“Sub-Majer Lorn. I’m here to see Majer Dettaur.” Lorn smiles coldly.
“Ah…” The younger guard swallows as the gray haired ranker elbows him.
“I’m sure you’re welcome, ser,” the older guard speaks firmly and quickly.
“Thank you.” Lorn inclines his head, then looks to Gyraet. “The first building is the commander’s. Go four-abreast at each door with the lances.”
“Rhalyt! Secure the stables!”
“Yes, ser.”
In the momentary silence that follows, as Lorn rides slowly across the stones of the courtyard, he catches the hard words of the senior guard.
“Near-on killed us! Don’t say a word to man like that…he be the butcher, they say…only officer brought the Accursed Forest to its knees, slaughtered threescore raiders himself in Nhais…Black angels know why he be here…but that be for the commander and the majer…”
Lorn half winces, half smiles as he nears the first white-stone building, and then reins up. Reputations have their advantages, and disadvantages. He doubts his troubles will be with lower officers or rank-and-file lancers. Then, they never have been.
“You want a few lancers with you?” asks Gyraet.
Lorn pauses, then reluctantly nods. “It might make things…quieter.” After a moment, he looks up at Gyraet and Cheryk. “I shouldn’t have to say it, but anyone who attacks you is an enemy of all those lancers who have died.”
“Yes, ser,” affirms Cheryk.
“First half, first squad,” orders Gyraet. “Follow the majer…with lances. Use the lances against anyone who lifts a blade against him. Anyone, officer or ranker.”
“Yes, ser.”
Gryal is the squad leader who dismounts-a burly man with a slash that goes from ear to cheek. “Time we had a field commander lettin’ ’em know, ser.”
“Thank you.”
Lorn gathers chaos around him as he steps through the square-arched door.
The three senior squad leaders in the open foyer freeze as Lorn walks in, followed by the armed lancers.
“Ser…ah…lances…not…here…” stumbles the older squad leader.
Lorn does not recall his name. “They are now. Is Majer Dettaur here?”
“I’m here, Sub-Majer Lorn.” As he draws out Lorn’s title and name almost contemptuously, Dettaur moves from his open study door into the corridor. “I see you did bring a few lancers.”
“Gryal…I’d appreciate it if everyone else remained in their places,” Lorn says. “We’ll be finished with any unpleasantness much more quickly.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Dett…” Lorn replies, “we have some matters to discuss.” He lets his chaos-senses range toward Dettaur’s study, but can feel it is empty. “Majer Dettaur’s study is empty. We’ll be discussing the problems his ill-advised orders caused.” Lorn smiles, then inclines his head toward the open door. “Gryal…if the commander should appear, I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep him in his study.”
“Yes, ser!”
Dettaur winces, if almost imperceptibly. “I suppose a private talk would be better.”
Lorn understands Dettaur’s hopes, but merely replies, “I think so. You first.”
Dettaur walks into the study, moving quickly as if to separate himself from Lorn. Lorn closes the door, his eyes on the majer.
“You were relieved of command by Sub-Majer Uflet…” Dettaur begins.
“He never got around to that, but then, we didn’t stay long in Inividra. I can honestly say that he never had a resignation ready for me to sign. To my knowledge, there are no orders in Inividra ordering my resignation.”
Dettaur’s lips tighten. “You…you think you can get away with anything. You always have. You think the rules don’t apply to you. You won’t. Not this time.”
“Dett…there are six companies of lancers that hold this outpost. They’ve seen the trading records. They’ve seen your stupid orders. They’ve seen how you sent them out to die by requiring tactics that were idiotic. You honestly don’t think I could force tenscore lancers to come here against their will, do you? They’re here because they know they’ll be dead unless things change. They wagering their lives on it.”
“Bad wager, Lorn. You’ll all die.”
“I don’t think so, Dett. Assyadt never has more than a company of lancers here, if that.”
“You know everything. You always did.” Dettaur smirks, and his hand edges toward the hilt of his sabre, oh so slowly.
“Dett, one question. Why did you block all Ryalth’s scrolls to me?”
“I never did a thing.”
“That’s the wrong answer. You can’t lie to me.”
Dettaur laughs, drawing his sabre and stepping forward. “You never were as good as I with a blade.”
“You’re wrong-twice, Dett.” Lorn lifts his own sabre, but as he does so he gathers chaos from around him, and there is more than enough, fueled by anger and hatred as well, to extend his blade so that it knocks aside Dettaur’s sabre and slices through his neck like a razor.
Dettaur does not even have time to look surprised.
Lorn leaves the body on the study floor and steps out into the corridor. He glances toward Gryal. “I think Majer Dettaur understands the problem. Finally.” With a crooked smile, Lorn steps across the corridor and into Commander Ikynd’s study.
The commander looks up from where he has been sitting behind his table desk. “When I saw the mounts and lances, I thought it might be you, Lorn.” Ikynd offers his genial smile, but remains seated behind the desk. “I didn’t expect you to return here in such force. I thought you would be patrolling. “You’re dead, now. You just don’t know it. You couldn’t wait…”
“I almost waited too long, Commander. Another season, and most of those men would have been dead. They know it, too. Why else would they be here?”
“It really doesn’t matter, you know. Lancers and lancer officers are supposed to die. Don’t you know that? Anyway, Dettaur will come in and kill you, if I can’t. He’s very good at that.”
Lorn smiles lazily but does not lower the sabre. “Not good enough. Dett’s already had his say. He’s dead. You can be a hero, or you can be dead. Which?”
The genial expression drops. “If you can deliver, butcher boy, I’d prefer the hero. Wouldn’t any self-respecting lancer?”
“Of course. Especially if other people do the work and die,” Lorn replies, an indolent tone to his words.
“You’re rather insubordinate. That’s rebellion. The Majer-Commander won’t hesitate a moment to have you executed.”
“I don’t think so. He might have you executed, though. He’ll need someone to blame, and you’ll be more convenient.” Lorn smiles. “It might be best if you blamed Dettaur first, and commended me for bringing the problem to your attention.”
“Problem?” Ikynd raises his eyebrows theatrically. “What problem?”
“The port of Jera no longer exists. They’ll rebuild it-but that will take time. Outside, there are three wagons and a halfscore of packhorses. Almost fiftyscore Hamorian blades. That doesn’t count those we had to dump in the river. We took them from the warehouses in Jera. Then we burned the-the warehouses.” Lorn’s smile is humorless. “We also razed and burned somewhere around a halfscore other towns. And I brought back some trading records, along with fivescore cupridium blades-without lancer markings. The records show that they came from Summerdock-and I have the records and the weapons to prove that several Cyadoran trading houses helped transfer those weapons to the Jeranyi traders. Oh, and more than six thousand golds from those traders.”
“So…our corrupt traders…you know and the Emperor knows they’ve always been corrupt…they made a few golds. It’s been going on for generations. Our task isn’t to enforce the trade provisions of the Emperor’s Code. It’s to protect the people. Have you forgotten that?” The genial tone returns to Ikynd’s voice.
“Six thousand are more than a few golds.” Lorn laughs. “And I’ve saved more Cyadoran peasants than all the officers in Mirror Lancers combined, and you have the gall to suggest I’ve forgotten my duty?”
“It’s not what you do, Sub-Majer. It’s how you do it, and neither the Captain-Commander nor the Majer-Commander will like what you did.”