“Eighteenscore, ser. Ah… I thought we needed to know.” Tashqyt looks down. “They killed most of the captives, ser. Almost a score. Five survived.”
Eighteenscore dead-more than in some small towns in Cyador. Lorn nods slowly. “Do we have any captive barbarians?”
“Halfscore, a bit more. They’re all wounded.”
“Where are they?” Lorn remounts the mare.
“Over by the bluff. There.” The sharp-featured Tashqyt gestures.
In the late-afternoon light, Lorn rides toward the captives. He dismounts and hands the chestnut’s reins to Tashqyt. He walks forward. There are fifteen men, all bearded, all with their hands bound behind them. One lies unconscious, on his side, in the dusty grass. The captives are surrounded by Drayl’s squad-half dismounted with sabres drawn; the others mounted, also with blades drawn.
One of the captives lurches toward Lorn. “White demon!”
“You killed women and children who could not have harmed you.” Lorn draws the Brystan sabre.
“You are all demons.” The bound captive spits toward Lorn.
Lorn’s face is like ice as he steps forward, and there is a dull clunk as the chaos-enhanced blade separates the barbarian’s head from his torso. Both drop onto the blood-stained dust.
“My blood is on them all,” Lorn looks up at Drayl, mounted. “Not yours. Kill the others.”
“Ser?”
“If we release them, they’ll think we’re weak. Also, they killed those captives as certainly as if they had held the blades-and some probably did. We’re not killing captives. We’re killing the people who did.” Lorn takes the chestnut’s reins back from Tashqyt. “Do you want me to kill each of them myself?”
Drayl looks down. “No, ser.”
“Then do your duty.” Lorn mounts, then turns the chestnut and leaves the squad leader and the lancers who had been guarding captives. He ignores the scattered curses and yells of the captives as they die.
His guts are tight, but his movements are graceful. His head throbs, and he can feel the tiredness in his arms and legs. Tiny knives stab at his eyes, a reminder that he has apparently used chaos in fighting, although he does not specifically remember doing so.
“…say one thing… doesn’t ask… what he won’t do…”
“…butcher…”
“…they any better?… saw those steads… what they did here…”
Lorn has no answers, for every answer he had before the battle was wrong, and so is every one after it. He can but hope, once more, that he has chosen the lesser of evils, and the one that will cost Cyad the least in the years to come. But he knows that the wars with the Jeranyi have come to Biehl, fueled by old hatreds and new Hamorian blades, and before long, no matter what he could have done, there will be more raids and more destruction, and more deaths.
Is he but a puppet of the times? One reacting to old hatreds? Or is his evil worse, because he has the freedom to act, and has chosen to annihilate an entire force of barbarians in hopes of preserving Cyadoran lives, when he has no way of truly knowing whether his actions will? And whether he can make the times different from what they would have been without him?
XXXVIII
Lorn’s Mirror Lancers and the District Guards ride along the north bank of the River Behla, westward toward Ehyla. They had traveled so far south and west in pursuing the raiders that the dusty river-road is a far shorter return than retracing their tracks to the northeast and along the beaches would have been.
Lorn studies the muddy river, a good hundred cubits across, but still not much deeper than four or five cubits in most places, except for the occasional narrows where the depths may reach twenty cubits. The willows are taller, and more abundant, and a scattering of other trees mixes with them along the bank. There are now some woodlots along the north bank, although the land beyond the south bank remains flat grassland interspersed with ever more frequent fields.
As he passes particular landmarks, he adds them to his maps, lightly and carefully with a charcoal stick, although he doubts he will use them again. While losing threescore-and-ten is not unreasonable against eighteenscore, the losses are more than have been seen in Biehl in generations. Despite the Hamorian-forged blades packed on the spare and captured mounts, he has no doubts that the outcry will be equally loud, and provide ample reason for his swift replacement. For if he is believed-that there is a true Jeranyi danger-the Majer-Commander must dispatch a more senior officer-and if Lorn is not, then he will be relieved to face some form of discipline.
