Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  With a wry smile, Lorn realizes that Rhalyt and his men are assisting Quytyl. “I think we need to tell the undercaptains.” He turns the gelding and rides northward toward what had been the right flank of the Cyadoran formation.

  “Ser?” asks Rhalyt.

  “You lose anyone?”

  “One man, ser. One of those axes.”

  “What about their weapons?”

  “There aren’t any sabres. A few axes, but most are the big iron blades.”

  “All right. The scouts say the town is undefended. We’re going down, and First Company will follow me.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I’m going to tell Quytyl his orders, and then I’ll be back.”

  Rhalyt nods as Lorn eases the gelding more northward until he reins up beside the other undercaptain who is watching as two lancers fasten blades to a captured mount.

  “We didn’t lose anyone, ser,” Quytyl announces. “Two wounded, though.”

  “Badly?”

  “One won’t be fighting.”

  “Can he ride and watch the pack animals? They both should.” Quytyl nods.

  “You’ll be working with Emsahl to take the square-same as the last big town, Disfek or whatever it was. So, as soon as you’re finished, form up your men in column behind Third Company.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lorn turns, then rides back toward Rhalyt and First Company. He blots his forehead and under his eyes. Each day seems hotter, as if they were nearing midsummer, even though it is but early spring.

  “Ready to ride, ser,” announces Rhalyt as Lorn nears.

  A lancer rides up almost simultaneously and announces, “Captain Gyraet says Sixth Company is ready to ride, ser.”

  “We’ll be riding shortly,” Lorn temporizes, his eyes and chaos-senses still surveying the field and the trees beyond. While nothing feels exactly wrong, it does not feel right, either, and Lorn finds himself pursing his lips.

  Once the Cyadorans have re-formed and ride along the road that winds between two forested Mils, and then down the steeper grade toward Berlitos itself, Lorn continues to survey the hills, both with his eyes and chaos-senses, despite the double number of scouts before the main force. Neither he nor the scouts find any armsmen on the descent.

  The first dwelling the Mirror Lancers reach on the outskirts of Berlitos, not quite before the road levels out, is set in a grove of sweetsap trees, and is long and narrow, with ancient and heavy crosstimbers framing and bracing the door. The shutters are equally heavy, and old, and fastened tight. What looks to be a small stable is barred equally firmly.

  “Be hard to break in there,” observes Rhalyt.

  Lorn does not comment, but wonders why a town with houses built so sturdily has armsmen so inept. Or are the houses sturdy for that reason? He suspects he will never know.

  At the base of the hill, Esfayl takes Second Company northward to secure the bridge-a long and narrow stone-and-brick structure that angles from one island in the placid North Branch to another, and then to a stone pylon set in shallower water, before turning again and rising slightly to a low bluff on the northwest side.

  The bridge is empty so far as Lorn can see.

  The remaining five companies ride westward along the wide dirt road, leaving the empty bridge for Esfayl.

  Unlike the dwellings they have seen elsewhere, those in Berlitos are all of wood, timbered dwellings painted bright colors and resting under more trees than Lorn has seen since he had been assigned to the Accursed Forest years before.

  “Sturdy dwellings,” observes Rhalyt.

  “We might be able to burn this town, but I don’t think we want to take it house by house,” Lorn says.

  “If that’s the way they fight, do we need to burn it?” asks Rhalyt.

  Lorn does not answer as he urges the gelding in the direction of the town square, past more of the barricaded dwellings and outbuildings. All the noise, all the dust, comes from the lancers. The dwellings are silent.

  As the companies enter the town square, Lorn gestures to Cheryk. “Go on to the warehouses and the wharf! First Company and I will meet you there.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lorn reins up and surveys the town square. In the center of the square is a six-sided brick-faced platform roughly fifty cubits on a side. The sides are a cubit-and-a-half above the dirt and clay of the road that circles the platform. There is no railing, and no discernible purpose for the platform. The buildings around the square are all heavy, two-story timbered structures- like the rest of Berlitos, seemingly impregnable without the Mirror Lancers spending forever battering their way in.

