CAPTAIN, MIRROR LANCERS
Pemedra
The cool mid-Spring rain drizzles out of the greenish-gray sky, dripping off Alyiakal’s visor cap, in front of his eyes and down his neck, as well as off his seldom-used oilskin waterproof. While this is Alyiakal’s third Spring in the wide valley of scattered hamlets and unpredictable onslaughts by barbarian raiders, each Spring has seemed to last forever, because the only significant rainfalls are in early and mid-Spring, and when the rainfall stops, the barbarian raids begin.
As the bay continues the necessary trot, Alyiakal looks at the trail in front of Fourth Company, the tracks in the damp earth heading south, and then at Yurak, now his senior squad leader, ever since Maaslar had been posted to Dellash, about the time Alyiakal had made captain. “We’re catching up, but there are more tracks than I’d like to see this early in the year.”
“Almost a score, ser, the way I see it.”
“Looks like they’re headed for the midvalley hamlet.”
“They likely figure that no one would see them if they took the trail next to the hill and that we wouldn’t be out in the rain.”
“We wouldn’t be,” replies Alyiakal, “if the overcaptain hadn’t figured the raiders might take advantage of the late rain and posted scouts.” But then, he’s where he is because he’s survived his experiences. Alyiakal can only hope that he’ll be as skillful and fortunate over the years to come.
“Have to say, ser, it worries me that we might have to deal with them and the rain.”
“No one’s pleased, Yurak, especially the holders.” Or they won’t be if we don’t get there fairly soon. A trot will get them there as fast as practically possible, and without exhausting the mounts.
Another glass passes before Fourth Company reaches the trail leading west past the hamlet to the only true road in the valley—the one that runs south from Pemedra all the way to Syadtar.
No sooner does Fourth Company turn onto the trail than Alyiakal feels that the drizzle has turned into a steadier rain that further reduces how far he can see. The rain also limits how long and how well the firelances will work. He can’t sense the intense order and chaos in the clouds above that indicate a thunderstorm, and that restricts what he could possibly do with order and chaos, not that he’s had that much practice with storms except for one thundersnow.
“Friggin’ rain would get worse now,” mutters Yurak.
“We’ve got less than half a kay before we reach the lane to the hamlet.” Alyiakal thinks he should hear something from the scouts when he sees one of them riding at a gallop toward him.
The scout reins up short to match pace with Alyiakal and the bay. “The raiders just went through the gate into the hamlet, ser.”
“We’ll keep going. You and the other scouts keep watch, in case there are more raiders.” Alyiakal definitely doesn’t want to be surprised in the rain.
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal turns to Yurak. “Have third squad cover the area inside the gate, but short of the buildings. Second squad takes the south side of the hamlet, and first squad the north. I’ll be with first squad. Have the men keep firelance bursts close and short. The rain might give us cover, so keep quiet until we attack.”
“Yes, ser.” Yurak immediately turns his mount to pass the word.
Alyiakal continues riding, looking out for the lane leading south into the hamlet. By the time he reaches it, leading the company, Yurak has returned from conveying his orders to the other two squads.
With all the mist and rain, Alyiakal can’t even make out more than the outlines of the hamlet until he is within twenty yards of the gate, which is open, not battered apart as it had been two years earlier.
“They got in without breaking it,” says Yurak.
“No one could see them, and there likely hasn’t been an attack in the rain in years.” But this rain was light and later, and the overcaptain had a feeling about it.
The bay’s footing is sure on the wet but packed earth of the lane leading to the hamlet’s center as Alyiakal takes first squad to the north side of the hamlet, dominated by the house of the head holder, Zakaar. There, the raiders are on foot, one using an ax on the door, and another trying to pry open a set of shutters.
Alyiakal gets off three short blasts from the firelance before it gives out. That takes care of the axman and two others, but a fourth lunges with a spear—a thrust that Alyiakal barely parries with the nonworking firelance. As he jams the useless weapon into its holder, he draws his sabre to block a second thrust, urging the bay forward and inside the tip of the spear.
“Those firelances aren’t working!” shouts another raider. “Give ’em cold iron.” He immediately starts to swing a broadsword, but Yurak cuts him down from his blind side.
Alyiakal slices into the neck of the spearman and pushes forward, hardly able to see clearly for more than a few yards.