Behind him the lancers still murmur, as they have for the last two days, almost as if they cannot believe what has happened, and must keep talking about it.
“…still don’t believe… overcaptain… must have slaughtered more ‘n score himself…”
“…did all right yerself…”
“Just let ‘em kill her, he did. Pretty little thing…”
Lorn winces, but continues to watch the river.
“Got ‘em all, didn’t he?”
“…know… but don’t seem right…”
“…let ‘em loose, and they’d kill more… couldn’ta caught ’em all. You know that.”
“…you saw that hamlet… want ‘em doing that to yer folk?”
“…still don’t seem right…”
After a battle such as the last, Lorn doubts anything is right. He glances to the northwest. After two days of riding from Nhais, they still have more than a day’s ride to reach Ehyla, if not two. And then his newest set of problems will begin.
XXXIX
As the Mirror Lancers and the District Guards form up outside the guard building in Ehyla, a light drizzle falls from the low gray clouds moving in off the Northern Ocean and over the River Behla. While the clouds are dark, and getting blacker, so far, the rain has not even wet the dust on the road. Lorn rides to where the guard squads have reined up, and halts the chestnut before the grizzled Wharalt.
“Ser?” The senior guard looks steadily at the overcaptain.
“You and your men did a good job-a very good job, and we could not have stopped the barbarians without you. Some of them-and you-may ask in the future whether what we did was necessary.” Lorn’s eyes hold Wharalt’s. “I spent three years in the Grass Hills, and I would judge so. I am returning your command to Commander Repyl, but I will also tell him how valiantly you all behaved. Also, under the Emperor’s Code, death golds are paid to the families of District Guards who die under the command of the Mirror Lancers, It is not enough, and they will be slow in coming, but they will come, and that is why I asked for their names. I would not deny them what they paid for with their lives. I would that you would watch for such and ensure that the families receive those golds.”
“That I will, ser.” Wharalt bows his head. “Ser… even I can see what must be done. None like it, but none will gainsay it. Many would have cost us more, I fear. You and your lancers took the brunt of the attacks. And that I be telling all, ser.”
“Thank you.” Lorn returns the bow, then guides the chestnut toward the building entrance.
Commander Repyl waits on the steps as Lorn dismounts and ties his mount to a brass ring.
Lorn walks forward and bows to the commander. “Commander Repyl, I am pleased to return your companies to your command. They have performed valiantly and well, and your training and organization are to be commended.”
Repyl’s mouth tightens as he takes in the more than a score of missing mounts and empty saddles. For a time, he does not speak. “I am certain you did your very best, Overcaptain, valiant lancer officer that you are, but since I was not there, would you care to explain the casualties, Overcaptain?”
Lorn nods. “I will. I will also send you a copy of the report I will be dispatching to the Majer-Commander.” He clears his throat. “We were fortunate enough to intercept a barbarian raiding force. There were about twentyscore. They were well inside Cyad, almost to Nhais when we were able to catch them on the south bank of the river. They had already burned
at least three hamlets, a halfscore steads and holdings. They killed all but a score of the people living there.”
“Three hamlets?”
“You can ask your guards. Those hamlets and steads were the ones we saw. There may have been other smaller places. We forced them into a corner, and they refused to surrender. In fact, they demanded that we give them all safe passage back to Jerans-or they would kill all the hostages.” Lorn shrugs. “After all that they had killed already, I could not accede to that.”
“You let them kill hostages?”
“We did save a handful, and those we left with friends and families in Nhais.”
“You gave battle, and how many escaped?”
“None that we know of. We counted more than eighteenscore dead. I had your two remaining squad leaders verify that. We also returned with all their blades.”
Repyl swallows. “You slaughtered eighteenscore?”
“I wouldn’t call it a slaughter. We lost three-and-a-half score, and the lancers lost nearly twice what the Guard did,” Lorn says mildly. “Nor had we much choice when the barbarians were headed west to sack Nhais.”
“I… see.”
Lorn doubts that the District Commander really does, but nods just the same.