  “Have the company hold here,” Lorn tells Rhalyt before riding toward Emsahl. The sub-majer can see a chandlery, a cooper’s shop, a weaver’s, perhaps a fuller’s, before he reaches the senior captain. Lorn reins up and glances at Emsahl.

  Emsahl shrugs.

  “The wood here is old,” Lorn ventures.

  “It will burn.”

  “Burn it. Use torches,” Lorn commands. “As much of the square as you can, then ride your companies to the bridge.” Part of Lorn’s command is out of pique, and part is out of a feeling that the Jeranyi must not be allowed to think they can hide behind heavy walls and mock Cyador.

  “Yes, ser. Probably the best way to handle this place.”

  “I’m taking First Company to the wharfs. We’ll meet you at the bridge.”

  “Torches!” Emsahl orders as Lorn turns back to Rhalyt and First Company.

  “Ser?” asks the undercaptain.

  “We’ll ride to the wharfs-it’s only a half a kay south.”

  “First Company!” Rhalyt orders. “Forward…”

  Lorn looks at the buildings beyond the square. They, too, are massive timber structures-massive and old.

  Unlike the buildings in the town square, the doors to the three warehouses that stand behind the river wharfs are all open, and lancers are carting out some provisions-and blades.

  Gyraet rides to meet Lorn. “The warehouses here are mostly empty, ser. Doors were open. Not a soul here. Some wool, some hides, some barrels of oils, a halfscore of barrels of salted meat.”

  “And no traders?”

  Gyraet shakes his head. “They left some blades-almost tenscore, but there are no records, and it doesn’t look like there were any.”

  “Any more cupridium sabres?”

  “A score, perhaps.”

  “We’ll keep those, and I want you and the captains to sign a paper saying that we found and dumped into the river the other ninescore blades. Actually, we’d better list all the blades we’ve dumped, from the first town onward.” Lorn’s lips twist. “Then… have a half-squad ride over to the bridge-Esfayl should have it in hand-and one of the lancers should use a weighted rope to find the deepest point off the bridge.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  This time there were blades, but no records.

  “Emsahl is firing the square, and the buildings around it will catch fire soon. Can you finish here quickly?” asks Lorn. “Use torches to fire the warehouses.”

  Gyraet laughs. “We’re near finished already. Not that much here.”

  “Good. Let me know when your company and Cheryk’s are ready to ride.”

  Lorn turns his mount, back toward the town square. As he looks northward, in the direction of thin lines of black smoke and the fires that will rage before long, and toward the bridge he cannot see, the bridge that will lead to Jera, Lorn is not even sure they have taken Berlitos so much as killed some inept armsmen, ridden through the place, looted and burned a few warehouses and the center of the town and ridden on. He wonders whether he is making an enormous mistake in pushing on toward Jera.

  Yet the weapons have to come from somewhere, and go to someone who can use them, and he has to stop the easy flow of blades. If he can.

  He shakes his head.

  LXVI

  To the south of the bivouac, the River Jeryna runs smoothly, its now-deep waters dark
in the twilight. Somewhere out in the camp, Lorn can hear the twirrrp… of another of the ubiquitous traitor birds scolding some lancer. A few spring insects chirp down by the river bank, and in the greenish purple sky, stars are beginning to appear.

  Lorn opens his saddlebags, and his fingers slide over the cool surface of the silver-covered book of verse. Even in the warm evening, after a hot day’s ride, with the sun pounding down on the saddlebags, the book is cool. For a moment, his fingers rest on the cool surface, and he thinks of Ryalth-and Kerial.

  A faint smile comes to his lips.

  Then, with a long slow breath, he extracts the soap he will take down to the river, and closes the saddlebag. His eyes lift into the clear night sky, seeking stars he cannot identify, for there is no chart of which are-or were-the Rational Stars.

  Had the ancient writer felt as Lorn did, looking back as the smoke and flames engulfed the forested town of Berlitos? Had that ancient wondered why he had to do what he did? Had he asked himself what difference his actions would make?