When Alyiakal rides clear of the area before the larger house because all the raiders there are down, either dead or wounded, or have fled, he immediately charges a raider trying to mount, cutting him down as he has one foot in the stirrup.
Then he sees two raiders, one with a woman, or girl, over his shoulder, the other with a weapon, running for a pair of horses. Alyiakal turns the bay to intercept them. One immediately turns and brandishes a broadsword. Alyiakal urges the bay to the side, pulling out the firelance with his free hand, triggering it, and willing it to fire. A short blast slams into the chest of the sword wielder. In two more strides of the bay, he pulls even with the raider carrying the woman, but realizes that any sabre thrust risks injury to the woman.
Again, he tries willing the firelance.
Darkness flares over him, for an instant, followed by searing pain through his eyes and skull. Several moments later—he thinks it is several moments later—he discovers the bay has pulled up. He looks back, his vision blurred from pain and heavy rain, and sees the woman struggling out from beneath the dead raider. She looks to him, seemingly undecided, when Yurak rides up.
“It’s all over, ser.”
“How bad?” manages Alyiakal, who still cannot see clearly, because, this time, the burning in his head has definitely not subsided.
“The raiders got Ruuvyt, and three other men have slashes. Waark from second squad looks to have a broken arm. They got his mount, and it crushed him against the side of a barn.”
“Did anyone get away?”
“I’m not sure there’s any way to tell in this rain,” replies the senior squad leader wryly.
“Good point,” replies Alyiakal, tiredly.
“You all right, ser?”
“I got a jolt from the firelance … must be the rain,” says Alyiakal. “Not something I expected.”
“And you’re still alive?”
“Must have been a little jolt. Happened when I dealt with those last two raiders.” Alyiakal manages a deep breath. “I’ll need to talk to the headman.” He turns the bay toward Yurak, and the two ride back toward Zakaar’s dwelling.
Zakaar stands in the doorway when Alyiakal reins up.
“Once again, it is you, Captain,” says Zakaar. “I do not know whether to fear you or be grateful.” The burly headman offers a ragged laugh. “You come only when there is trouble, but you keep the trouble from being worse.”
“You should thank the overcaptain. He posted scouts on the trails from the north because he thought raiders might attack when there was a rain this late. We came as quickly as we could.” Alyiakal takes another deep breath, trying not to wince at the increased pain in his head, then asks the question he must. “How many were hurt … or worse?”
“They killed Tokull, and Murgana is bruised everywhere. She was the one you saved. She is grateful she was not carried off.”
“So am I,” replies Alyiakal. “Anyone else?”
Zakaar shakes his head. “Because of the rain, everyone was inside, except Tokull. He warned us. We got most of the doors barred. Then you arrived.” He pauses. “I would offer shelter … but there is no place to shelter so many men and horses.”
“Before we leave,” says Alyiakal, “I’ll need space out of the rain to dress the wounds of my men.”
Zakaar frowns. “You?”
“For better or worse, I’m also a field healer.”
“Then bring your wounded here.”
“Thank you.” Alyiakal looks to Yurak. “If you would…”
“Yes, ser.”
In less than half a quint, Alyiakal stands in Zakaar’s kitchen, splinting Waark’s broken arm, thankful that it’s not a compound fracture. Then he dresses wounds on the forearms and thighs of four other men, quietly infusing a touch of order, for a touch is all he dares give, the way he feels. Hopefully, that will be enough to keep wound chaos at bay, and he’ll be able to do more in the days ahead.
Once the wounded have been helped out and to their mounts, Alyiakal turns to Zakaar. “Thank you. I’m sorry for intruding.”
Zakaar shakes his head. “Go in light, Captain.”
Alyiakal inclines his head, then leaves the dwelling. He mounts the bay, glad that the rain has diminished to a slight drizzle, and leads Fourth Company down the lane. Rankers in third squad lead four of the best raiders’ mounts, and a fifth carries Ruuvyt’s body strapped over the saddle. The remainder of the raider mounts Alyiakal leaves for the hamlet’s use, since standing orders only require keeping the best mounts, and only when feasible.
Once Alyiakal and first squad are on the side trail leading back to the main road, Yurak clears his throat.
“Yes?” asks Alyiakal.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Captain, how did you get your firelance to work? At the end, there, in the downpour?”
