Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (26 page)

THE THREE OFFICERS remained mounted, watching on the hillock, as the engineers struggled below to lift walls around the mining camp, each wall a rampart of earth piled between walls of stone. A deep pit gaped on the eastern side of the camp, where stones were being mined. Only the wall facing the road to Clynya had been completed, and it rose less than six cubits. Other engineers worked on the additional earthen-walled barracks.

   “I don't like it,” muttered Captain Azarphi. “They all just scattered, not a single arrow.”

   “You want arrows.” Captain Miatorphi laughed. “We'll see them soon enough. Why do you think we need barracks and not tents?”

   Majer Piataphi did not take his eyes from the horse teams that dragged stone boats full of red earth from the back side of the hill.

   “What do you think, Majer?” asked Azarphi.

   “I'll be happier when we're dug in properly.”

   “Maybe we should keep the locals busy,” suggested Miatorphi.

   The major nodded. “According to the old maps, there's a town a half day west of here. It's called something like Derlya. Take a detachment and scout it out.” The majer paused, without looking at either officer, then added, “You, Azarphi.”

   “There are a couple of hamlets closer than that, small places,” ventured Miatorphi.

   “You take care of them,” answered the majer. “Not personally. Send a force leader with a few scouts to each, but try not to be seen.”

   “Those miners, they didn't even know we were coming,” repeated Azarphi. “They ran, like no one had told them.” He shook his head, squinting slightly against the bright morning sun.

   “You asked me what I thought,” said Piataphi abruptly. “I don't like it either. Those Lornian barbarians, they had to know we'd send a force. Their messages were stalling for time.”

   “You think they're headed this way with lots of those half-assed warriors?” asked Azarphi.

   “Not yet. They were stalling, and that means they need time. It also means they think they can do something. We need to know when they're coming and from where.” Piataphi turned in the saddle to face Azarphi. “Try not to let them see you.”

   “What can they do, really do?” inquired Miatorphi. “Very little, if we set up our base right and carry out His Mightiness's orders. That is, if we're careful, and I intend to be very careful.”

THERE BE ROHRN," announced Huruc.

   Nylan's eyes followed the armsman's gesture, although he had to squint into the sun that hung low in the western sky.

   Rohrn lay where the river forked, a town perhaps three-quarters the size of Lornth lying on the west side of the western fork, rather than on the triangle of land formed by the fork. The eastern fork seemed barely a third the size of the western branch, but the road led to a bridge over the eastern fork and then across the triangle to a second and larger stone bridge across the larger fork to Rohrn itself.

   “Daaaa . . .”

   At Weryl's semi-words, Nylan looked at the road ahead, not quite muddy, but slippery in places from the previous day's rain, and at the gentle slope down to the first bridge. Deep ruts filled the center of the road, and the riders all took one shoulder or the other.

   The road had followed the east side of the river all the way from Lornth, if often more than a kay or more from the river itself, because of the frequent marshes and swamps, at times even climbing the low hills east of the river to avoid the wetlands beside the water.

   As he rode down toward the eastern fork and the smaller bridge, Nylan noted that thickets and low trees bordered the narrow strip of brown water from the fork all the way back to where it vanished into the rolling hills to the southeast.

   Huruc reined up at the approach to the bridge and turned his mount. “You lead 'em across, angels, if you would.”

   “All right.” Ayrlyn nodded, as did Nylan.

   The timbered bridge was perhaps six cubits wide and almost a hundred cubits long, with log piers planted at each end and on each side of the actual stream. It had a planked roadbed and a single railing on each side, scarcely sturdy enough to halt a running horse or a heavy cart. The thickets below the approach rose from the streambed to nearly the height of the waist-high railing, and only the center of the span, that part over the water itself, was clear of flanking growth.

   Nylan urged the mare onto the planks, and her hoofs clunked on the wood.

   “Two abreast,” ordered Huruc, from behind them, as the armsmen neared the span. “More spaces between your mounts. Two abreast. Not so close.”

   Even with the spacing, Nylan could sense the bridge flexing as they neared the far side. No wonder the chief armsman wanted them spaced out.