Repyl lowers his voice as his eyes fix on Lorn. “You knew before you left.”
“I did not know,” Lorn says evenly. “I thought it highly likely, but I could not prove it. If I told anyone, people might have acted unwisely. There has not been a raid here in generations, and there will not be another soon.”
“Acting such is dangerous.”
“Not to act would have been more so, Commander. And in not acting, the danger was far greater to the people of Cyador.” Lorn’s eyes are flat as he adds, “I expect I will be relieved. Sooner or later, but most possibly sooner.”
Repyl frowns. “Did you think of such before you left?”
“I did. But, after seeing what I saw in the Grass Hills for three years, I could see no other choice.”
“Truly… truly amazing. An honest and effective overcaptain in Biehl. One who serves his land before himself.” Repyl shakes his head slowly. “You are right, Overcaptain. You not likely to remain here.”
“I would expect not.” Lorn smiles. “I wish you well with my successor if it should come to that. And… you did a good job training them. I meant that. I will also report that I exercised my power, and that you were most cooperative, and that our success would not have been possible without your work.”
“I would appreciate such.”
For a moment, the two look at each other. Then Lorn bows. “Good day, Commander.”
“Good day, Overcaptain.”
Lorn turns and walks down the steps to remount the chestnut for the long ride back to the compound at Biehl and the longer wait for his replacement-or transfer-or disciplinary hearing, although he will be taking steps to ensure that a punitive discipline is unlikely, including scrolls to his brother, parents, and Ryalth, as well as copies of his battle report to the commanders at Assyadt, Syadtar, and Isahl, warning them of the stepped-up barbarian attacks, and the growing prevalence of Hamorian weapons that he has found. He may seek other means to ensure he is merely transferred to a dangerous command, rather than disciplined publicly-if he can think of such.
Perhaps even a report to the Hand of the Emperor, although he knows not if one so addressed will reach the shadowy figure.
XL
In the quiet of the twilight, two days after returning to Biehl and after writing scores of letters to families, drafting and dispatching battle reports, and persuading Neabyl and Comyr to authenticate the numbers and sources of captured weapons, Lorn sits at the desk in his personal quarters, sipping a glass of Alafraan and studying the chaos-glass. He finds no other raiders along the trails and tracks, but there is yet another Hamorian ship in the harbor at Jera.
Will all his efforts and all the deaths just fuel more hatred and allow the traders to sell more blades in Jera? Will the Majer-Commander have to establish outposts east of Biehl, or near Nhais, to protect the town and Escadr and the cuprite mines?
Releasing a deep breath, he lets that image of the harbor at Jera fade, for there is little he could do now, even were he to find another group of raiders riding through the Grass Hills or toward Nhais. There are none, he knows… not yet.
After another sip of Alafraan, and with a smile, he uses the glass to take a brief look at a lady trader, who dines on the upper portico of his parents’ dwelling-alone except for Jerial. The two are laughing, but the laughs die away, as he realizes they-both of them-sense the chaos-glass.
Abruptly, Jerial smiles, and murmurs something, and Ryalth touches her fingers to her lips.
Hundreds of kays away, Lorn smiles, then releases the image, wondering again at his consort’s sensitivity to the glass. His eyes stare, unfocused, into the twilight, as the momentary warmth the image of Ryalth has given him fades, and he considers again the past eightdays.
Perhaps fivescore Cyadoran men, women, and children have died. Nearly eighteenscore Jeranyi warrior raiders died because Lorn acted, and more than threescore Mirror Lancers and District Guards.
Why? Lorn can offer reasons, but the reasons make little sense. The Jeranyi feel that lands they have not lived upon for more than ten generations-if not longer-belong to them, and they wish to kill all those who now live there. Lorn has killed those Jeranyi, for they died because of his planning and tactics, to try to stop them from killing even greater numbers of Cyadorans innocent of anything but living where their ancestors lived.
After having seen the people who live east of Biehl, Lorn suspects many are of pure Jeranyi blood, yet they are considered white demons as much as he is, for all the years they and their families have been there.