Alyiakal has to struggle to offer an uneven laugh. “I don’t know. I knew that I couldn’t stop those two using a sabre, and I was angel-cursed if I would let them get away. I don’t remember a couple of moments after, and I’m still a little shaky.”
Yurak nods. “Thought it might be something like that. Glad the rain’s letting up. Going to be a slow ride back, even so.”
Of that, Alyiakal is certain.
Alyiakal wakes at dawn the next morning, washes, shaves, and dresses quickly, and then hurries to sick bay, noting that the sky is cloudless, but a hazy green-blue, suggesting that warmer weather is definitely on the way. While most of the pain in his head has subsided, he still has a headache, but not the burning, cutting sensation that had persisted until he fell asleep.
When he walks into sick bay, the duty aide looks up. “I thought we might see you early, ser.”
“How are they?”
“Seem to be fine, ser.”
“Let’s hope so.” With that, Alyiakal heads for the ward holding the four wounded lancers. Three of the four are sitting up, unsurprisingly, since Caarthyn and Laarth have slashes with deep bruises to their upper arms and Waark has a broken arm, while Faerll has a deeper cut in his left thigh.
Alyiakal examines Faerll first, because he worries about the depth of the wound. As he suspected, there is more reddish-white wound chaos than he’d like to see, chaos that he treats. After re-dressing the wound, he administers more order, an amount limited to less than he’d like because more would create enough heat to kill the healthy tissue bordering the wound.
“How is it, ser?” asks Faerll.
“You’re going to be here a few days,” replies Alyiakal. “It should heal fine so long as we keep the wound clean.”
“Doesn’t feel that bad, ser.”
“A grass fire isn’t hot, either,” says Alyiakal dryly.
There’s less chaos in the arm wounds of Caarthyn and Laarth, but Alyiakal still worries about the bruises around the slashes, and those bruises limit the order he can apply after re-dressing both wounds. “I’ll see you three late this afternoon.”
Then he turns to Waark, checking the splint. “You can leave sick bay, but that arm is going to take eightdays to heal. That’s if you don’t bang it into anything. If you do, it might not heal properly.”
“How come he can leave, and Caarthyn and me can’t, ser?” asks Laarth. “We can walk, too.”
“Because he doesn’t have a wound opened by a chaos-tinged barbarian blade,” replies Alyiakal.
Laarth opens his mouth, and Caarthyn says, quietly, “Not a word.”
Laarth shuts his mouth.
Alyiakal turns to Waark. “I’ll tell the aide that you’re on the no-duty list for the next eightday, and then we’ll see whether you’re no-duty or light duty.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal escorts Waark out to the duty aide, explaining the situation. While the two fill out the reports, Alyiakal steps back into the hallway and, seeing no one around, raises a concealment and quietly makes his way back to the ward, listening as he nears and steps inside.
“… don’t complain and don’t say a word,” says Caarthyn, “or you’ll pay for it. More than you want to pay.”
“Don’t see why you told me to shut up,” mutters Laarth.
“Because the captain’s more than a field healer. Ever notice that Fourth Company wounded don’t die later? He might even be a real healer, and if anyone finds out, they’ll either cashier him or stick him in an infirmary somewhere, and some of us will die. Don’t mess with a good thing, Laarth.”
“They’d do that?”
“Real healers are like Magi’i, and senior officers don’t like Magi’i.”
“The captain’s not like that.”
“That’s right. He leads, and he takes the same risks as we do. More sometimes. You want him pulled out and we get a green undercaptain like Kettaur?”
The silence that follows suggests to Alyiakal that Laarth is shaking his head.
“Thought not,” declares Caarthyn.
Alyiakal holds the concealment until the moment he opens the door and steps out of sick bay. That way, anyone who might be looking will assume they missed seeing him step out. From there he makes his way to the officers’ study, where he immediately sets to work finishing the patrol report he’d begun the previous night.
He finishes before morning mess and hurries to the headquarters building, where he places it in the post commander’s inbox on the duty desk before making his way back to the mess. He is the last to arrive except for the overcaptain, the acting post commander until the arrival of Majer Klaavyl’s replacement.
Once in the mess, Alyiakal sits beside Draakyr, now the senior captain. Across from Draakyr is Wherryl, a captain only a year senior to Alyiakal who had arrived from a posting at Westend the previous fall, along with Undercaptain Kettaur, seated beside Wherryl, as he often is.
