Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Helkyt eases his mount up beside Lorn. “They are much improved, even the new lads from Vyun and those from Ehyla.”

  “They’re getting there,” Lorn says. “They’re still not ready to face the best of the barbarians, but most aren’t that good.”

  “Ah… ser… no one’s attacked a port detachment here in two-odd generations.”

  “That may be.” Lorn’s eyes fix on the squad leader. “And how many lancers end up back in the Grass Hills?”

  “Less ‘n a third, ser.”

  “Can you tell me which third?” Lorn feels another chill-the kind that provides no real cooling, but the mental coldness of a chaos-glass trained upon him. He ignores it.

  “Ah… no ser.”

  “Do you want to condemn those men to die in the first skirmish they have with barbarian raiders?”

  “No, ser.” Helkyt’s tone is resigned. “Just being that it is so hot…”

  “The barbarians don’t fight much when it’s cool and comfortable, as I recall.” Lorn pauses and blots his steaming forehead. “There’s something else. Have you noticed the way the lancers act when they accompany Neabyl and Comyr and the new enumerator… Gyhl, that’s it… on board vessels?”

  Helkyt frowns.

  “They’re acting like lancers again. They’re trained, and ready, and their carriage shows it. That makes the enumerators’ tasks easier. It also tells the Hamorians and the other barbarians that Cyador is not to be a target.”

  “That be true, ser,” the senior squad leader admits. “Neabyl be far cheerier these days, and even his consort came to see him.”

  Lorn suspects that has more to do with Flutak’s disappearance than with the greater professionalism of the port-detachment lancers. “There are other reasons, as well.”

  Helkyt’s eyebrows lift.

  “The barbarian attacks have continued to increase, and we may be called upon. Or,” Lorn smiles wryly, “I may find that my next duty will be there with some of these very same lancers.”

  Helkyt winces.

  “You do your duty here, Helkyt, and after such a record of faithful service and a long career, I would doubt you will be transferred before you can claim your pension.” Lorn blots his forehead again, aware that whoever used the chaos-glass has let the image lapse. Who could it be? It does not feel like Tyrsal, or his father, but Lorn has no sense of who the unknown magus might be.

  “No offense, ser, but I’d be hoping your words be true.” The senior squad leader laughs uneasily.

  “They are not certain, but I’d wager that way.” Lorn eases the chestnut toward Tashqyt’s squad, lifting the huge padded hand-and-a-half blade that he will once again use one-on-one against the younger lancers to accustom them to fighting the long swords of the barbarians. “The one-on-one drills!”

  Ignoring the sigh from Helkyt, Lorn hopes he can turn each of the recruits into at least a semblance of a lancer before too long. He has already sent a messenger to Commander Repyl, moving up the inspection date for the District Guards by two eightdays, and that means he and most of the Mirror Lancers will be leaving Biehl within three days.

  From what he sees and has seen in his chaos-glass, he has less time than anyone else in Biehl knows, and his fate rests in large part on his judgments of what he has observed in his chaos-glass. Yet for all that his fate and the fates of many others rest on his calculations and observations, what he sees cannot be reported to anyone.

  XXX

  Lorn looks up briefly and out the window of his first-floor administration-building study. The post-dawn air is still and warm, without too strong a breeze. He hopes the dry weather will hold, at least for a few days. Then he turns back to the papers before him. He is yet writing out the last of his scrolls, orders, and rough copies of maps when he hears Helkyt enter the outer study.

  “Helkyt?”

  “Yes, ser.” The senior squad leader shakes his head as he steps into Lorn’s study and sees the various stacks of papers. “You ever be sleeping, ser?”

  “Not so much as I’d like, but that’s not for trying.” The overcaptain gestures to the chair across the table desk.

  Helkyt sits down, almost gingerly.

  “I’m going to impose some duties on you. I wish it could be otherwise, but you’re the only one with the experience.”

  The senior squad leader’s eyebrows lift.

