Eighteenscore dead-more than in some small towns in Cyador. Lorn nods slowly. “Do we have any captive barbarians?”
“Halfscore, a bit more. They’re all wounded.”
“Where are they?” Lorn remounts the mare.
“Over by the bluff. There.” The sharp-featured Tashqyt gestures.
In the late-afternoon light, Lorn rides toward the captives. He dismounts and hands the chestnut’s reins to Tashqyt. He walks forward. There are fifteen men, all bearded, all with their hands bound behind them. One lies unconscious, on his side, in the dusty grass. The captives are surrounded by Drayl’s squad-half dismounted with sabres drawn; the others mounted, also with blades drawn.
One of the captives lurches toward Lorn. “White demon!”
“You killed women and children who could not have harmed you.” Lorn draws the Brystan sabre.
“You are all demons.” The bound captive spits toward Lorn.
Lorn’s face is like ice as he steps forward, and there is a dull dunk as the chaos-enhanced blade separates the barbarian’s head from his torso. Both drop onto the blood-stained dust.
“My blood is on them all,” Lorn looks up at Drayl, mounted. “Not yours. Kill the others.”
“Ser?”
“If we release them, they’ll think we’re weak. Also, they killed those captives as certainly as if they had held the blades-and some probably did. We’re not killing captives. We’re killing the people who did.” Lorn takes the chestnut’s reins back from Tashqyt. “Do you want me to kill each of them myself?”
Drayl looks down. “No, ser.”
“Then do your duty.” Lorn mounts, then turns the chestnut and leaves the squad leader and the lancers who had been guarding captives. He ignores the scattered curses and yells of the captives as they die.
His guts are tight, but his movements are graceful. His head throbs, and he can feel the tiredness in his arms and legs. Tiny knives stab at his eyes, a reminder that he has apparently used chaos in fighting, although he does not specifically remember doing so.
“…say one thing…doesn’t ask…what he won’t do…”
“…butcher…”
“…they any better?…saw those steads…what they did here…”
Lorn has no answers, for every answer he had before the battle was wrong, and so is every one after it. He can but hope, once more, that he has chosen the lesser of evils, and the one that will cost Cyad the least in the years to come. But he knows that the wars with the Jeranyi have come to Biehl, fueled by old hatreds and new Hamorian blades, and before long, no matter what he could have done, there will be more raids and more destruction, and more deaths.
Is he but a puppet of the times? One reacting to old hatreds? Or is his evil worse, because he has the freedom to act, and has chosen to annihilate an entire force of barbarians in hopes of preserving Cyadoran lives, when he has no way of truly knowing whether his actions will? And whether he can make the times different from what they would have been without him?
XXXVIII
Lorn’s Mirror Lancers and the District Guards ride along the north bank of the River Behla, westward toward Ehyla. They had traveled so far south and west in pursuing the raiders that the dusty river-road is a far shorter return than retracing their tracks to the northeast and along the beaches would have been.
Lorn studies the muddy river, a good hundred cubits across, but still not much deeper than four or five cubits in most places, except for the occasional narrows where the depths may reach twenty cubits. The willows are taller, and more abundant, and a scattering of other trees mixes with them along the bank. There are now some woodlots along the north bank, although the land beyond the south bank remains flat grassland interspersed with ever more frequent fields.
As he passes particular landmarks, he adds them to his maps, lightly and carefully with a charcoal stick, although he doubts he will use them again. While losing threescore-and-ten is not unreasonable against eighteenscore, the losses are more than have been seen in Biehl in generations. Despite the Hamorian-forged blades packed on the spare and captured mounts, he has no doubts that the outcry will be equally loud, and provide ample reason for his swift replacement. For if he is believed-that there is a true Jeranyi danger-the Majer-Commander must dispatch a more senior officer-and if Lorn is not, then he will be relieved to face some form of discipline.
Behind him the lancers still murmur, as they have for the last two days, almost as if they cannot believe what has happened, and must keep talking about it.
“…still don’t believe…overcaptain…must have slaughtered more ’n score himself…”
“…did all right yerself…”
“Just let ’em kill her, he did. Pretty little thing…”
Lorn winces, but continues to watch the river.
“Got ’em all, didn’t he?”
“…know…but don’t seem right…”
“…let ’em loose, and they’d kill more…couldn’ta caught ’em all. You know that.”
“…you saw that hamlet…want ’em doing that to yer folk?”
“…still don’t seem right…”
After a battle such as the last, Lorn doubts anything is right. He glances to the northwest. After two days of riding from Nhais, they still have more than a day’s ride to reach Ehyla, if not two. And then his newest set of problems will begin.
XXXIX
As the Mirror Lancers and the District Guards form up outside the guard building in Ehyla, a light drizzle falls from the low gray clouds moving in off the Northern Ocean and over the River Behla. While the clouds are dark, and getting blacker, so far, the rain has not even wet the dust on the road. Lorn rides to where the guard squads have reined up, and halts the chestnut before the grizzled Wharalt.
“Ser?” The senior guard looks steadily at the overcaptain.
“You and your men did a good job-a very good job, and we could not have stopped the barbarians without you. Some of them-and you-may ask in the future whether what we did was necessary.” Lorn’s eyes hold Wharalt’s, “I spent three years in the Grass Hills, and I would judge so. I am returning your command to Commander Repyl, but I will also tell him how valiantly you all behaved. Also, under the Emperor’s Code, death golds are paid to the families of District Guards who die under the command of the Mirror Lancers. It is not enough, and they will be slow in coming, but they will come, and that is why I asked for their names. I would not deny them what they paid for with their lives. I would that you would watch for such and ensure that the families receive those golds.”
“That I will, ser.” Wharalt bows his head. “Ser…even I can see what must be done. None like it, but none will gainsay it. Many would have cost us more, I fear. You and your lancers took the brunt of the attacks. And that I be telling all, ser.”
“Thank you.” Lorn returns the bow, then guides the chestnut toward the building entrance.
Commander Repyl waits on the steps as Lorn dismounts and ties his mount to a brass ring.
Lorn walks forward and bows to the commander. “Commander Repyl, I am pleased to return your companies to your command. They have performed valiantly and well, and your training and organization are to be commended.”
Repyl’s mouth tightens as he takes in the more than a score of missing mounts and empty saddles. For a time, he does not speak. “I am certain you did your very best, Overcaptain, valiant lancer officer that you are, but since I was not there, would you care to explain the casualties, Overcaptain?”
Lorn nods. “I will. I will also send you a copy of the report I will be dispatching to the Majer-Commander.” He clears his throat. “We were fortunate enough to intercept a barbarian raiding force. There were about twentyscore. They were well inside Cyad, almost to Nhais when we were able to catch them on the south bank of the river. They had already burned at least three hamlets, a halfscore steads and holdings. They killed all but a score of the people living there.”