.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn reclaims his sabre, then heads for the stable. This time he will use a spare mount, for despite the search for Majer Maran, Second Company will still begin a patrol tomorrow. After all, Maran would certainly not to have wanted Lorn to deviate from accepted Mirror Lancer procedures.
The captain who would be more offers a brief smile as he nears the stable.
CXI
AS SECOND COMPANY rides slowly toward the gates of the compound at Jakaafra, Lorn looks down at his bloodsplattered trousers, and then at the depleted firelance in the holder. The sun is almost touching the western horizon, outlining the silhouettes of distant orchards to the west, and casting long shadows from the walls of the compound.
Lorn does not look back at a company that is now really but the size of a single full-strength squad, nor at the three mounts that bear dead lancers. They have not permitted any wild creatures to escape despite another fallen trunk, but that is due to luck, and to the renewed tendency of the creatures to attack the lancers, rather than to attempt to escape beyond the deadland.