   Nylan drew up short of the second bridge, a wider stone span, with two stone piers anchored in the river itself. Despite the raised causeway approach to the eastern side, the bridge still sloped slightly upward to the bluff on the western side where it entered the city.

   As he waited for the rest of the column to cross the first bridge and for Huruc to arrive, the engineer noted that the center section of the larger span, between the piers, also had a planked roadbed and wooden side walls.

   Rohrn seemed to be a trading town, with a scattering of empty wharves on the western side of the river, just north of the stone bridge. Part of the bluff had been terraced to allow access to the wharves. Most of the town sat on a bluff a good ten cubits above the river. The river was flowing more fully than normal, Nylan could see, because the bushes and trees on the eastern side were partly submerged in the churning brownish water, and the water on the western side lapped at the top of the wooden piers.

   “Da . . . wahdah, wahdah,” called Weryl from behind the saddle.

   “Yes, there's water there. Lots and lots of water.” Nylan turned his mount to watch the last of the armsmen cross the first bridge, followed by Huruc.

   Another face caught his eyes-a brown-haired and burly man who appeared to be a squad leader. The subofficer looked at Nylan and smiled. “Ser angel, I did not think to see you bearing arms for Lornth.”

   “Stranger things have happened,” answered the smith, still trying to wrack his brain for the other's identity. “Tonsar,” whispered Ayrlyn.

   “You want to fight the Cyadorans, Tonsar?” asked Nylan, glad for the reminder from Ayrlyn.

   “I would not say that it's something anyone would wish.” Tonsar grinned. “My boys and me, we will do our best.”

   “Just make sure you do,” rumbled Huruc as he rode up. “Lead on, angels. Two abreast.” The force leader gestured toward the second bridge. “Just follow the main street to the other side of the town. The barracks are there, but I'll catch you before you get that far.”

   The near-setting sun beat right into Nylan's eyes as he urged the mare onto the bridge. The echo of her hoofs reverberated from the paving stones of the approach and the first section of the bridge proper.

   He leaned toward Ayrlyn. “Thank you. I knew he was the one who escorted us to Lornth, but I just couldn't remember his name.”

   “Tonsar? Who would never let it be said that he slaughtered a family? And you couldn't remember that?” Ayrlyn grinned.

   “No,” said Nylan sheepishly. “I never was good with names. I guess I'm still not.”

   The mare's hoofs thudded on the planks of the bridge's center section, then clopped again on the stones on the far side, where Nylan headed down the fractionally wider street that seemed to lead toward a square a few hundred cubits westward.

   Rohrn was a smaller version of Lornth, with a scattering of buildings constructed of the pinkish granite, and the others of stone and plastered-except that Rohrn seemed older, with patches on the plaster. Nylan guided the mare around a long series of potholes that dotted the cracked paving stones of the main street, some of which were deep enough to hold stagnant water. The houses, some shuttered and some unshuttered, were plaster-finished in various shades of white, tinged pink by the red dust and gray by age.

   A mosquito whined out of the shadows cast by a shuttered house, and Nylan brushed it away, still squinting into the low sun.

   “There's a square ahead,” Ayrlyn observed.

   Nylan nodded and turned at the sound of faster hoofbeats to see Huruc squeezing his mount past the left side of the column.

   “Be not long now,” said the armsmaster as he reined back his mount and took a deep breath. “Hate riding narrow streets.”

   Three women in brown trousers, with baskets at their feet, watched from the porch of the chandlery as Nylan and Ayrlyn led the column into the square.

   “... sad sight... old man and a woman leadin' Lornth ... and a child behind them . . . sad it be ...”

   “... ser Gethen, mayhap ...”

   “. . . say he's a big man, and that old fellow's not that big ... Gethen's bairns ... all growed ...”

   Nylan snorted. “If I'm not a woman, then I'm an old man.”

   “I know better.”

   “So do I,” said Huruc.

   A charred signboard swung from a chain before a burned-out shell that might have once been an inn. Large clumps of browned grass, interspersed with pale green stems, grew around the base of the empty stone pedestal in the square.

   Rohrn had clearly seen better days, but Nylan said nothing as Huruc trotted up.

   “You can see the barracks ahead,” announced the head armsman.

