Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (33 page)

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 white lances.

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.”

   Nylan turned his mare back to the place where he'd thrown his first blade, sheathing the second in the shoulder harness.

   An armsman, already looting the corpse, looked up, then quickly extracted the dark gray blade. “Yours, ser?” Nesru extended it sheepishly, hilt first. “You get his purse ...”

   “You can keep it.” Nylan took the blade and wiped it on the cloth tied to his saddle, then sheathed it and massaged his forehead. The one man he'd killed had been enough.

   Then he eased the mare toward the burly subofficer who had reined up on the center of the road. Ayrlyn was guiding her squad from the east toward the rest of the group.

   “We got them all,” she said, just loudly enough for her voice to carry. Dark blotches stained her vest.

   Nylan looked closely at the stains.

   “Not mine. He got closer than I'd like. Those damned shields are distracting.”

   “I see.” He raised his eyebrows.

   “I'm not as good at throwing blades as you are. That means they get closer.”

   “The shields give me trouble. That was why I threw the blade. I only do that when I'm in real trouble,” Nylan confessed, turning his mount and nodding to Tonsar.

   “We're always in real trouble ... anymore,” she murmured.

   With that, he had to agree.

   “Form up!” Tonsar ordered.

   For a time they rode quietly through the mid-afternoon, the road dust muffling the clopping of hoofs, but sifting through every opening in Nylan's garments, or so it seemed. He tried not to scratch too much, and concentrated on listening to the low comments that drifted forward from the squads behind them.

   “How did the angels know they were there?”

   “. . . we didn't have any scouts ...”

   “... you want to be a scout? White demons don't take prisoners . . .”

   “... don't care how they do it. . .”

   Nylan glanced at Ayrlyn. Despite the furrowed brow that indicated the same kind of splitting headache he suffered, he could see a glint in her eyes.

   “You're getting better at sensing people,” he said quietly.

   “The weather's easier.” She nodded. “I can almost ride the winds sometimes.”

   Nylan shook his head. “How you do that. . .”

   “To each her own-or in your case, his own. You can feel the grain of those metals you forge, and they feel like opaque blackness to me.”

   Nylan took a square of worn gray cloth from his belt and blotted away sweat and mud from his forehead and cheeks, then replaced it, and shifted his weight in the saddle. The mare whickered, but did not increase her measured pace northward.

   Nylan looked back southward.

   “There's no one close,” Ayrlyn confirmed. “They won't keep letting us do this, you know.”

   “The Cyadorans?”

   “We've been getting most of their smaller parties. Life may be cheap here in Candar, but even the Cyadorans are going to stop traveling or scouting in small groups.” The healer stood in her stirrups and massaged one hip. “Won't ever get used to this.”

   “You already are.”

   “Not really.”

   “You think they'll start attacking in force?” the smith asked. “Just in force.”

   “That's what I'd do. I'd have started sooner.” Ayrlyn closed her eyes for a long moment, and Nylan could almost feel the relief across the few cubits that separated their mounts.

   “Why don't they use white wizards?”

   “Maybe there aren't too many.”

   “Even mighty Cyador has but few of the white mages,” confirmed Tonsar. “They do not wish to send them beyond the white walls. That is what my sister's man said, and he once guarded the great Hissl.”

   “Could it be that there are limits to white wizardry?” Nylan's tone was mocking.

   “Why not? There are limits to everything else.”

   Nylan nodded. But what were the limits to wizardry, or magery, or whatever it was called, whether white or black? He looked at the dusty road northward, leading back to Kula . . . and Weryl.

YESTERDAY, YOU BROUGHT back ten mounts and left ten dead scouts. Three days ago, we slaughtered twenty. For nearly three eight-days, we have bled them, yet they have not left Lornth." Fornal raised his eyebrows as his eyes went from Lewa to Huruc, and then to Nylan and Ayrlyn.

   The candle stub behind the glass mantle flickered. Lewa cupped an empty mug between his hands, his eyes darting from the regent to the angels and back to the regent.

   “If we had attacked them three eight-days ago,” Nylan answered slowly, “you would have few armsmen left, and the Cyadorans would be marching toward Clynya. If they didn't hold it already.”

