“Three hamlets?”
“You can ask your guards. Those hamlets and steads were the ones we saw. There may have been other smaller places. We forced them into a corner, and they refused to surrender. In fact, they demanded that we give them all safe passage back to Jerans-or they would kill all the hostages.” Lorn shrugs. “After all that they had killed already, I could not accede to that.”
“You let them kill hostages?”
“We did save a handful, and those we left with friends and families in Nhais.”
“You gave battle, and how many escaped?”
“None that we know of. We counted more than eighteenscore dead. I had your two remaining squad leaders verify that. We also returned with all their blades.”
Repyl swallows. “You slaughtered eighteenscore?”
“I wouldn’t call it a slaughter. We lost three-and-a-half score, and the lancers lost nearly twice what the Guard did,” Lorn says mildly. “Nor had we much choice when the barbarians were headed west to sack Nhais.”
“I…see.”
Lorn doubts that the District Commander really does, but nods just the same.
Repyl lowers his voice as his eyes fix on Lorn. “You knew before you left.”
“I did not know,” Lorn says evenly. “I thought it highly likely, but I could not prove it. If I told anyone, people might have acted unwisely. There has not been a raid here in generations, and there will not be another soon.”
“Acting such is dangerous.”
“Not to act would have been more so, Commander. And in not acting, the danger was far greater to the people of Cyador.” Lorn’s eyes are flat as he adds, “I expect I will be relieved. Sooner or later, but most possibly sooner.”
Repyl frowns. “Did you think of such before you left?”
“I did. But, after seeing what I saw in the Grass Hills for three years, I could see no other choice.”
“Truly…truly amazing. An honest and effective overcaptain in Biehl. One who serves his land before himself.” Repyl shakes his head slowly. “You are right, Overcaptain. You not likely to remain here.”
“I would expect not.” Lorn smiles. “I wish you well with my successor if it should come to that. And…you did a good job training them. I meant that. I will also report that I exercised my power, and that you were most cooperative, and that our success would not have been possible without your work.”
“I would appreciate such.”
For a moment, the two look at each other. Then Lorn bows. “Good day, Commander.”
“Good day, Overcaptain.”
Lorn turns and walks down the steps to remount the chestnut for the long ride back to the compound at Biehl and the longer wait for his replacement-or transfer-or disciplinary hearing, although he will be taking steps to ensure that a punitive discipline is unlikely, including scrolls to his brother, parents, and Ryalth, as well as copies of his battle report to the commanders at Assyadt, Syadtar, and Isahl, warning them of the stepped-up barbarian attacks, and the growing prevalence of Hamorian weapons that he has found. He may seek other means to ensure he is merely transferred to a dangerous command, rather than disciplined publicly-if he can think of such.
Perhaps even a report to the Hand of the Emperor, although he knows not if one so addressed will reach the shadowy figure.
XL
In the quiet of the twilight, two days after returning to Biehl and after writing scores of letters to families, drafting and dispatching battle reports, and persuading Neabyl and Comyr to authenticate the numbers and sources of captured weapons, Lorn sits at the desk in his personal quarters, sipping a glass of Alafraan and studying the chaos-glass. He finds no other raiders along the trails and tracks, but there is yet another Hamorian ship in the harbor at Jera.
Will all his efforts and all the deaths just fuel more hatred and allow the traders to sell more blades in Jera? Will the Majer-Commander have to establish outposts east of Biehl, or near Nhais, to protect the town and Escadr and the cuprite mines?
Releasing a deep breath, he lets that image of the harbor at Jera fade, for there is little he could do now, even were he to find another group of raiders riding through the Grass Hills or toward Nhais. There are none, he knows…not yet.
After another sip of Alafraan, and with a smile, he uses the glass to take a brief look at a lady trader, who dines on the upper portico of his parents’ dwelling-alone except for Jerial. The two are laughing, but the laughs die away, as he realizes they-both of them-sense the chaos-glass.
Abruptly, Jerial smiles, and murmurs something, and Ryalth touches her fingers to her lips.
Hundreds of kays away, Lorn smiles, then releases the image, wondering again at his consort’s sensitivity to the glass. His eyes stare, unfocused, into the twilight, as the momentary warmth the image of Ryalth has given him fades, and he considers again the past eightdays.
Perhaps fivescore Cyadoran men, women, and children have died. Nearly eighteenscore Jeranyi warrior raiders died because Lorn acted, and more than threescore Mirror Lancers and District Guards.
Why? Lorn can offer reasons, but the reasons make little sense. The Jeranyi feel that lands they have not lived upon for more than ten generations-if not longer-belong to them, and they wish to kill all those who now live there. Lorn has killed those Jeranyi, for they died because of his planning and tactics, to try to stop them from killing even greater numbers of Cyadorans innocent of anything but living where their ancestors lived.
After having seen the people who live east of Biehl, Lorn suspects many are of pure Jeranyi blood, yet they are considered white demons as much as he is, for all the years they and their families have been there.
Will those deaths change anything? Anything at all?
Without an answer, he picks up the silver-covered book and pages through it, slowly, scanning the lines. His lips curl ruefully as his eyes light on one of the verses that suddenly makes a great deal more sense to him. He reads the words, softly, but aloud.
I wish that
in this twisted land
there existed a prayer
as solid as my disbelief,
or failing that,
as solid as my
uncertainty.
Is that the job of a lancer or a magus of Cyad-to create certainty in an uncertain world? In a world where reasons seem distant, and insubstantial? Was that the purpose laid out by the refugees from the Rational Stars for the City of Eternal Light?
Lorn slowly closes the book and looks out into the darkness.
XLI
With the indirect light passing through the antique panes of the ancient windows, the polished white-oak table desk reflects the faces of Rynst and Luss as they sit across from each other in a long and windowed room on the fifth and highest floor of the Mirror Lancer Court, the room that is the inner study of the Majer-Commander.
Rynst looks at Luss, then speaks. “You are telling me that this overcaptain took the District Guards and two companies of barely equipped and half-trained Mirror Lancers and rode out for an eightday-leaving the port unprotected-and ambushed and somehow killed most-all of some barbarian raiders no one has ever seen or heard of? And he claims that they were planning to sack the town of Nhais, and then the vintners’ warehouses at Escadr and the cuprite mines at Dyeum? And that they were doing this with fresh-forged Hamorian blades? Is that what you are telling me, Captain-Commander?”
“Yes, ser. Overcaptain Lorn insists that the barbarians were planning such. There was no proof, of course, on which he could base his actions.”
Rynst frowns, and his eyes harden.
Luss’s eyes drop. “He does say that he has fifteenscore of their blades in the armory at Biehl.”