Heritage of Cyador

VII

By midafternoon on sixday, Lerial is more concerned than ever about what faces them in Luba. They have followed the river road for five days since leaving Ensenla, except, after the first two days, the road cannot truly be called a river road, as it has moved farther and farther from the river, presumably to avoid the sandy desert-like ground along the river that is periodically interrupted with marshy areas. They have come across no towns to speak of, just poor hamlet after poor hamlet, set amid browned and overgrazed grasslands, and scattered plots too small to be proper fields set next to creeks, with triangle-pole waterlifts … and not even proper irrigation ditches, let alone canals. Almost all the dwellings are of wind-worn mud brick with branch and reed-grass roofs.

Lerial has not loitered, nor has he pressed, since he does not wish to tire the horses, because, while they have brought a score of spare mounts, that number would only suffice for less than a squad. One of the scouts always rides with a parley banner in his lance holder at all times. Even after seeing the green-edged white banner-a narrow cloth triangle a yard in length and half that in width next to the staff, if tapering to a point-no one has come close to them, although Lerial has kept his forces well clear of the local people, except when they ride through a hamlet. At those times, every shutter and door is closed, and the only animal Lerial ever sees is an occasional scrawny cat. Away from the hamlets, there are few tracks in the road, scarcely surprising, since the land is largely sere, brown, and dusty. Dust is everywhere, rising into clouds when the wind picks up, at times so thick that Lerial can see scarcely more than a score of yards, so that he must rely on his order-sensing to determine what lies ahead. All he can smell is dust, and it sifts into his uniform and down into his boots.

Now there is but the slightest hint of a breeze. Even so, that is enough that fine dust drifts across the road. From where he rides at the head of Eighth Company, Lerial scans the gentle slope that leads to the crest of a rise perhaps two kays away. If his maps are correct, before long, they should be nearing Guasyra-the only large town between Cigoerne and Luba. Still, he has his doubts about the maps, a doubt that Altyrn instilled in him.

Hard to believe he’s gone.

He forces his thoughts from that and studies the bent brown grasses and the dust that coats them, then shakes his head. How can people live here? Then, not many do. At those thoughts, he recalls what his grandmere had told him about the original lands she had purchased from Atroyan’s sire, lands so dusty and dry that the old duke had little compunction in selling them … or little enough that the golds outweighed his concerns. Was Cigoerne like this then? He looks north once more and frowns, because he sees dust beyond the crest of the road. He immediately extends his order-senses … and discovers a squad of men riding toward them.

“There’s an Afritan Guard squad riding toward us. Ready arms!” he orders. “Pass it back, Fheldar. Send a messenger to the undercaptains.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial concentrates on the riders he can sense, but not see. He can discern only eleven, with no others farther north. Absently, he wonders if the Afritans have been waiting for them … or if the riders represent a force stationed in Guasyra and he and his companies have been sighted by a routine patrol. Does it matter? After a moment, he answers himself. Probably not.

Before long the road dust becomes a hazy brown mist over the rise ahead, and then riders appear, moving at a fast walk. Lerial squints to make out the numbers, but there are still just eleven, and his order-senses reveal no others nearby. He also can barely sense the Afritan Guard post some four kays to the north, but gains a feeling that it is close to being empty.

When the oncoming riders, all wearing the dull crimson uniforms of the Afritan Guard, are less than a hundred yards away, Lerial calls a halt, then renews his own shields, linked as always to the ordered iron of the knife he received from the High Council of Verdheln. Absently, he wishes he had figured a better way to maintain his shields, but even after five years and discreet inquiries to Saltaryn and other Magi’i he has not found a more effective way of maintaining strong shields without that link to some form of iron, not without continually concentrating on maintaining them.

“They don’t look too happy, ser,” murmurs Fheldar.

“In their boots, would you be?”

The senior squad leader’s laugh is more of a snort.

Before long, the hard-faced undercaptain, older and clearly a former ranker, reins up some five yards from Lerial. “Parley banner? A hundred kays into Afrit? Isn’t that stretching things, Overcaptain?”

“No,” replies Lerial pleasantly. “We’re here at Duke Atroyan’s request.”

“It would be helpful if you had some way of proving that…”

Lerial can sense no surprise, almost as if the undercaptain has expected them but has to fulfill an unpleasant duty. “We can do that.” Lerial extracts the two documents from the dispatch case fastened to his saddle, then turns to Fheldar. “If you’d have someone convey these…” Lerial could do that himself, perfectly safely, but that would reveal too much, besides compromising his position.

“Lystr, forward,” orders Fheldar.

A heavyset but young-faced ranker eases his mount forward, up beside the senior squad leader, to whom Lerial has handed the documents. In turn, Fheldar passes them to Lystr.

“Convey these to the Afritan undercaptain. Let him read them, and then return them.” Fheldar speaks loudly enough-his words in Hamorian, since most rankers, even in the Mirror Lancers, are more comfortable speaking it, rather than Cyadoran-that his words carry to the undercaptain.

