“Quick-trot! Now!” Lorn orders, and the three captains behind him echo the orders, which are relayed by the squad leaders.
As they ride westward, toward the town, even from a half-kay away, Lorn can see that the houses are not set square to the road, or to the lanes, but almost haphazardly, with ramshackle outbuildings, and often piles of rubbish within kays of the dwellings. An odor, both rancid and acrid, hangs over the place.
Lorn unsheathes the sabre, holding it in his left hand with the reins, for the moment, the firelance out and leveled in his right, as they ride toward the first clumps of dwellings.
“Get the demons!”
From the right, charging from behind an abandoned and roofless hovel, rides a group of barbarians, perhaps a halfscore bearing the long and dark iron blades of Hamor. Ignoring the superior numbers of the lancers, they spur their mounts toward the four-abreast front of Mirror Lancers that is all the road permits.
“Short bursts!” Lorn says. “Short bursts!” He follows his orders with two quick hsssing blasts. One barbarian topples from his saddle, and another lurches sideways into the mount of the rider beside him.
Hsst! Hssst!
Lorn ducks a wildly-swung blade, then triggers a quick fireblast at a figure under a sagging porch who is drawing a longbow. The man drops, and a small fire begins in the wooden planks around his feet.
Lorn sees several figures running down a lane to the left and turns the gelding. “Third Company…first squad! Follow me!”
“First squad! Follow the majer!” Emsahl echoes.
Lorn urges the gelding forward, and within a hundred cubits he sweeps up on a running figure, using the Brystan sabre and a hint of chaos as the man tries to throw himself aside-too late. Another man tries to duck behind a low tree, but Lorn directs a chaos-bolt from the firelance through his shoulder.
“Demons! They’re everywhere!” screams a girl or a woman.
Lorn reins up to the side of the lane, glancing past the house to his left where three lancers are riding down a pair of barbarians. A gray-haired woman throws herself from a raised porch, a long dagger in hand, but the nearest lancer twists away, and levels his lance. Hssst!
The woman staggers, and his mate slashes down with a sabre.
Lorn turns. Two younger men, barely old enough to hold blades, charge from behind the side of the porch.
Hsst! The first goes down with a bolt from Lorn’s firelance. The second lifts his blade as if to hurl it toward Lorn, but another lancer rides by and cuts through the youth’s shoulder with a sabre.
Lorn leads the first squad along the lane, catching sight of three men running from what appears to be a smithy. “Get them!” He gestures for three lancers to ride them down, before turning the gelding to his right to face a gray-bearded rider with a long and ancient blade. Lorn does not attempt swordplay, but drills a chaos-bolt through the man’s chest, and rides past.
A woman screams and runs from a hut to grab a child, scooping him up in her arms and then scrambling back through a door that she slams shut.
Lorn passes the hutlike dwelling and turns to the left, paralleling the main street, the first squad riders following him. They sweep the back lane, finding and slaying perhaps another six or seven men, before Lorn regath-ers the scattered squad, and rides back to the main street or road that parallels the stream, where he reins up. The main road in the town has not even a square, just several buildings clumped together, on both sides. Scattered along the roadside are bodies. One is that of a woman, a blade lying by her outstretched arm. The others are all men.
Flames are already crackling from several buildings.
At the sound of mounts, Lorn turns and looks through the growing smoke as Emsahl brings in the second squad of Third Company. “We cleared out the houses along the left side, ser. Quytyl and Fifth Company did the right side.”
Lorn glances at Emsahl. “Did you lose anyone?”
“No, ser. Few slashes, nothing serious.”
Lorn nods, and the air is silent except for the orders of officers and squad leaders, and the sound of flames. The sub-majer glances up as another set of riders approaches from the west. Esfayl reins up with perhaps a halfsquad.
Lorn waits.
“We’re holding the east road, ser. About a halfscore tried to escape or send word. One tried to go through the fields.” After a moment, the curly-haired young captain adds, “We killed them all.”
“Good.” Lorn nods almost reluctantly. “It’s hard that way, but they won’t be killing our women and children.”
In time, Rhalyt appears, leaving his company halted in a four-abreast formation. “We took out the ones on the ditch, ser. Close to a score. A bunch of herders saw us, and got their mounts. Almost another score. We killed most of them, but one rode east, and we couldn’t get him.”
“That can happen.” Lorn pauses. “Did you lose any lancers?”
“Two wounded, ser. Not bad.”
As Cheryk rides up, Lorn glances to the two undercaptains. “Rhalyt-you need to patrol the lanes on the river side. Don’t go into any more houses. If someone tries to use a bow, just use a firelance. If they hide, use the lance on something around the house that will burn it.
“Quytyl, you do the same thing on the side of the main street here away from the river.”
“Cheryk will be gathering supplies and blades.” Lorn gestures to the normally taciturn older captain. “You know what supplies we’ll need.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Take what food you can find quickly and put in on the captured mounts.” Lorn swallows. “Water all the mounts, and make sure everyone eats something. Don’t let anyone go off alone. Then burn the barns and granaries.”
“Ser?”
“We’re not coming back this way, and if they don’t have food, they’ll not be riding south into Cyador.”
Cheryk nods. Lorn can also see the nod from Emsahl.
Mounted on the gelding, the Third Company’s first squad behind him, Lorn waits and watches as Cheryk’s men set to work and as another set of buildings begins to flare into flame. He tries not to look at the scattered bodies, mostly bearded, that are strewn along the main street, and not at that of the woman.
He and the first squad slowly patrol the main street, waiting for Cheryk to gather supplies, but they see no one, and hear no one, although at one point, Lorn thinks he hears sobs from a shuttered dwelling. He does not stop.
The sun is into early afternoon when Cheryk reports. “We’ve got three captured mounts strapped with blades, and ten with provisions we can use. Also ran into a few more men with blades.”
“Did you lose any lancers?”
“No, ser. Nasty slash, but clean, for one. They weren’t expecting us.”
“No. There hasn’t been an attack into Jerans in more than a generation. They’ve forgotten what our holders and herders face every year.” Lorn pauses. “We need to tell the men that it will get tougher with each town.”
“Yes, ser.” Cheryk pauses, the glances across at Emsahl who has ridden up and waits. “Each town?”
“Each town we can manage, as I said earlier. We’re going as far as we can. We need to remove not just the barbarians, but their blades and where they get them. And no matter how fast we move, sooner or later, someone is going to discover we’re coming. We’ll take the west road, following the stream. There’s another town there, a good forty kays along. We’ll stop short, and then strike there tomorrow.” Lorn looks at the two older officers, first Emsahl, then Cheryk. “Are we ready to move out?”
“Yes, ser.”
“You, Cheryk?”
“Yes, ser.”
“Companies! Forward.”
The column of Mirror Lancers starts out the west road, riding through the swirling smoke and the odor of death and charcoal.
“White demons…” hisses a woman from the shuttered windows of the house twenty cubits to Lorn’s right.