   Fornal looked at the mug. “Hot ... and sour, like your truths.” He set it on the rickety table, which wobbled. The shadows on the dingy wall wobbled as well. “So we have preserved Lornth-for now. The Cyadorans will do something. What think you, angels?”

   “Sooner or later, they'll send a big force after us,” Nylan predicted. “They'll have to.” The wine in his mug was almost untouched. One sip of near-vinegar had been enough, even if it deadened the smell of sweat and blood.

   Huruc took a quick and small sip, his eyes never leaving Nylan's face.

   “I would have acted. You would have, I think, yet they have not. What do you judge they will do, and when?” Fornal took another sip from the mug, made another face, and set it down.

   “If you were the ... lord of the Cyadoran forces, how would you explain how you keep losing men and mounts to a bunch of barbarians?” asked Ayrlyn. “They think we're barbarians-that's their attitude-and they have to do something.”

   “You think so?” asked Huruc.

   “What did they do to the people in Kula?” Ayrlyn raised her eyebrows, her hair glinting in the light from the single candle, despite the soot on the chipped glass mantle.

   “Killed them.”

   “They mutilated them,” added Nylan. “Even the children. Remember the lord of Cyador's response to your scrolls?”

   “There is that,” mused Fornal.

   “When they send out large parties, we've managed to warn the locals, and we don't attack. So they don't get much. We've been pretty successful picking off their scouts and smaller forage parties. How would you feel?” pursued Ayrlyn.

   “I would be angry,” admitted the coregent. “You did the warning, though. Did the locals heed you?”

   “They said it wasn't honorable,” admitted Ayrlyn, “but as soon as we left, so did they.”

   “Peasants . . . they talk . . .” Fornal took another swig of the wine, followed by another face. “You ask questions, angel. Why do you not say what you mean?”

   “Would you keep sending out smaller groups of lancers and armsmen if you had more armsmen than your enemy?”

   Fornal frowned, and Nylan wanted to grin. Ayrlyn, without making a direct point of it, was refusing to be intimidated by the big young noble.

   “Why . . .” Fornal nodded. “I see your point. What would you have me do?”

   “Be ready .to move,” Nylan said, “to another base. They can't keep sending out their entire army. If they try it again, then perhaps-I may have some ideas-we can create some damage at the mines while they're trying to sweep the countryside.”

   “Some holders would call that a retreat, at least behind my back,” Fornal pointed out.

   “Moving is not retreating. There is a difference. We take another position and keep fighting.”

   “I will think about how I must report this so that our actions are not mistaken.” The black-bearded regent stood and stretched. “Thinking and hot wine-enough to spoil anything for an armsman.” He offered a quick grin before he strolled out of the dwelling's main room and into the warm night.

   “Good eve, angels,” added Lewa as he stood and followed Fornal.

   Huruc sat and looked down at the mug. After a moment, he turned his head toward Ayrlyn. “What you say makes sense, but I fear it.” He paused. “Tell me, angel healer, why I fear your counsel.”

   Nylan and Ayrlyn exchanged quick looks.

   “It appears I am right to fear,” added the armsman with a laugh.

   Ayrlyn nodded. “What we do has been effective, has it not? And it will become more effective. That will sting the lord of Cyador, and he will send more armsmen. It's always that way.” She took a deep breath. “Then we will have to find out how to kill those men, and, if we succeed, he will send more. In the end, either Lornth or Cyador will fall.”

   “That was fated from the beginning,” Nylan said softly. “The mines were only a game for the lord of Cyador to see how he could conquer Lornth. Cyador is not ruled by grassland bandits like Lord Ildyrom. And Cyador does not believe in honor as Lord Fornal does.”

   “I have known that,” Huruc answered, “and it gives me no comfort.” He rose. “I thank you for your straight words, though many would not, if they knew them. Best they do not. Good night.”

   After the older armsman left, Nylan stood, as did Ayrlyn. “Now what?” he asked.

   “We figure out how to change the world-or we die.” Her words were cold, and so were her hands, despite the evening heat.