“Yes, ser.” Lystr nods, then urges his mount forward, halting beside the Afritan officer and tendering the documents.

The hard-faced undercaptain reads both, slowly, as if he has to struggle with the words, and then finally looks up. “It looks like the duke’s seal.” He stares at Lerial. “But it would, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” admits Lerial, “but why in the world would we be more than a hundred kays from our border with only three companies if it weren’t real?”

“That does pose an interesting problem.”

“The other problem,” adds Lerial, “is that you’ve already sent most of your forces to Luba, and you couldn’t stop us if you wanted to. And, if you try, you’ll lose men that Duke Atroyan desperately needs, while denying him our assistance.”

“You don’t know about my forces.”

“But I do. You have an outpost a little more than three kays north of here, just out of sight. It’s largely empty, since I’d judge you have two squads at most-the one with you and possibly one you left there, if that. What forces you have are still here because the duke or his arms-commander doesn’t want to give the people the idea that they’ve been totally abandoned.”

“You’re Overcaptain Lerial, ser?” The undercaptain obviously doesn’t wish to dispute Lerial’s observations.

“I am.”

“Welcome to Afrit. I’d prefer that you take over our post for the night. It’s quite a nice post. We’ll ride to Luba and inform the duke of your arrival. The other squad will remain at the post. We’ll also pass the word to the hamlets along the way to expect you.”

Lerial can sense none of the chaos that usually accompanies lies, but he still frowns.

“It’s simple, Overcaptain. First, you’re here at the duke’s invitation. Even if you weren’t, we couldn’t fight you. You pointed that out. I still would like to protect the people, and I’m willing to wager that if you have a place where you feel safer and have provisions, then both you and the townspeople will feel better.” A sardonic smile follows. “Besides, I was ordered to make the offer.”

“We accept your offer with thanks.”

The undercaptain nods and returns the documents to Lystr, who accepts them and rides back to Fheldar, who takes them back.

“The guards at the post will be expecting you.” With that, the undercaptain turns his mount. In moments, the Afritans are riding north, the hooves of their mounts raising dust once more.

“Friendly sort, ser,” observes Fheldar dryly.

“I don’t know as I blame him.” Lerial’s brief smile fades. “We’ll wait a bit and let the dust settle.” One of the great advantages of having officers with him who were once rankers is that all of them speak Hamorian, while quite a number of Mirror Lancer officers, especially those from a Magi’i background, speak Hamorian poorly and often with a thick accent. That his father assigned Kusyl was anything but coincidental, Lerial suspects.

After perhaps a tenth of a glass, Lerial and his forces set out again and before long reach the crest of the road. At that moment, Lerial’s mouth almost drops open, because the valley below him is green-or as green as is likely at the end of winter-with orchard after orchard, the trees set in neat rows. While the Guard post is but two kays ahead, the town proper is much farther, perhaps another five kays, and appears to sit on the north side of a small river-the Rynn, according to his map. Canals and ditches extend southward from the Rynn out across the wide and low valley. Then, roughly three kays to the west, the trees and green end at the base of low hills that look just like the near-barren lands through which Lerial and his companies have been riding. Beyond the hills lie low but rocky mountains.

Why hasn’t Atroyan done the same thing farther to the south? It’s not as though the Swarth is a tiny stream that would be exhausted by a few more canals. Or is the land beside the Swarth so sandy that it makes little sense? Or don’t the traders and merchanters in Swartheld care?

Lerial pushes aside all the questions that flood through his thoughts and keeps using his order-senses to make certain that there are no surprises hidden in the orchards that begin beyond the bottom of the gentle incline. He finds no hidden forces with his senses, nor does he see anyone near the road. He does cross two bridges over irrigation canals that serve the olive orchards to the west of the road before he and Eighth Company reach the Afritan Guard post. The post stands in the middle of a dusty and largely grassless area roughly a quarter kay on a side, its front walls less than thirty yards west of the road. Those walls are little more than two yards high and are covered with a plaster that might once have been a glistening white, but which has faded and eroded enough that it is more tannish than white. In places the mud bricks forming the walls are clearly visible. The timber gates are open, drawn back. The end of each gate rests on several bricks, suggesting that the gates themselves are tired and would sag to the packed clay of the courtyard.

A young and worried-looking guard stands on each side of the post entrance as Lerial and Eighth Company ride through. Lerial surveys the post, with its stables set against the south wall, and another set of buildings extending from the north wall, all of them showing a certain lack of repair. Nowhere is there any paving in the open courtyard in the middle of the walls and buildings. The windows he sees have shutters of worn wood that has not been painted or recently oiled, nor do any appear to be glazed, and there are drifts of dust in the corners where buildings join the walls.

A single figure in a crimson uniform, presumably a senior squad leader, stands in front of a long building whose rear wall is also the rear wall of the post. When Lerial reins up, he says, “Welcome to Guasyra Post, Overcaptain, ser.”

“Thank you.”

Lerial smiles politely. If Guasyra is a “nice” post, he shudders inside to think what a post that isn’t nice might be. Still, any hospitality is better than none.