  “Tomorrow is when we go to inspect the District Guards, as you may recall.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I will be taking all the Mirror Lancers except for a halfscore of senior lancers, and the halfscore of the most recent trainees.”

  “Ser?” Helkyt shifts his weight in the chair, uneasily.

  “I have heard from some traders that there may be some barbarian raiders riding into the lands west of Ehyla. I thought that we might check that out while putting the District Guards through maneuvers.”

  “Best you take all the firelances, then, ser. Those we can do without- more so than you, if there be barbarians coming into Cyador.”

  “I appreciate your thought. I hope I am mistaken, but one never knows.” Lorn shrugs. “My sources are usually good, but barbarians aren’t always predictable, except in that they like to attack the lancers and people of Cyador.”

  “Ser… beggin‘ yer pardon, but in more ’n two seasons, I’ve yet to see you mistaken, and though I be no wagering man, were I one, I’d wager on what you know.” He pauses. “And you be wanting me to keep things as you have?”

  “That’s right.” Lorn leans forward. “We’re before harvest, and there shouldn’t be too many ships porting, either to buy or sell, except for clay and china, and most traders won’t come in just for that.”

  “The olive-grower Baryat’s son-he been behaving himself?”

  “So far as I can tell. But if he has any problems, they won’t be with you.” Lorn laughs ruefully. “We might get some orders transferring lancers to Assyadt or something,” Lorn muses, “but don’t transfer anyone until I get back. Or until it’s clear I won’t be back.”

  “Don’t be talking that way, ser.”

  “I don’t plan it that way, but I’d be a poor overcaptain if I didn’t plan for the worst.” Lorn points to the corner of the desk. “Those are the training plans for the next season, and some other papers that might be helpful.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lorn continues to brief Helkyt until nearly midmorning. He could have waited until later in the day, but he wants Helkyt to have some time to consider what he has told the senior squad leader so that if the older man has any questions, Lorn will still be in Biehl to answer them.

  XXXI

  Again, behind closed shutters, in the late afternoon, Lorn studies the image in the glass. A long column of riders follows a narrow and dusty road- barely that-eastward through a long valley. Their destination is a narrow track through the most rugged and least hospitable section of the Grass Hills. At one time, from the look of the track, the way may have been more traveled, but its abandoned state and raggedness are not likely to stop the barbarians.

  Lorn shakes his head. As he has already determined, the destination has to be one of the towns west of the Grass Hills in Cyador, for there are no other Jeranyi towns west of the barbarian column. At their pace, they will enter the lands of Cyador in less than three days, perhaps four.

  The Mirror Lancers leave to inspect the District Guards at Ehyla in the morning, and he has done what he can. His lancers know that they are headed out on maneuvers, and a possible scouting effort. Some of the older ones nodded knowingly. Several had already cached extra food, and the cooks have lodged a complaint with Helkyt.

  Lorn smiles at that thought.

  He lets the image fade, then calls up another image-this one of a trader in blue. Despite the lateness of the day, she remains in the large room he has come to recognize as her trading office. His lips curl as he recalls her lecture on the difference between studies and offices.

  He lets that image fade qu
ickly, for he does not wish to disturb her, although she glances up, her eyes narrowing, just before the image fades. As he sets the glass aside, Lorn wonders again what secrets lie in her ancestry-for she has sensed a chaos-glass searching when he was with her-and only those with abilities of the Magi’i can do such.

  After a moment, Lorn reaches for paper and the pen he must substitute for being with Ryalth. In time, he writes slowly, trying to take care with each word.

  My dearest,

  When you receive this, it is likely I will be in the lands just east of the Grass Hills, west of Biehl and east of Jera. I have learned that a large group of barbarians may be massing and preparing to attack Cyador itself in an area where they have not attacked in generations, if ever.

