The bearded trader looks down.
“Oh, I know you won’t explain it to the locals.” Lorn laughs. “They might cut your throat. But you’re going to have to explain it to your backers, and perhaps to the Emperor of Hamor.” He shrugs. “You might get away with not telling them…until the Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers conveys the same message to the Hamorian traders in Cyad. He might even mention that you’d been told.” Lorn offers a nasty smile.
“I will convey your message, but you are but an impetuous young majer, and you will change nothing,” the trader says slowly. “Lancers come, and lancers go, and nothing changes.”
“I won’t change the hearts of traders,” Lorn admits. “You’ll always place a gold above a life…but I just might change where you trade for those golds.”
The bearded trader looks down.
“Tie up his legs and leave him on the edge of the seawall, out of the way. And have someone check all those bags, for golds or trading records.” Lorn walks to the gelding, where he pulls out the firelance. Then, carrying it carefully, he makes his way out to the end of the long and spindly pier…setting his boots carefully on the slippery wood. At the end, he looks out to the Northern Ocean, but both trading vessels have vanished into the limitless gray-blue expanse.
He turns and lowers the lance. Hssst! From the small firelance-bolt flames lick upward and across the wooden planks. Lorn walks back toward the shore. He uses the firelance nearly a halfscore of times, although much of the chaos comes from what he draws as a magus, and his head aches, and his eyes water by the time he steps off the end of the pier. The seaward end is already a raging blaze, and the sea breeze carries the heat inward.
“The warehouses…they’re ready,” Rhalyt calls. “We’ve also got the chests and bags in the wagon, and some dried meat and hard cheese-and the boxes of sabres. We can’t fit all those blades in the first wagon.”
“Let’s see if your squad leaders can find another.” Lorn tilts his head. “Did your men make sure they got oil on the wall timbers as well? And everyone’s out of the warehouse?”
“Yes, ser.”
After three firelance-bolts, one side of the warehouse is in flames, and the crackling orange flames and black smoke rise into the hazy afternoon sky.
Lorn has Rhalyt repeat the process with the warehouse of the Spidlarian traders.
Then he gathers the captains. “Now we’ll move toward the city square closest and up the hill. Bring torches. Keep saving the firelances. We’re going to burn anything else that will burn as we leave,” Lorn orders the captains. “I want it to be a long, long time before traders can make golds bringing blades here.”
He remounts the gelding and waits as the Mirror Lancers re-form, and as the three wagons that they have gathered are lined up. Behind him the flames mount-because the traders will stop at nothing to gain golds, and he has but one chance to halt their killing trade.
LXVIII
In the late afternoon, Lorn glances downriver and back at the clouds of black-and-gray smoke that have drifted across both the river and the harbor, the result of the flames that continue to consume the city that had been Jera. With all the trees and the old wooden structures, with few of stone or brick, Lorn doubts much will remain by morning. The decaying port town had been little more than a collection point for Hamorian and Spidlarian traders to drop off arms…but it doubtless had been home to many, who will suffer from his actions. Some are innocent, insofar as anyone who benefits from living in a city that prospers from trade in killing implements is innocent.
His eyes go to the rear of the column and the wagons that creak after the Mirror Lancers. The first wagon is filled with chests containing golds and silvers, more than five thousand golds at rough count, and all sorts of trading records that Lorn must read. The second holds weapons-Hamorian longswords and Brystan sabres-as well as the cases of unused and recently-forged cupridium sabres clearly forged in Cyad-without lancer markings. The third holds provisions, as do the packhorses that bring up the rear.
Once he returns to Inividra, Lorn will recommend that the fireships of Cyad-those remaining-land lancers, and rebuild the town as a Cyadoran colony. Controlling the River Jeryna will choke off an easy supply of weapons to the Jeranyi, and holding one town will be far less costly than facing endless lines of barbarians across the north of Cyador.
He smiles to himself. Again, he is thinking as though he had real power to do or recommend such. While his efforts have been somewhat successful, he has no doubts that he will face severe disciplinary action-assuming he can even return to Inividra with most of his forces. Yet, as always, his real choices have been limited.
“Strange city,” ventures Quytyl, riding beside him.
“In many ways,” muses Lorn. “The warehouses near the pier were new, built over the ruins of older buildings. There were abandoned buildings, and the armsmen were Hamorian.” He shakes his head.
“Why were the Hamorians there?” asks Quytyl.
“Trade, golds…it’s almost as if they were starting to take over the city.”
“Could they? It’s a long voyage from Swartheld to Jera, isn’t it?”
“They held part of it,” Lorn points out. “Those records will tell. I’ll have to read through them before we get back.”
After several moments of silence, he glances back once more at the gray-and-black smoke that still rises from the burning city.
They have another eightday, at least, of riding, and fighting, to return to Inividra. While Lorn can “inspect” a few firelances, and add some chaos, his energies are limited, compared to the number of lances. As with everything, what he can do is limited.
Lorn shakes his head slowly.
LXIX
To the west of the road are two fields-the first Lorn has seen in almost half a day of riding along the West Branch of the Jeryna River. The neatly tilled fields, with but shoots of green appearing, are separated by a hedgerow of thorny roses, with irrigation ditches running from the river to the fields. On a low hill on the far side of the southernmost field is a dwelling, its walls of odd-shaped rocks mortared together. Both fields and ditchworks are empty under the hot spring sun that blisters through the green-blue sky of midday.
Lorn glances from the fields to the dusty road and then to the narrow river to his left, really a large stream that is no more than fifty cubits wide and perhaps five deep, just deep enough to make easy crossing difficult.
He squints as he sees the dust on the road ahead-the scouts returning, and returning in haste, a good sign that trouble lies ahead. With a long, slow deep breath he waits.
“Trouble, looks like,” offers Cheryk, who leads the Cyadoran forces with Fourth Company.
“The last few days have been too calm,” Lorn agrees. “We’re getting closer to the Grass Hills, and if there’s going to be a real attack, here’s where it’s likely to be.”
“Jerans is a strange place,” Cheryk observes. “It’s almost like the barbarians aren’t a part of it. But the Jeranyi are sending weapons.”
“Someone is,” Lorn temporizes.
The two officers ride in silence, waiting for the pair of scouts.
“Ser! Barbarians ahead!” calls the lead scout from a good fifty cubits away.
Lorn motions for them to ride beside him, then waits until they turn and draw abreast.
“There’s a raiding party of sorts riding up from the east on the other side of the river, ser, like they knew we were here,” reports the balding scout. “They be heading toward the ford.”
“How many?”
“Fourscore. Could be a bit less.”