“I still don’t see why headquarters recalled the majer to Cyad,” declares Wherryl. “He was due for reposting this Autumn. It would have made more sense to wait until his replacement arrived.”
“It might be,” says Draakyr dryly, “that they wanted to hear what he has learned here in Pemedra. It has been a number of years since any of the senior commanders in the Mirror Lancers have had any recent experience along the borders.” After the briefest hesitation, he continues, “Especially majers with extensive experience in dealing with the barbarians.”
Kettaur frowns.
“You disagree, Kettaur?” asks Alyiakal.
“What about officers like Subcommander Grevyll at Syadtar?”
“He’s been there a year,” returns Draakyr, “and he hasn’t taken a border patrol since he was a captain. Majer Klaavyl took a couple of patrols every season.”
Alyiakal finds himself nodding.
“As Alyiakal well remembers, and as you should,” adds Draakyr.
Kettaur’s blocky face stiffens, but Tygael’s arrival in the mess saves him from any response.
“No announcements this morning,” says the overcaptain as he seats himself, “except to note that Fourth Company successfully kept the damage from a raider attack on the midvalley hamlet to a minimum. One lancer was lost, but the heavy rain greatly limited the use of firelances.” Tygael takes a swallow of ale. “That’s all.”
“How many wounded?” Kettaur immediately asks Alyiakal.
“Four,” replies Alyiakal tersely. “With a little fortune they’ll all recover fully.”
“Five casualties,” says Kettaur. “Minimum damage?”
“Only one death in the hamlet and sixteen dead raiders,” replies Alyiakal.
“There’s a reason why we’d rather not patrol in the rain,” says Draakyr. “When we can’t effectively use firelances, we lose more lancers. Sometimes, it’s unavoidable. Without what Fourth Company did, the raiders might have killed most of the men there and made off with the women. Protecting them does happen to be our duty … even in a downpour when firelances don’t work.”
“Well put, Captain,” says Tygael evenly.
Kettaur’s face stiffens again, and Alyiakal gets the feeling, not for the first time, that Kettaur isn’t used to reprimands, even indirect ones, and that the undercaptain definitely doesn’t like them. He also has the feeling that Tygael has been waiting, possibly for eightdays, for such an opportunity.
Why? Because Kettaur or his family has some influence in Cyad or because Kettaur is more influenced by his peers than by his commanding officer? Or something else?
“You think we’ll get more rain?” asks Wherryl quickly.
“Not much,” says Tygael. “We might not see any until Autumn, if then. That’s the usual pattern.”
The remainder of breakfast conversation centers on the weather and when and where the next barbarian raid might originate and what area the raiders might target.
When the overcaptain rises from the table, he looks to Alyiakal and says, “In half a glass, Captain?”
“I’ll be there, ser.”
That makes the rest of Alyiakal’s day simpler, although he does want to conduct a gear and tack inspection, and he hopes he’ll have time to answer Saelora’s latest letter, although he has several days before the next dispatches are scheduled.
Almost exactly a half glass later, Alyiakal enters the overcaptain’s small study. Tygael gestures for him to take a seat, then says, “I noticed that you handed in your report this morning. Usually you turn it in the night before.”
“I had four wounded men, as I reported, ser. I checked them again after dinner, and it was late. I started writing up the report last night, but … I was falling asleep. So I got up early this morning and finished it.”
Tygael smiles. “Sometimes, for routine matters like reports, it doesn’t hurt to wait, especially if you’re dealing with more important things, like the health of your men.” The smile vanishes. “Why do you think I chose Fourth Company for the patrol yesterday?”
Alyiakal has thoughts about that, but he’s not about to voice them, unless pressed.
“Come now, Alyiakal,” says Tygael. “You must have thought about it.”
“I can see why you wouldn’t send either Wherryl or Kettaur, and I’d guess you chose me over Draakyr because Fourth Company is closer to full strength than Second Company.”
“That’s one reason. Care to come up with a second?”
“No, ser,” replies Alyiakal with what he hopes is an amused smile.
