To build what must be built, and raise new halls,
to guard what must be held in shining walls,
to slay the demons of unreasoning hate-
all those, and more, have come to be my fate.
Do I regret the stars that cast me here?
No more than knowing life is fragile, dear
and fleeting, or that my words die unread,
for words cannot contain what souls have said.
“ ‘Words cannot contain what souls have said…’” Lorn muses, nodding to himself.
His eyes drift back up to another phrase-“demons of unreasoning hate.” There are so many who hate so fiercely that it is beyond reason, from the barbarians to Dettaur to those Lorn does not even know. The ancient writer had said his fate was to slay such. But the other poems had revealed the man’s sensitivity-and Lorn is not unaware of the irony of slaying demons of hate. Where each demon is slain, more hate is raised, yet hate unchecked also multiplies, and love alone will not brook hatred that holds a blade.
“So you will raise a greater blade?” Yet he has searched and can find no other choices, not that are open to him, in this world, at this time, for doing what others will is death indeed. And doing what others will is not the way to save Cyad so that what it stands for will continue to shine out. He finds another page and reads the concluding stanza.
Merage, altage, elthage, all bow to thee,
from Rational unity come these three,
and neither chaos, nor the lance, nor gold
shall seize this city of the stars foretold,
for Cyad holds the fate of all this earth,
and all of soul and skill that is of worth.
So shine forth both in sun and into night
bright city of prosperity and light.
He looks into the darkness for a long time before he stands and then walks to his bedchamber where he places both the silver-covered book and the chaos-glass in the saddlebags he will carry in the morning.
LX
With his saddlebags over his left shoulder, Brystan sabre at his belt, lancer sabre and map scrolls in his left hand, Lorn looks at Nesmyl. “You have a half-squad, and the cooks and other staff. I wish it could be more, but we will need every man.”
“Many be the lancers who would have given much to see what I see, ser. It be long past time that the raiders be bearded in their lands. I’d almost be wishing I be with you, ser,” replies the slightly bent senior lancer. His smile is crooked. “Almost.”
“Times have changed, Nesmyl, and we must change with them.” Lorn gestures toward the study. “If Majer Dettaur should arrive here, not that I expect him, you can tell him that, in accord with his wishes, I have all the companies on patrol in order to better protect the lands and people of Cyador.”
“That I will, ser. That I will.”
“I suggest closing at least the inner gates, once we ride out.”
“That I had considered already, ser.”
“Do you have any last questions?”
“This be not a question…but…ser…should you bring back much booty and success, best you take it and lay it at the feet of the commander at Assyadt.”
“If…if we are so fortunate…” Lorn nods a last time and walks to the door, and then out into the gray light of a sunless morning just after dawn. His boots carry him across the courtyard to the stable, where Hasmyr has the white gelding waiting for him.
“There be a small pouch of grain there, ser. Most you dare carry. Try to find such for all the mounts, as you can.”
“I will,” says Lorn as he fastens his gear behind the saddle, then checks the firelance and his water bottles. His eyes go to the spare mounts, which carry another score of spare firelances, few enough for the forces he has mustered.
He mounts and then rides across the paving stones of the courtyard toward the most junior undercaptain, Quytyl.
“Ser?”
“How’s the arm?”
“Still a touch stiff, ser, but strong.”
“Good,” Lorn says, even as he doubts the young officer’s words. “Fifth Company will be second for now, behind Third Company.” While he had given the order the day before, he wants to reemphasize it.
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn checks with each of the other officers, then rides to the front of the column where Emsahl and Third Company are formed up. “Let’s go.”
“Yes, ser.” Emsahl raises his arm, then drops it.
The sound of hoofs on stone fills the courtyard, and the road to the inner gates, as six companies ride out from Inividra.
The early morning remains gray, with high thin clouds and a light but warm breeze out of the southwest, as the column turns toward the road to Jerans. Lorn looks backward at Inividra, where two older lancers close the inner gates-an outpost empty except for Nesmyl, the cooks, and less than a halfscore of lancers.
Neither for the first time, nor the last, Lorn suspects, he wonders if he can manage to accomplish what he plans.
From what he had seen in the glass the afternoon before, and again early in the morning, the only barbarians stirring are those to the northeast, far closer to Syadtar. That makes some sense, because the later snows, the spring snows, had fallen more to the west, but the roads are muddy in only a handful of places, and the barbarians appear involved either in planting or dealing with their flocks and other spring farming or herding tasks.
Lorn squares his shoulders and studies the road ahead.
LXI
Lorn continues to wear his oiled white-leather winter jacket, but leaves it open for the hint of breeze that occasionally rises. He is warm, but not quite sweating, as he rides northwest on the narrow trail-like road that leads out of the Grass Hills. The high clouds have remained with the Cyadoran forces for all three days since they have ridden out of Inividra, but the rain has been light and intermittent. None has fallen on the Cyadoran forces since shortly after dawn, but mist rises off the hills to the northwest, where the warmish rain has been melting the last of the snows. Roughly five kays beyond those hills, if his maps are correct, lies the first barbarian town on his route through Jerans.
Lorn rides at the head of the column, beside Emsahl, on a road which is damp clay, but with few puddles or muddy sections. Directly behind them is Emsahl’s senior squad leader, and the junior squad leader for Third Company’s first squad.
“We’re headed away from Clynya, are we not, ser?” asks Emsahl.
“The raiders who strike Assyadt come from the northwest, mostly from the towns along the branches of the River Jeryna,” Lorn says. “That’s where we’re headed.”
“You’ve been planning this for a time, ser.” Emsahl’s words are a statement.
“At least since Rhalyt asked why we just sat and watched.” Lorn frowns as he studies the hills. “The first town ought to be on the far side over there, through that odd-looking pass. There’s a stream on the other side, the first real one north of the Grass Hills.”
“You know you were coming to Inividra, ser?” asks the older captain.
“I knew I’d be sent somewhere to fight barbarians,” Lorn answers.
“You’ve been collecting maps and stuff on the barbarians for a long time. Have to be, with all you know.”
“When you’re not born a Mirror Lancer, you know you’ll fight barbarians,” Lorn points out. “It makes sense to learn as much as you can.”
“Folks don’t always do what makes sense.”
“True enough.” Lorn laughs. “Let’s hope that what the scouts find makes sense as well.”
The bearded Emsahl grunts an assent.
Still, it is midmorning before Lorn sees the scouts riding toward them. He turns toward the captain. “Emsahl, would you have one of your lancers summon the officers?”
“Yes, ser.” The older captain turns in the saddle. “Dwyt, send a messenger. Majer wants the officers quick-like.”
“We’ll rein up here, and let the men stand down for a bit.” Lorn turns in the saddle. “Companies! Halt!”