  Lorn drops his eyes from the faint stars of twilight and laughs, a soft bitter sound, but loud enough for himself.

  Of course the ancient writer had wondered. That is why so many of the verses are melancholy, why so many convey a sense of futility.

  Lorn shakes his head. He can but do what he feels best, and he knows that blades coming from elsewhere to Jera are killing lancers for no good reason except to fuel and justify ancient hates-and perhaps to fatten the purses of traders who care little for the men whom their trades kill.

  LXVII

  In the morning light, the brown waters of the River Jeryna swirl through the bushes half-submerged at the water’s edge. Farther offshore, the currents occasionally show eddies and whirlpools that appear and disappear, but there is no white water on the lower reaches of the river, just a muddy expanse of brown a good two hundred kays wide and thirty deep. By looking along the river that flows to his left, Lorn can see touches of gray-blue on the horizon-the Northern Ocean.

  If his maps and calculations are correct, they are within ten kays of Jera, and before long they should be seeing increasing numbers of steads and dwellings. He shifts his weight in the gelding’s saddle and glances back along the river road at the column of Mirror Lancers, then back at the road before him. A grassy swale drops away on the right side, then rises into a long grassy slope for grazing-but there are no sheep or cattle anywhere to be seen.

  As Lorn rides around the sweeping curve that brings the road to the right and more northward, he sees another of the stone-and-rail fences to the right of the river road, but all is still as the Cyadoran column rides toward the fence and the buildings behind it.

  “Another empty stead,” observes Gyraet, whose Sixth Company rides in the van with Lorn for the day. The captain inclines his head to the right toward the slab-timbered farm dwelling on the low slope north of the river road. There are three outbuildings of various sizes, but even the chicken shed seems to have been emptied.

  Behind the buildings, the spreading trees, and the low slope are rolling hills, and then, perhaps five kays northward, the steeper but still-forested slopes that mark the boundary of the High Steppes. “All of them have been empty for the last day,” Lorn replies.

  Word of the Cyadoran force has spread throughout Jerans-or at least along the river. The dwellings near the road are all abandoned. Lorn can see thin lines of chimney smoke rising into the green-blue sky from those houses on more distant hillsides, but the scouts have reported that every holding is either empty or shuttered and barred. Yet the scouts have seen no evidence of regular armsmen or barbarians, nor any tracks in the lanes and roads.

  Lorn stretches as best he can in the saddle and takes a deep breath.

  Midmorning still finds Lorn and the Cyadorans on the river road, but Lorn can see a distant outline of several ships in the harbor and the gray-blue of the Northern Ocean beyond. The road has also carried them closer to the steep hills that border the port city to the north-and to a kaystone, whose inscription is clear enough: Jera, 5 k.

  “Seems like the last five kays have been ten,” Gyraet says.

  “Or fifteen,” Lorn says with a laugh. He glances ahead toward two figures in white riding around the curve of the road. “Send a messenger to summon the officers.” He and Gyraet keep riding, leading the column toward Jera along the dusty road that holds few tracks, and those mainly of heavy wagons.

  Emsahl and Cheryk arrive within moments. Both glance at Lorn.

  “We’ll keep riding until the scouts and the other officers arrive,” Lorn says.

  Esfayl and Rhalyt are next, followed by Quytyl, who has barely reined his mount into a walk behind the more senior captains when the scouts ride in and turn their mounts to ride alongside Lorn and Gyraet.

  “What did you find?” asks the sub-majer.

  The gray-bearded older lancer speaks first. “Roads are clear, ser, like everyone’s fled. No tracks like armsmen or barbarians. More wagon tracks than we’ve seen before.”

  “You think traders are trying to pack their goods and flee?”

  “Could be…”

  “What about the city?”

  “Less smoke from the chimneys than you’d see most days,” answers the ginger-bearded scout. “Didn’t see no folk or mounts about, except around the wharfs-that was from the hill a couple kays from there, and it was hard to tell, but the port part seemed busy, ser.”

  “No armsmen?” Lorn wants to be sure.

