“The biggest dwelling?” suggested Ayrlyn.
“Since the owner has the most to lose? Why not?” Nylan turned his mount north, toward the sole two-story dwelling, one laid out in a square, apparently around a central courtyard.
As the riders neared, the shutters slammed shut, and a single face peered from the half-opened front door.
“Hello!” called the angel.
“What want you?” asked a stocky man in a graying shirt.
“To warn you that the Cyadorans-the white demons-are riding toward Yisara. They intend to take everything they can, and kill all they find.”
“Why should we listen?” asked the gray-haired man. “Why should you care? Both Lornth and Cyad are far. You lords of Lornth have cared little, except that we provide levies for your wars and food for the miners.”
The man probably had a point. Still…
The angel shrugged. “We don’t kill everyone in the town. That’s what the Cyadorans did where people didn’t leave.”
“And you will not protect us?”
Nylan gestured to the mounted squad behind him. “We do as we can. Will these stop score-fifteen lancers?”
“Then why do you tell us when you can offer nothing?” The man squared his shoulders and shrugged.
Nylan took a deep breath. “There is nothing stopping you from leaving the town and hiding-if you want to live.”
“And what life will we have if our houses and grain are gone?”
“What life will you have if your head is gone?” countered Nylan. “You have time to move your stock and families.”
“Far enough to outrun the white demons?” The man shrugged. “I think not.”
“Fine,” said Nylan. “You have been warned. If you choose to stand here and wait for the white death, then it is on your head.”
“And on yours, lord of Lornth, for you have no honor if you will not protect your lands.”
“In the end, we will drive out the Cyadorans,” Nylan said quietly, “but Lornth was not built in a day. Nor was Cyad.”
“As darkness wills.” The man walked into the house.
“See? And what good was this day?” asked Tonsar.
“Some of the peasants are worse than Fornal,” muttered Nylan.
“I’ll bet most of them hide or leave,” said Ayrlyn. “They just wouldn’t give you that satisfaction.”
“I hope so. I hope so.”
“They will stay and be slaughtered like the hogs they are,” predicted Tonsar.
Nylan and Ayrlyn exchanged glances.
“That may be,” she finally said.
“We need to find another way to stop them,” murmured Nylan, more to himself than to the others. “There has to be a way…has to be.”
LXVIII
Nylan turned the heavy blade with the tongs, then brought the smaller hammer down behind the edge of the cherry-red metal, once, twice.
Clunnng! Clunng!
Although the sun had barely cleared the eastern hills and the dawn breeze had not quite died out, sweat poured from Nylan, even while he worked in only trousers and a leather apron.
He raised the hammer again, using each blow to narrow the base of the blade edge. Should he add a blood gutter?
No. Too much time involved, and that would involve totally reforging each blade.
“What do you think you’re already doing?” he murmured.
“Ser?” asked Sias, pausing in pumping the bellows.
“Nothing. Nothing.” Nylan turned the blade again, checking the heat in the metal, both by eye and with his order senses.
Dust rose from the broader fields to the west of the corral where Ayrlyn and Tonsar worked the squads through a series of mounted drills, trying to drill the levies into anticipating the Mirror Lancer moves and developing quicker responses.
“So…the angel smith works blades, and the angel healer works men?”
Nylan glanced up from the anvil to see Fornal, mounted, looking at the coals and then at the darkening iron of the blade Nylan worked.
Sias, hands on the bellows, looked imploringly at the smith.
“You can get some water. Take a quick break,” Nylan told the armsman/apprentice. The lanky blond man bowed to Fornal and eased off toward the well behind the dwelling.
“You train them well in discretion, too, I see.”
Knowing Fornal would take awhile to get to the point, the smith eased the blade back onto the forge coals.
“What are you doing to that blade?”
“Fullering the edge and case-hardening it.” At least, that’s what Nylan thought smiths called narrowing the cutting edge and adding a thin layer of hardened iron/crude steel.
“I would have said that was a waste two eight-days ago.” Fornal frowned, and the stallion sidestepped. “But none of your levies broke. Some died, but they didn’t run.” The black-bearded regent forced a smile. “You will give me trained armsmen…but they will never attack Westwind, will they?”
It was Nylan’s turn to frown in puzzlement.
“They see what two of you do, and the word is already out. They say, ‘Best leave the angels alone.’ Or ‘Better on our side than the other.’”
Nylan shrugged and wiped the streaming sweat out of his eyes. “We’re trying to throw the Cyadorans back.”
The regent nodded. “You may well, but Lornth will never be the same. For that, angel, I cannot say I am pleased.” Fornal’s lips curled. “We must choose between black angels and white demons, and neither is to my liking. Still, for better or worse, you keep your word, and that is far more than one can say about the white demons.”
After a moment, Nylan asked, “Where are you headed?”
“We think they will scout out Jirec. The locals have followed your example in Yisara, but…if we take out the scouting party, that will incline them in that direction-and remove more of the demons.” Fornal smiled briefly. “Your levies will go out tomorrow.”
“We’ll be ready.”
“Good.” Fornal gave a quick nod and turned his mount back toward the mounted squads that gathered by the barn barracks.
Nylan eased the blade off the coals. He could harden at least a handful, perhaps more, and that would help, maybe make then strong enough to shatter a few more of the white lances.
LXIX
A single Cyadoran scout wheeled his mount off the road and began a headlong gallop toward the right side of the Lornian line-and Nylan. The dust from the Cyadoran’s mount’s hoofs rose like a brown thunderstorm, blocking the angel’s sight of the rest of the squads farther to the left and around the gentle curve of the road. Light reflected from the round shield, glittering and making Nylan squint.
The angel raised his second blade to throw, but he didn’t have to because Ungit and Wuerek, trailed by Meresat, swept toward the lancer. The white’s sabre slashed at Ungit, and red sprayed across the levy’s upper arm, even as his blade spiraled into the red dust. Wuerek’s heavier steel-edged blade smashed the lighter sabre aside, and Meresat’s edged crowbar crushed through the comparatively thin burnished armor. The circular polished shield bounced along the grass, reflective side down.
“Frig!” Ungit held his arm, sweat beading quickly on his forehead. “Frig…frig.”
“Wuerek! Help Ungit get that arm bound,” Nylan said. “We don’t need anyone surviving the Cyadorans and bleeding to death.”
“Ser.” Wuerek eased his mount up beside the balding Ungit.
The dust settled as quickly as it had risen in the hot and still air, except for what coated the Lornians and Nylan-and the scattered bodies. Nylan’s neck itched, and so did his damp hair. His ears hurt and itched where the flaking and sunburned skin had begun to peel.
Nylan surveyed the road-no dust, no fleeing riders-just ten riderless mounts. And one wounded armsman-Ungit-and one dead. Nylan didn’t even remember the fellow’s name, just that he’d been clumsy in practice. A handful of the armsmen-Nylan guessed they rated the term as much as some of Fornal’s men-had dismounted and were looting the bodies of the Cyadoran scouts.