Magi'i of Cyador

XXXVII

THE HOT WIND blows out of the northwest, away from the raiders and directly into Lorn’s eyes. He squints slightly as he looks along the low rise, easing his white mare along the side of the Fifth Company until he is barely forward of all the lancers, if on the flank.

The barbarians have formed into two wedges, almost a half a kay away. As Lorn watches, a series of yells echo through the afternoon air, and the two wedges begin to move, then to hurl themselves across the late summer grass at the Fifth and Second Companies. Dust rises over the browntipped grass that is but knee-high on a mount.

“Cyllt! First squad on the right wedge!” Lorn orders. “Dubrez, have Shofirg’s squad support the Second Company.”

“Yes, ser!” Dubrez answers.

“Yes, ser.” The undercaptain’s response lags Dubrez’s.

Lorn slips his lance from the holder, keeping it low, and aiming it with his chaos-senses, at the knees of the horse that leads the left wedge of the raider attack.

Hssttt! The single line of chaos flame is brief, going unseen and unheard beneath the thunder of the sixscore barbarians who charge the Mirror Lancers. The horse goes down, and so close are those that follow that another fourhorses are tangled in the mass, slowing the entire left wedge. As the barbarians near, Lorn can make out clearly that most now bear polished iron shields, small round ovals that they raise to deflect the chaos bolts from firelances that no longer hold the power of years previous.

“Lances ready!” Dubrez orders. “Lances ready.”

Lom uses his lance covertly once more, for he draws chaos from where he can find it, not from the inadequate chaos charges within the lance haft. A second well-chosen mount topples, and more physical chaos snarls the left wedge of the charging barbarians.

“Now! Dubrez! Forward and discharge at will! Short bursts!”

“Forward! Short bursts!” orders the senior squad leader. “Short bursts!”

Hhsst! Hhsst! The short bolts of golden-white chaos drop many of those barbarians at the front of the wedges, but the mass of horses and riders strikes the advancing Mirror Lancer line, which slows and bends.

A barbarian, unbalanced by the weight of both shield and hand-and-a-half blade, slashes too wildly. Lorn’s cupridium sabre flashes like a short stroke of lightning, and he is past the dying barbarian, driving the chaos-reinforced blade through another’s shoulder.

Lorn senses another rider to his left, and twists his body out of the way of the unwieldy big blade, using a backswing. to sever the attacker’s neck from the back. He recovers in time to turn the mare and take down another raider from behind, then spurs his mount out of the center of the melee, using the sabre to weave a shimmering line of defense.

Once clear, he wheels the mare, then waits for a moment, before engaging a raider about to blindside a lancer tied up with one of the barbarian giants. Although the barbarian senses Lorn’s approach, he is too late-and takes a deep slash across the shoulder. His big blade spins downward, and he tries to smash the iron shield across Lorn’s sabre hand-his left-but that too is slow and late. The sabre slashes across the struggling barbarian’s neck, and Lorn pulls clearof the swirl of barbarians and lancers, a swirl that suddenly separates into two forces once more.

Almost as quickly as it has begun, the skirmish is over, and Lorn watches as perhaps three score raiders ride northward. Several sway in their saddles.

Around Lorn rises the chaos of death and the stench of blood. He glances at his own sabre, smeared with blood. Dark splotches also decorate his left forearm, and dapple his trousers. He wipes the sabre clean with the cloth attached to his saddle, then sheaths it.

“Find the wounded first!” snaps Dubrez. “Dispatch any of the barbarians. They’d do worse to you.” His words are directed at three of the newer lancers, for whom this has been the first or second barbarian attack.

Their sabres out, the three men walk slowly from fallen figure to fallen figure.

“One of ours, here.”

Two other lancers appear with dressings, and the three continue onward through the bodies. Once a sabre flashes, but none of the three speak.

Ignoring the headache that comes with drawing chaos from the grasslands, Lorn lets the mare carry him slowly to a section of the trampled grass free of fallen mounts, or dead or dying lancers and barbarians. He takes a slow, deep breath, his eyes on the northwest part of the grassy ridge. The raiders are well out of sight beyond the first range of hills to the north.

Lorn turns his mount.

Dielbyn, the senior squad leader of the Second Company, rides slowly toward Loon.

Lorn waits.

“The undercaptain … ser …”

“He fell,” Lorn acknowledges. “Bravely.” All officers die bravely.

“Yes, ser.” Dielbyn’s eyes do not look away from his captain’s.

After a moment, Lorn nods, then asks, “How many in the Second Company can fight?”

“The second squad took most of the charge … six left there, ser. Ten from the first squad. Four of’em won’t be much good in a fight.”

Lorn considers. The Second Company had been a halfscore under strength before they had started the patrol. “Can the wounded ride?”

“Yes, ser. Slowlike. Except for Cymion. Won’t last much longer, though.”

Dubrez sits on his mount thirty cubits away, waiting.

“Get them ready to move out,” Lorn says.

“Yes, ser.”

After Dielbyn returns to reform the Second Company, Dubrez rides closer to Lorn before reining up. “Lost four, ser. All in Shofirg’s squad. Three with wounds in Gylar’s squad.”

“Thank you.” Lorn considers. After starting the patrol with thirty five lancers, the Fifth Company still numbers nearly a score and a half, but the Second has less than a score of lancers. Majer Brevyl will not be pleased with two companies returning, but two raider bands as large as the one the Fifth and Second Companies had vanquished would be unlikely, and if Lorn presses on, few if any of the wounded will survive. Lorn also knows that neither company will be soon reinforced, nor are fully recharged firelances likely to arrive to replace those discharged in fighting the barbarians.

Lorn’s smile is fixed as he prepares to order the return to Isahl. Behind the smile, he wonders. How long can he continue to hold back barbarians with fewer men and firelances less fully charged? At times, he is already feeling that he can draw no more chaos for his own use without risking his own life.