Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (32 page)

   'That's why they're called lancers, idiot," he murmured to himself as he twisted in the saddle, and beat aside the glittering lance with the dark blade that seemed so short.

   The lance shattered, as though it had been made of glass, but another lancer spurred toward Nylan, a sabre glittering in the midday sun, held low and angled to bisect the engineer, more light glaring into Nylan's eyes.

   Nylan flung his blade-almost blindly against the mirror shield's light and nearly point blank-and threw himself sideways in the saddle, feeling the sabre catch the edge of his shirt, before the lancer slumped in the saddle, grasping at the short sword buried to its hilt in his chest.

   Nylan brought up the second blade, struggling to get it out of the waist scabbard, and absently noting that he should have used the blade at his waist first, because the shoulder harness was easier to get to. He forced his thoughts away from the white pain of death that flowed around him, knowing that he had to get back to Weryl.

   His eyes flickered to the scattered individual skirmishes on his right. Only Ayrlyn had cut through the column, as he had, and she was surrounded by three of the white-clad Cyadorans. He turned and spurred the mare toward the three lancers around Ayrlyn.

   The healer's blade wove a web of gray, and as Nylan drew nearer, one of the white-bronze sabres snapped, the blade streaking toward the trampled reddish soil like a crippled lander. The disarmed lancer backed off, then spurred his mount downhill at the sight of Nylan.

   Neither of Ayrlyn's two remaining attackers budged, despite the hoofbeats of Nylan's mare, hoofbeats that sounded thunderous to the angel. The attackers were spreading, to catch the healer from each side.

   Nylan winced even as his blade flashed, cleaving through the unprotected neck of the lancer to the right. The engineer staggered in his saddle, half-blind again, from the white knives that slammed through his eyes and skull with each killing, but instinctively, he raised his blade, though he felt blind.

   At that, the remaining lancer ducked, and pulled his mount away.

   While Ayrlyn could have slaughtered the Cyadoran, she held her blade, then slowly sheathed it as the handful of lancers retreated through the grasslands, circling back to catch the road.

   For a moment, the silver-haired angel and the flame-haired angel just looked at each other-almost blankly-before Nylan squinted through the burning in his skull to survey the field.

   To his left, Tonsar chevied a group back toward Nylan.

   “You let him go,” wondered the subofficer. His mount's muzzle was smeared with foam.

   “I had to,” said the healer tiredly.

   Tonsar glanced from one angel to the other, then shrugged. “Holding off three apiece and killing two each. That is not bad.”

   “Not bad... who's he jesting?” came across the space from where a handful of Nylan's and Ayrlyn's levies had drawn up.

   Nylan wanted to grin, despite his throbbing headache, but managed to keep a straight face.

   The dust on the hillside road faded, as the handful of Cyadoran lancers rode back south toward the mines.

   Nylan's urge to grin faded abruptly as the pounding in his skull continued and as he surveyed the trampled and dust-swept road and the fields that flanked it, looking at the white lumps and the handful of dark-clad figures strewn across the grasslands, and shields that still caught and threw the light.

   Was it over? Nylan took one deep breath and then another, trying to slow the pounding in his chest. His palms were sweating, and, in addition to his throbbing headache and the sharp knives in his eyes, the corners of his eyes also stung from the salty sweat that had run into them.

   He took another breath, swallowed, and looked around.

   Fornal's men were already stripping the dead, and only a faint cloud of dust showed on the south road.

   A short skirmish, and . . . what? Thirty-five Cyadorans dead, and more than a dozen Lornians, and who knew how many cut and wounded?

   Ayrlyn had already dismounted beside a moaning figure, and the engineer rubbed his forehead as he urged his mare toward her. Sooner or later he had to reclaim his first blade- if someone hadn't already-from the dead lancer.

   These killings were just the beginning. That was all too clear.

FORNAL TOOK A small sip, as if he were trying to make the vinegary wine last, then set the earthenware mug on the rickety table that had once been the dining table for the Kulan holding.

   Nylan took a sip of his ordered water, watching the shifting shadow profile of Ayrlyn cast by the candle. The healer sipped wine, even more infrequently than Fornal, the circles under her eyes even deeper than those under Nylan's eyes.

   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.

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.”