The Chaos Balance

LXVI

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.