  “None we saw.”

  The sub-majer turns in the saddle. “This time we’re going straight for the ocean piers and the warehouses.” He glances across the faces of the captains. “We’ll worry about the city later.” At the puzzled expression that crosses Quytyl’s face, and Cheryk’s worried frown, he adds, “We’re after all the blades and the traders. They’re trying to escape. The city will still be there, but they may not.”

  “And their records won’t be, either,” suggests Gyraet. “Sub-majers need things like records to take back to commanders who haven’t been in the field. Without proof, in a year, they’ll forget, and we’ll be facing more cupridium blades from Summerdock-with fewer firelance charges.”

  Emsahl nods slowly.

  “The river road runs straight to the piers, right along the river,” Lorn explains, “and once we get close, we’ll go to four-abreast. First Company, move up. You’ll follow me.” Lorn reflects that on this campaign he has effectively followed Dettaur’s directive, by alternating his own command between the First and Fifth Companies. Then, Dettaur will be furious when he discovers what Lorn has done-if Lorn survives to report his actions.

  “Once we get closer, I’ll give more orders, but, remember, we want to take the harbor and the warehouses first.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lorn looks at the scouts. “You need to head back out and see if there are any armsmen or barbarians forming up to attack-or defend.”

  As the scouts ride off, Lorn still wonders at the lack of resistance. Or will the Jeranyi wait until he has almost returned to Inividra, without firelance charges, before they mount a final attack? He shrugs to himself.

  Roughly a kay later, the road sweeps upward perhaps twenty cubits over the distance of half a kay and northward. At the top of the low rise, the harbor and Northern Ocean stretch out before Lorn, with the city’s buildings and dwellings set on an incline to his right, and the warehouse and harbor directly before the riders. To the left, the river widens so that it is difficult to tell exactly where the river ends and the harbor begins

  Less than a kay ahead is the first section of the stone riprap of the seawall, and there two redstone pillars flank the road. The pillars are without gates or a gatehouse. Riding up the incline from the seawall are the two scouts, moving at almost a gallop.

  As Lorn starts down the incline toward the approaching scouts, he can feel the wind shift from barely a flutter to a strong breeze out of the northwest, bearing the scent of salt air and the le
ss appetizing odor of dead fish. He glances upward, but the sky remains hazy, a white film covering the clear green-blue that he had seen earlier in the morning.

  The scouts ride in beside Lorn and begin to report, even without waiting for an order. “Armsmen ahead, ser. Maybe twoscore-with boards and blades.”

  “How far?”

  “A kay, mayhap, beyond the pillars, but afore the warehouses, it looks to be.”

  “Shields? What kind?”

  “Sort of look like Mirror Shields.”

  Lorn glances at Rhalyt. “Send a messenger to have the captains join me here again for a few moments. We aren’t stopping.”

  “Yes, ser.” The undercaptain turns and relays the message.

  Lorn studies the road and the harbor. While he cannot be sure, there appear to be two vessels still tied up at the long spindly pier that juts well out into the harbor. There are carts and people jostling toward the pier, and a reddish block of figures that must be the armsmen the scouts have reported. The sub-majer keeps riding.

  Emsahl and Cheryk arrive first. Then come Esfayl and Gyraet, and finally, once more, Quytyl.

  They are less than a hundred cubits from the redstone pillars when Lorn begins to talk. “There’s a company or more of armsmen trying to block us from the harbor. They’ve got polished mirror shields and armor. Who has the most firelances working?”

  “We do, I think,” ventures Cheryk.

  “I’d like you to take the lead. Have your men aim the firelances for the mounts. Bring them down quickly. I’m going to take First Company and Second Company and get behind them if we can.” Lorn glances toward Esfayl, then Rhalyt. “You ready for that?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Fourth Company to the fore! Fourth Company to the fore!” Cheryk’s deep voice rises over the sound of hoofs and mounts and lancers murmuring.

  Lorn turns to Rhalyt and Esfayl. “Once we pass the pillars, move your men to the right shoulder. When I signal, have them follow me.”