“I can see why you wouldn’t want to speculate. I’ll save you the trouble. I knew there would be casualties. More of your casualties survive. That may be because you’re a field healer, and early treatment makes it more likely that casualties survive. There may be other reasons, but that’s not my province to investigate. You fight first and fight well.” Tygael barely pauses before going on. “You suggested that the aim of the raid was to obtain women, based on the comparative youth of the dead raiders. Were there any other reasons that came to mind?”
“It’s possible that older leaders among the barbarians wanted to get rid of young hotheads, but that’s an unsupported guess, ser.”
“That’s certainly a possibility. That’s all I have for you. As always, your report is thorough, but concise. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Is there any possibility that you will be promoted to command here, ser?”
Tygael offers an amused laugh. “Hardly. First, command here is a majer’s billet. Even if I were to be promoted, I’d still only be a sub-majer, and I doubt that Mirror Lancer headquarters would look favorably on either a double promotion or giving the position to a sub-majer. Also, there’s a … reluctance, you might say, to promote officers who come up from squad leader to ranks beyond overcaptain or sub-majer.”
“I’d see that as a waste of experience, ser.”
Tygael smiles. “If you make it to being a commander in Cyad, you might be able to change that, but I’ll be a bit too old to benefit from it.” He pauses again. “You’ll be up for reposting this Autumn. Where would you like to go?”
“You know I have no family,” replies Alyiakal. “What assignment would you suggest to develop the additional skills to benefit the Mirror Lancers and my future?”
“The way you phrased that is interesting.”
“If what I do doesn’t benefit the Mirror Lancers, ser, I may have no future advancement.”
“Most junior officers don’t see it that way. They should … if they want to be successful as a lancer officer.” Tygael fingers his chin. “Let me think about that. You already have a set of … interesting skills.”
“I’d appreciate that, ser.” Alyiakal pauses, then asks, “When do you think we’ll hear about the new commander?”
“Most likely about the time you get orders for reposting.”
“That long?”
“Pemedra is not the greatest concern of Mirror Lancer headquarters. We have the barbarians under control. There are … other matters. Headquarters has not seen fit to clarify those, except to say that they do not involve those of us along the northeast borders of Cyador.” Tygael’s voice turns dry. “Such words are less reassuring than they might be.” He shrugs, then stands. “I will give some thought to your question.”
Seeing that the overcaptain has effectively ended the meeting, Alyiakal stands as well. “Thank you, ser.”
He senses Tygael’s gaze on him as he leaves, but only discerns interest of a sort. It could be worse, much worse.
As he leaves the administration building, heading for the squad leaders’ study, Alyiakal puzzles over what Tygael has said … and not said—and over his clear wish to think over what next duty might benefit both the Mirror Lancers and Alyiakal.
He shakes his head. At least he should have a little time to himself later in the day and possibly a chance to write to Saelora. He also wishes there happened to be a way to write and deliver another letter.
On twoday afternoon after mid-Summer, Alyiakal finds himself in the overcaptain’s small study, with no real idea of why Tygael has summoned him.
The overcaptain’s first words are, “I have no problems to discuss with you.”
Alyiakal has his doubts, but merely nods and waits.
“But … Pemedra Post has a problem. It’s been well over five years since we sent a company far enough to determine the barbarian activity beyond the Grass Hills to the north. You and Fourth Company are the best suited for such a patrol.” Overcaptain Tygael does not smile.
“Is that because I’m due for a change of duty, ser?” asks Alyiakal.
“Not directly. Besides Captain Draakyr, you have the most experience in this part of the border. A successful patrol that gathers new information would be most useful to the new commander of Pemedra, as well as to Mirror Lancer headquarters. It would also be useful to you personally. If it is successful, of course.”
Alyiakal understands not only what Tygael is saying, but what he is not—that while Alyiakal has a more than successful record as a company commander, what he has accomplished will still not overcome his background and lack of political contacts. “I can see that, ser.” He debates asking exactly what kind of information the new commander and Mirror Lancer headquarters might find most useful and decides against it, given that failure to provide the smallest detail about what Tygael might ask for could be used against him.
“Since such a patrol could last at least four or five days, if not longer,” says Tygael, “I thought sevenday would afford you a few days to prepare.”
“Thank you, ser.”
“I do wish you well, Captain, for many reasons. Do not underprepare for this patrol. That’s all I have for you.”