  There is no way to verify what I know, except by traders’ words, and thus, we will be scouting, not knowing what we may find. If we do find barbarians, there will be no way to warn the Majer-Commander. What I attempt is a great risk, not only for me, but for you and for our son-to-be. Yet I fear the danger to Cyad and to us will be far greater if I do not act. I know you understand whereof I speak…

  The barbarians have begun to attack in greater and greater numbers. It will not be long before the Majer-Commander requests that the young lancers I have trained be transferred to Assyadt or elsewhere, and then there will not be the forces necessary to turn away any attack through this, the most rugged section of the Grass Hills. So I must act while I have the forces to do so, and prevent the depredations that I fear will come if I do not.

  I have heard from my parents that you have been kind to visit them and dine often with them and with Jerial, and for this latest kindness I am also grateful. When I will have furlough or home leave is most uncertain, and that I will not know until winter, at the earliest, if then.

  He closes with the words, My love, and his signature, although it yet feels strange to be able to say such safely, for expressing love to one’s consort is certainly acceptable, even in the Mirror Lancers.

  The scroll will go to Helkyt in the morning, to be dispatched by firewagon. Even if it is read along the way, Lorn will have acted, and the results will be known, one way or the other, before any other officers can do anything to harm or assist.

  He stands, and begins to roll the few maps he knows he will need. While he would like to take the glass, here in Biehl, unlike in a larger Mirror Lancer outpost, the glass will be safer left behind, for a camp is open to all, and lancer Magi’i are still most unwelcome to all too many Mirror Lancers-and especially to District Guards.

  XXXII

  In the light of early morning, on the flat below the District Guard headquarters at Ehyla, the First and Second Companies of the Mirror Lancer garrison at Biehl remain in near-perfect ranks as Lorn studies the lines of District Guards. He rides the chestnut mare down each line, occasionally stopping to check for riding rations and especially for water bottles. Only Tashqyt rides with him.

  Commander Repyl remains on his own mount, before his two companies, and the partial squad of newer guards.

  Lorn finishes the inspection, and nods to Tashqyt. “I will not be but a moment. While they are ready for maneuvers, I doubt Commander Repyl is ready to transfer his command.” Lorn turns and rides toward the commander.

  “And how do you find them, Overcaptain?” asks Repyl, even before Lorn reins up.

  “In good order, Commander.” Lorn gestures toward the guard building. “I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you. If you would accompany me?”

  Commander Repyl’s thin and perfect eyebrows lift. “This whole matter has been unusual.”

  “Perhaps unusual in recent years, but the requirement has been in the Emperor’s Code for many, many years,” Lorn says quietly, turning his mount eastward.

  When they are a good hundred cubits from the nearest lancer, Repyl reins up. “I trust this will provide the… discretion… you wish?”

  “For both of us.” Lorn hands over a scroll. “I thought you would prefer to read this in a more private setting.”

  “Oh?” Repyl begins to flush even before he has finished the first section. Finally, the District Commander stares at the overcaptain. “You are within your rights, Overcaptain, but the Majer-Commander will hear of this.”

  “I am certain he will.” A lazy smile crosses Lorn’s lips. “Since I fully intend to tell him.” Lorn waits. “I would suggest that you not be too hasty, Commander. If all goes well on these maneuvers, and your guards are as effective as they look, then you are likely to be well-regarded. If, somehow, I make pottage of the maneuvers, then you can claim you were being cooperative, as is your duty, and still appear fair and just.”

  The flush fades slowly. “I cannot say I am pleased.”

  “I wish it were otherwise,” Lorn admits. “Do you wish to announce that your companies are being transferred to my command, and offer them your praise and support? Or would you rather that I do so?”

  “I will do so-with grace, and I hope, skill.” Repyl smiles tightly. “I trust you know what you are doing.”

  “I am trying to protect Biehl… and Cyador.”

  “With maneuvers?”

  ; “I have received word that there is a large band of barbarians riding into the area east of here. We are the only forces available, and it will be better to stop them before they commit many depredations.”

  “You trust mere word?” Repyl’s eyebrows lift.