   The space between the houses widened, and then there were no more houses, but an open field. The ground before the barracks was churned mud, as was the soil inside the large corral to the right of the stable building. The corral held more than a hundred mounts. The entrance to the stable had been strewn with straw in an apparent effort to firm up the reddish ooze.

   From the odor, Nylan decided that the ooze had mixed thoroughly with horse droppings and less savory other items. His nose wrinkled.

   “Thinking about sanitation again?” asked Ayrlyn.

   “Was it that obvious?”

   “Only to me.”

   Huruc whipped out the big blade and stood in the saddle.

   “Hold up! Hold here!”

   As the column jostled to a halt, another group of horsemen rode awkwardly toward the stable and then toward the corral. While all wore blades, the blades were far from uniform, and one youth carried his without even a scabbard.

   “Levies . . . some not much good,” said Tonsar in a low voice that barely carried to the angels.

   A black-bearded figure rode across the muddy ground.

   “Here comes Fornal.” Nylan glanced back at Sylenia, but the nursemaid's face was calm, impassive, as it had been for most of the trip.

   “Greetings. I am glad to see you have arrived as announced.” Fornal inclined his head. “The angels and you, Huruc, have quarters on the upper level, and you many stable your mounts within the stables. Your men have the south end of the barracks,” he added to Huruc, “and they will have to use the smaller corral behind the stable.”

   “Yes, ser.” Huruc stood and waved the blade. “This way!” he bellowed.

   As Huruc led the others away, the black-bearded regent eased the roan toward the angels. “Besides your blades, deadly as they are, did you bring any magical weapons?”

   “Not many battles are won with magic,” Nylan said calmly.

   “I am glad to hear you say that, mage.” Fornal smiled openly. “Few seem to understand that simple truth.”

   Nylan waited.

   “Have you thought of a nonmagical way to aid us, besides your own considerable prowess?”

   “Some of your levies don't know how to hold a blade, much less use it,” suggested Ayrlyn. “You cannot afford to spend time training them. That's something we've had a little experience with.”

   “My sire had mentioned such.” Fornal's fingers stroked his dark beard. “There are two squads and a few others-not a large number perchance-but,” the young regent shrugged, “as you say, they might well be armed with pitchforks as blades for all that they know of either. I would be indebted if you would undertake to turn them into a fighting force. Or at least a force that will not mill or turn at the first charge or arrow.”

   “Do we have your leave to use what methods we see fit?” asked Nylan politely.

   “Any such method as you know that will leave most of them intact to fight.” Fornal smiled more broadly. “I will introduce you two as their force leaders before we ride in the morning. We can discuss the details when we eat this evening.” He inclined his head. “I will leave you to make ready.”

   “By the way,” the smith asked, “do we know how much armor these Cyadorans wear?”

   “A breastplate and a small glittering shield-that is what the reports tell.” Fornal frowned momentarily. “Why ask you?”

   “We can discuss it later, but I would like to request that we bring an anvil and some hammers.”

   Fornal nodded. “You would use your skill to repair weapons, ser angel?”

   “That is one thing I can do. A grindstone would also help.”

   “Those ... those we can find.”

   “Thank you.”

   Fornal inclined his head politely, then turned the roan to follow Huruc.

   “What was that all about? The armor business?” asked Ayrlyn. “You said you wouldn't forge better blades-”

   “Repairs won't be that, but if I need to forge something, once we get in the middle of nowhere, where will I find an anvil or tools?”

   Ayrlyn nodded, then smiled faintly. “Here we go again.”

   “Probably.” Nylan took a deep breath. “We'll also need coal or charcoal, and some oil. Most of these blades are dull and nicked. They use them like crowbars, to knock people off their mounts.”

   “That won't go over well with the professionals,” Ayrlyn predicted.

   “No, but since nothing will,” Nylan answered, “we might as well do it our way.” He flicked the reins. “We need to get off these mounts. I can smell Weryl even above the local sanitation.”

   Behind them, Sylenia's mount and the gray squushed through the mud as the four horses headed for the weathered stable. In the rank behind Sylenia, a squat levy watched the nursemaid, nervously running one hand through his brown beard.

   Nylan frowned, but he could not stop a man from looking.