A glittering lancer-sabre slashes down across the shoulder of Lorn’s second attacker, and the first barbarian turns toward Quytyl-who has wheeled his mount to help Lorn. Lorn leans forward, almost off-balance, but manages a thrust to the giant’s throat. The sabre catches, and Lorn has to jerk to free it, then almost loses his seat as the blade abruptly comes free.
The dead barbarian’s mount slams into Lorn’s leg, even as he tries to get the gelding past it to help Quytyl, who has been engaged by yet another pair of Jeranyi.
Desperately, Lorn throws the firebolt of a magus at one of the barbarians, whose chest flares into flame, but before he can use either blade or form another firebolt, the big blade of the remaining barbarian slams through Quytyl’s guard.
All Lorn can do is flame the last barbarian after Quytyl slumps in the saddle, then turn his mount to seek out others, his blades slicing almost without thought, as he becomes a butchering machine, his blades edged with rage and chaos.
Again, as in so many battles, one moment Lorn is fighting, and the next, the field is empty, except for Mirror Lancers. He glances toward the river, where less than half a score of raiders ride eastward on the far shore, then back around him, where scores of mounts are riderless.
“Ser!” calls a voice.
Lorn turns the gelding and rides toward Yusaet, Quytyl’s senior squad leader. He wipes the sabres and sheathes them as he does. He is abruptly aware that he is seeing in double images, and that his skull is being pounded like an anvil by an unseen hammer.
“Ser…” Yusaet looks at the sub-majer. “I saw…you tried to get to the undercaptain.”
“I wasn’t quite fast enough,” Lorn admits. “I got one, but…”
“I saw you kill three, right there, ser. No one could have tried harder.”
“Thank you. He would have been a good captain.” Lorn straightens. “For now, you’re in charge of Fifth Company.”
“Yes, ser.”
“See about what wounded you have, and gather any stray mounts. You know what to do.”
Yusaet nods. “Yes, ser.”
Lorn eases the gelding toward the depression where the road turns and drops toward the river, where Cheryk, Gyraet, and Esfayl have gathered momentarily. Behind him, there are the murmurs.
“…sub-majer…see the way he used those sabres?”
“…saw him cut four out of the saddle, got another four with his lance…”
“…maybe more…”
“…never saw a senior officer fight like that…”
“Never will again, either. Keep it in the Company.”
The last voice is Yusaet’s.
“…but…”
“Keep it in the Company,” Yusaet repeats.
A quick and bitter smile crosses Lorn’s face, one he erases as he nears the three officers.
“Are you all right, ser?” asks Esfayl, an expression that is half frown, half of concern.
As Lorn reins up, he looks down at his trousers, then at his sleeves. His uniform is smeared and splattered with blood, and everything around him seems to pulse, because his double vision wavers. He moves his arms, stands slightly in the stirrups. His arms ache, and his head still throbs, but he can find no wounds. “I’m all right.” He looks at the three. “Do we have any idea…how many we lost?”
“Almost a score, ser,” Gyraet reports. “And Emsahl.”
Lorn winces.
“Some bastard got him from behind.” Gyraet pauses. “And you know about Quytyl?”
“I was there, but I couldn’t reach him. I’m not sure his arm healed right, but he never said anything about it.” Lorn’s words feel slow on his tongue.
“Not having the firelances hurts,” Cheryk adds.
“That’s one reason why we did this,” Lorn points out. “We’ll have fewer and fewer firelances every year. Next year I’m not sure anyone will be able to do what we did. Not without more lancers and greater losses.”
“Most commanders worry about this year’s losses,” Gyraet says slowly.
“It is not a comfort to me,” Lorn says, “to save a score of men for a year so that threescore will die next spring.” He laughs harshly and bitterly. “It’s not a comfort to lose a score on the way home, either.”
“That is why you are a majer-”
“Sub-majer,” Lorn corrects with a laugh.
“…and you will go on to be a commander or more,” Gyraet finishes.
“If I survive being a sub-majer.” Lorn looks over the three, trying to focus his vision, and failing. “I’m sorry, captains. I’d hoped we could do this with a few less casualties.” He pauses. “Let me know when you’re ready to move across the ford.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn eases his mount a hundred cubits or so uphill, where he looks out over the site of the brief and bloody battle. Threescore barbarians dead, and a score of lancers, the lancers because a sub-majer had an idea for reducing casualties, and the barbarians because…. Lorn still is not sure he knows. Is it hatred too deep to wash away with either blood or water? Or the needs of the barbarian culture fueled by the greed of the traders?
He shakes his head and studies the West Branch, whose waters have dwindled into a stream barely ten cubits across, and then at the northern side of the Grass Hills.
He doubts they will face more attacks before returning to Inividra. That is where his real problems will begin.
LXX
On the night of the day after the battle on the West Branch ford, Lorn sits in the twilight, on the side of a slope above one of the few springs in the Grass Hills. He reads slowly through the papers in the second footchest carried by the wagon back from Jera. There are two piles of paper and parchment before him. Most sheets go in one pile, but every so often he sets one in the second pile, the one with but a handful of sheets in it.
The wind off the hill is light, but Lorn has to use stones to keep the papers in their piles.
He looks up at a cough to see Gyraet standing there. “Yes?”
“Might be as I could help some,” offers the captain. “Don’t tell many people, but I do have some traders in my family.”
“So do I,” Lorn says. “It’s still hard.” He grins and gestures to the third chest, still closed and set behind the second one. “I’d appreciate the help. I really would. You know what we’re looking for-anything that shows traders sending weapons to Jera.” He pauses, then adds, “And anything that might show that Hamor is trying to get a foothold there.”
“Like the Hamorian armsmen?”
“Didn’t you think it was strange that we didn’t see many armsmen once we left the Grass Hills-and those we did see were from Hamor?”
Gyraet bobs his head. “Well-trained, too, and that’s a bother.”
Lorn understands. Is the Emperor of Hamor supplying blades to the barbarians to weaken both the barbarians and Cyador? He glances down at the papers, and takes a deep breath.
Gyraet opens the third chest. “Lots of invoices here, too many for an old and dying port like Jera. Makes you wonder.”
“It does.” Then, Lorn wonders about so many things-how Ryalth and Kerial are doing, the health of his parents, and what new schemes Dettaur is hatching. But he cannot deal with any of those until he returns to Inividra.
By then, he must know what the traders’ papers show, and what he will do with what they show.
LXXI
The two men stand in the shade of a fourth-floor eastern balcony of the Palace of Eternal Light. The light sea breeze gusts around them, removing the heat that oozes outward from the stone walls.
“How do you find Vyanat’mer?” asks Luss.
“He is a merchanter of much intelligence,” replies the Second Magus. “He takes great pains to hide it behind a facade of simple honesty and bluntness, although he is, for a merchanter, both honest and blunt.”
“But not simple,” replies the Captain-Commander with a laugh.
“He is simple in what he believes. He is not simple in how he moves to support those beliefs.”
“What does he believe?” questions Luss, almost idly, as if he cares little for the answer, but feels he should ask the question.