Will those deaths change anything? Anything at all?
Without an answer, he picks up the silver-covered book and pages through it, slowly, scanning the lines. His lips curl ruefully as his eyes light on one of the verses that suddenly makes a great deal more sense to him. He reads the words, softly, but aloud.
I wish that in this twisted land there existed a prayer as solid as my disbelief, or failing that, as solid as my uncertainty.
Is that the job of a lancer or a magus of Cyad-to create certainty in an uncertain world? In a world where reasons seem distant, and insubstantial? Was that the purpose laid out by the refugees from the Rational Stars for the City of Eternal Light?
Lorn slowly closes the book and looks out into the darkness.
XLI
With the indirect light passing through the antique panes of the ancient windows, the polished white-oak table desk reflects the faces of Rynst and Luss as they sit across from each other in a long and windowed room on the fifth and highest floor of the Mirror Lancer Court, the room that is the inner study of the Majer-Commander.
Rynst looks at Luss, then speaks. “You are telling me that this overcaptain took the District Guards and two companies of barely equipped and half-trained Mirror Lancers and rode out for an eightday-leaving the port unprotected-and ambushed and somehow killed most-all of some barbarian raiders no one has ever seen or heard of? And he claims that they were planning to sack the town of Nhais, and then the vintners’ warehouses at Escadr and the cuprite mines at Dyeum? And that they were doing this with fresh-forged Hamorian blades? Is that what you are telling me, Captain-Commander?”
“Yes, ser. Overcaptain Lorn insists that the barbarians were planning such. There was no proof, of course, on which he could base his actions.”
Rynst frowns, and his eyes harden.
Luss’s eyes drop. “He does say that he has fifteenscore of their blades in the armory at Biehl.”
“Fifteenscore?” Rynst nods. “He has them, then, for he would not dare assert such, were it not so. Does he present any proof of such?”
“He sent a confirmation sealed by both of the Emperor’s Enumerators in Biehl,” Luss admits. “Fourteenscore-and-eleven, exactl
y, and all but five with recent forge markings.”
“You did not mention that, Luss. Most amazing, most amazing, and you almost had me believing that he had fabricated it all. What else did he say?” Rynst pauses, before adding, “Not that I will not read his report myself, after all this.”
“He wrote that there were more than eighteenscore barbarians, and that he and his forces killed them all, at the cost of three-and-a-halfscore in lancers and guards, ser.” Luss smiles blandly. “That there were no survivors seems… unusual.” Luss adds. “He did attach statements from all the surviving squad leaders, verifying the numbers and that there were no survivors.”
“Does he say why there were no survivors?”
“There is a brief statement that survivors were not in the interest of Cyad, since there were no outposts nearby to deal with any follow-up raids that might occur.”
“So he and his men killed eighteenscore barbarians, and he killed any captives. These barbarians were within the boundaries of Cyador?”
“That is what the overcaptain says.”
“And what says the Second Magus?” Rynst’s eyebrows lift. “I am certain you consulted him, since he is related to the overcaptain, albeit rather indirectly.”
“He says that the battle took place well west of the Grass Hills, on a river east of Nhais. Overcaptain Lorn rode the beaches, then followed them down the valley, and struck them from behind, we believe. His glass indicates none of the barbarians survived.”
“So… the honorable Kharl is so worried about the overcaptain that he took time to follow him in his chaos-glass.” Rynst folds his hands together, then leans back in his chair. “Overcaptain Lorn left no survivors, and in the middle of nowhere, with no maps, no Magi’i, he managed to find them and kill six for every man he lost? Would that we had more like him.”
“He did it without authorization of any sort, ser, and then he sent copies of his battle report to Assyadt, Inividra, Pemedra, Isahl, and Syadtar. His cover letter to those commanders suggested that they be wary as well, since he had discovered large numbers of Hamorian-forged weapons, and that as the commander of the port detachment he had heard reports from numerous captains that weapons were being shipped to Jera.”
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