Meaning that it’s not going to be easy. “Yes, ser.” Alyiakal stands and then leaves the small office, his steps heading toward the armory, where Yurak has the Fourth Company rankers going over their blades and personal equipment, everything except their firelances.
Alyiakal hasn’t taken more than three steps into the armory before the senior squad leader joins him.
“What did the overcaptain want, ser?”
“We’ve got a special patrol on sevenday,” says Alyiakal.
“How special, ser?” asks Yurak warily.
“So special that it might take even longer than a certain patrol to the West Branch…” Alyiakal explains the overcaptain’s orders, without the personal references. Then he waits for his senior squad leader’s reaction.
“Sounds like someone’s afraid the northern barbarians might be building up a force like the one in the West Branch valley,” says Yurak.
“Or that they want reassurance that it isn’t happening, as well as an unsaid suggestion that we make sure that it can’t,” replies Alyiakal.
“That’s the nasty part,” points out Yurak. “Doing something like that could cause more raids before long.” The senior squad leader offers a sardonic grin. “You sure you didn’t piss off the overcaptain, ser?”
“I’m fairly sure I didn’t. I’m not so sure I trust those higher in the chain of command.”
Yurak snorts. “You’re sounding polite, ser.”
“Well … if you were the overcaptain, would you send First or Third Company?”
The senior squad leader shakes his head, then says, “So it has to be Second Company or Fourth. Why us?”
“Apparently, it’s our turn, and we need the experience,” replies Alyiakal dryly.
“Thought we got enough experience in that Spring rain. We just got Waark back.”
“We can never have enough experience, don’t you know?” Alyiakal’s laugh is sardonic.
Yurak shakes his head.
Early on sevenday morning, Alyiakal makes his way to the morning mess. He had thought about writing to Hyrsaal and Saelora, but since he’d written both two eightdays earlier, he hasn’t that much new to relate, and he’s heard nothing from Liathyr for some time. As the first officer there, he takes the opportunity to fill his three water bottles with grass ale. Given the taste of the ale, he’s never been tempted to overindulge on any patrol.
He’s about to sit down when Kettaur appears.
“Three bottles of ale?” asks the undercaptain.
“It’s going to be a long and hot patrol.”
“Aren’t they all?” replies Kettaur. “I can see why, though, after almost three years, one might overindulge.”
“I think you’re speaking for yourself,” replies Alyiakal cheerfully, “but then, you usually do.” He sets the bottles on the table in front of his place and seats himself.
Kettaur stiffens, then turns and walks toward the door of the mess. He stops as Draakyr enters.
Draakyr heads for the table, where he sits beside Alyiakal. “Tygael told me you’re headed beyond the hills to the north to see what the barbarians have been doing.”
“Every so often, someone does,” replies Alyiakal. “This time, it’s Fourth Company. We’re not to be casual about it, either.”
“He said that?”
Alyiakal offers a wry smile. “Not in so many words, but when a senior officer says the patrol and survey might take four to five days, if not longer…”
Draakyr nods. “I’d guess someone doesn’t want a repeat of what happened at Isahl.”
“What was that?” asks Wherryl as he sits down across from Draakyr.
Kettaur immediately sits down beside Wherryl, but says nothing.
Alyiakal manages not to frown, although he is certain that Wherryl has been informed about the barbarians in the West Branch valley and the casualties they inflicted.
Draakyr summarizes the events and the role of the Jeranyi traders in helping the barbarians acquire brass shields, special spears, and throwers.
For reasons he cannot explain, Alyiakal remains skeptical of the purported role of the Jeranyi traders. Not that he has a particularly high regard for traders and Merchanters, but he doesn’t see any reason or profit in essentially giving arms to the barbarians, not when the Jeranyi traders compete with traders from Cyador. At the same time, after what little he has heard about the unexplained death of Emperor Kieffal, he sees no point in airing his suspicions.
“Serves the dirty Jeranyi right,” says Kettaur.
Wherryl looks to Alyiakal. “What do you think you’ll find?”
“Barbarians, dwellings they call houses, fields of a sort, horses … beyond that I’m not about to speculate. We’ve tried to prepare for a range of possibilities.”
“It doesn’t matter,” declares Kettaur. “One way or another, they’ll fight. The only question is how many you have to kill and how many of your men they kill.”
Although Kettaur may well be correct, Alyiakal smiles, then replies, “Who knows? