Lewa coughed, once.
Nylan tried not to breathe too deeply of sweat and grime and dust.
All four looked through the dim light at Huruc, who used a whittled stick as a pointer on the crude map spread beside the candle lamp.
“The scouts say that they’ll head for a little place called Yasira,” the subofficer said. “They were setting up for nearly fifteen score, just like they did for the second attack on Hesra.”
Lewa looked down at the battered plank floor.
Nylan didn’t like the reminder. Every time the Cyadorans ran into trouble, they just increased their forces. Before long, they’d only be using five or sixscore lancers-or more.
“Too many for us now?” suggested Ayrlyn.
“We have score six, with another score or so coming from the Carpa area in an eight-day or so.” Fornal shrugged and fingered the mug. “We cannot attack or defend against score fifteen.”
“So why don’t we take a troop and warn the locals?” asked Nylan.
Fornal frowned.
“Our men could use the exercise, and it will make life harder for the white demons. They wouldn’t get any supplies-or fewer-that way.”
“We don’t know it’s Yasira,” said Huruc slowly. “And the people might not listen anyway.”
Nylan thought. They might not. The peasants weren’t fond of anyone’s armsmen, but he could try, and it should make the locals more likely to hide food or move it, and that would cut into the Cyadorans’ foraging efforts.
The candle flickered behind the sooty mantle with a sharper gust of hot wind that slipped through the half-open rear door to the main room of the dwelling.
The black-bearded regent fingered the earthenware mug and waited.
Nylan swallowed, trying not to burp mutton. “Fine,” Ayrlyn said after a moment. “We’ll watch, and if it is, we can move faster, and we’ll warn whoever it is. If they get a warning, maybe they can move out for a time. That should frustrate the Cyadorans some.”
“This would be a good exercise for your levies,” suggested Fornal. “We would stop any scouts, of course, and oppose any other… attacks.” He finally took another sip from the mug. “It might at that,” Nylan agreed, understanding all too well Fornal’s meaning. The regent wasn’t about to admit to inability. The angels could, and that would tarnish their reputation, but Fornal was going to remain the image of Lornian nobility-or whatever.
“What other ideas do you have that might reduce their numbers? We cannot prevail against endless lines of lancers, but”-Fornal frowned-“many of the holders of Lornth will doubtless find fault if we do not show results quickly. They would fault any commander who told villagers that he could not protect them.”
“There are always some in power like that. Anywhere,” Nylan said.
“True that may be, but with a regency council, we are more vulnerable. So, angels, any thoughts you might have would be most welcome.”
Nylan tried to concentrate. The white soldiers used lighter weapons-hand to hand the Lornians always won-but it seldom got to one-on-one. Why? Because there were far more Cyadorans and because they generally operated in large formations?
“We need to set traps of some sort. Let me think about that, and I’ll let you know after we get back.” As if he didn’t have enough to think about. His eyes went toward the closed door in the rear corner of the room, behind which, in the evenings, Sylenia either knitted or watched Weryl or did stitchery or all three-especially when Nylan couldn’t even spend time with his son. He wanted to shake his head, but didn’t.
“I will be waiting with interest,” said the regent with a faint smile, before lifting the mug and draining the dregs.
LXVII
IN THE GRAY light that was neither night nor dawn, Ayrlyn and Nylan studied the walls around the mining camp from the hills to the north. Already thin wisps of smoke drifted upward from the various chimneys behind the walls.
“Despite Fornal’s slights on the rising habits of the Cyadorans, someone is up early,” whispered the redhead. “A lot of someones.”
“Makes sense. It gets hotter here than anywhere we’ve been so far.” Nylan blotted away the sweat that threatened to run into the corners of his eyes. “Today’s going to blister me.”
“Here they come,” said Ayrlyn.
Nylan shifted his eyes to the mining compound where the gates opened with a screeching that carried the several kays to their hilltop vantage point. Two long columns of white lancers trotted out from the gates. Behind them even more smoke swelled from the chimneys of the older buildings, presumably from the smelting furnaces or whatever they used to melt the copper out of the crushed ore.
“That’s enough.” Nylan nodded, and the two crept back toward their mounts, the drying grass rustling with their passage.
Behind them, the sun peered over the hills of the eastern horizon, and began to glitter off the small mirror shields of the lancers.
They rejoined the squad another three kays down the road.
“Won’t they see our tracks?” asked Tonsar.
“Of course,” answered Ayrlyn. “That’s the point, this time. We want them to feel watched.”
Finally, Tonsar nodded.
Nylan turned toward the two men he and Ayrlyn had picked as scouts. “Diess, Restr, once we get to the first crossroads, you’ll wait there. If it looks like they’re not going to Yisara, Diess, you ride and tell us. We’ll be outside Yisara. Restr, you follow them-at a safe distance to see if you can see where they are going. If they seem to go straight, right toward Yisara, just stay in front of them, Restr, like we discussed, until you get closer to the town. Then break off and head for the grove. Do you understand?”
Whether they did or not, both men nodded.
Nylan looked back, twice, before the two disappeared behind the hill crest overlooking the road. He hoped that they had understood, but that was another problem in an honor-bound culture. No idiot wanted to appear cowardly-or stupid-even if the results were disaster.
Once the scouts were out of sight, Nylan exchanged glances with Ayrlyn, and the squad began the ride to Yisara.
It was past mid-morning when Diess cantered up to the small grove of trees-Nylan didn’t know what kind, except that they weren’t olives-that marked the crossroads outside Yisara and provided the only shade in kays.
Nylan stretched, blotted his forehead again, and walked toward the armsman. The angel engineer seemed to sweat all the time, while his levies seemed comfortable in long-sleeved shirts.
“They’re… coming,” gasped the armsman as he reined up.
“You have a moment. Drink something,” suggested Ayrlyn.
Diess glanced at Nylan, who forced himself not to second Ayrlyn’s suggestion. Finally, Diess unstrapped the bottle and uncorked it and took a quick gulp. “They still march straight for Yisara, sers. More than tenscore.” The scout coughed, then took another swig. “The dust… it makes it hard.”
“How long before they get here?” asked Ayrlyn, with a glance toward the scattered dwellings and outbuildings in the brown-grassed vale a kay west of where Nylan’s and her squads were drawn up.
“Midday, ser. Could be later.”
Nylan blotted his dripping forehead. His face kept getting red and burned, and he was going to have to wear some sort of hat if the days got any hotter-if he wanted any skin left on his face.
“Mount up!” ordered the redhead.
“What said the scout?” asked Tonsar, looking at Nylan.
“They’re making a good pace toward Yisara, and it can’t be any place else.” The angel engineer coughed to clear some of the dust from his throat, then swung up into the saddle.
Once mounted, he glanced toward Ayrlyn, and then around the grove. Two men still straggled.
“Move it!” snapped the redhead, and Nylan grinned, then wiped the grin away as she turned the mare.
As they headed toward the center of Yisara, Tonsar, Nylan, and Ayrlyn rode abreast-the road was barely wide
enough for three mounts.
“Too bad we don’t have any ways to stop them, something besides blades.” Nylan shifted his weight in the saddle, trying to relieve what was becoming continual soreness. “But everything… everything has to be made from scratch, even wire. Wire would help in setting blades and a bunch of things. Some nails are made from wire.” He was rambling, but sometimes it helped. Most times it didn’t.
“Wire?” asked Tonsar, as if he had never heard of the material.
“Metal drawn so thin that it’s not much bigger around than a thread,” Nylan said.
“Jewelers use it,” said the subofficer, “but why would you want wire?”
“Iron wire,” Nylan said futilely, shifting his weight in the saddle. “Does anyone make it?”
“I have never heard of such.”
Ayrlyn offered a faint grim smile, and, in turn, shifted her weight in the chestnut’s saddle.
The smith shrugged. Probably iron wire was something he could create-that required a drawing wheel and a precut die through which the metal could be drawn. But how useful would it be for the effort it took? Maybe it would be better to set up pikes in trenches or something.
Nylan reined up in what seemed to be the rough center of the village, beside an empty building, one without shutters or doors. He glanced around as the squad behind him reined up as well.
The inhabitants of Yisara couldn’t have numbered more than a hundred, not with only a score of homes, and twice that many outbuildings. As in Clynya, the outbuildings were sod-roofed, for the most part, and the dwellings were plaster or stucco walled with light-colored paint that was either peeling or sun-faded and stained into pink by the ever-present red dust. “Now where?”
“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 whit
e 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.
“Make it quick!” bellowed Tonsar. “Cuplek! You get Fienc’s body on his mount.”
“Me?”
“You! Unless you want me and the angels to help you join Fienc.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Siplor-you and Meresat get the mount detail. We can always use more mounts, one way or another.”
The Chaos Balance Page 32