  “Commander, I could wait until I were absolutely sure. Then… if I wait, many will die, and much will be lost. If I am wrong, your guards obtain some riding and some training. If those who would have me wait are wrong, then the Mirror Lancers will be faulted for failing to protect the people.” Lorn does not mention that the chaos-glass is seldom wrong, or that he has already seen the raiders massing to the northeast, moving along the narrow valleys into the Grass Hills and toward Biehl. His lips curl slightly. “I trust you understand.”

  “I fear I do, Overcaptain, and I fear even more that you may be right than wrong.” Repyl nods. “I shall do my duty with grace, and hope you are wrong, not because I wish you ill, but, as I have just said, because, if you are right, we, too, will soon face the continuing attacks that have so far graced Assyadt and Syadtar.”

  Not if I act swiftly. Lorn does not voice the thought. “Thank you.”

  The two turn their mounts back toward the assembled Mirror Lancers and District Guards.

  XXXIII

  The sun is little more than a hand above the golden brown grasses of the rolling hills as Lorn finishes checking his map. After using the northern beaches as a highway, he and his force have headed inland. They now ride to the southeast, toward where he calculates the barbarians should be making their way out of the Grass Hills-along a narrow creek that meanders out of the rugged terrain and then dries up less than twenty kays from where it emerges. There may be scattered holds along the way, but small individual huts are hard to pick out using a chaos-glass-especially for Lorn when he is trying to map lands he has not seen. He hopes there are not too many such holds along the route the barbarians may take-or may have already taken.

  Once off the beaches, the progress of Lorn’s force has been slower than Lorn had thought, because the route he has chosen, while without gorges or larger barriers to travel, has no roads and no streams, just the kays of grass-covered plains set between distant higher hills.

  “Ser,” offers Tashqyt quietly. “Up ahead.”

  Lorn glances up from his efforts to roll his map and ride. He has to squint against the low and rising sun to make out the thinnest of lines of grayish smoke rising through the clear morning air. Its source is blocked by the low ridge before Lorn’s force. He nods. “Let’s see what the scouts report. Could be just an isolated holding, or herder’s place.”

  They have ridden almost another kay up the gentle slope that is far longer than Lorn had thought, so gradual is its incline, and still have at least a kay to go before they reach the crest, when Lorn spies two lancers
riding their mounts at a quicker walk than normal. He fears he knows what the smoke signifies, but he says nothing and keeps riding.

  Swytyl rides up from the head of his squad and lets his mount flank Tashqyt’s on the right as the three wait for the scouts to meet them.

  When they near Lorn, the two lancer scouts swing their mounts around to ride parallel to Lorn on the left.

  “Ser… there’s a hamlet over the rise… along the stream,” offers the scout closer to Lorn.

  “The barbarians have already been there?” Lorn asks.

  “Ah… yes, ser.” The scout’s quizzical look begs for an answer.

  “The smoke,” Lorn says, “and your haste in reporting. They aren’t there now, though, or you would have been galloping back.”

  “No, ser. Didn’t see none. Didn’t see no one moving,” answers the second scout.

  “Just in case,” Lorn glances at Tashqyt. “Four-abreast, firelances ready.”

  Tashqyt stands in his stirrups and half turns in the saddle. “Four-abreast! Firelances at the ready!”

  The other squad leaders echo the orders, except that the District Guard squad leaders merely command, “Lances ready!”

  The barbarians have moved faster than Lorn has thought, and his forces have been slower in coming across the grasslands south of the northern beaches, and the small hamlet may have been one of the first results of his miscalculations. His lips tighten, and his fingers brush the half of the firelance. He can feel sweat forming under his garrison cap and oozing down his sunburned neck and then his back.

  As the chestnut carries Lorn over the crest of the grassy rise, he can make out the stream that he had tracked with the chaos-glass-and to his left, a gap in the rugged hills, from which the stream runs. Below them is a hamlet.

  Lorn shakes his head. Thin lines of smoke and mist hug the ground around the hamlet. There are perhaps a dozen dwellings, if that, earth- or sod-walled. The roofs of most are caved in-burned out from within, as shown by the smoke that fills the hollow.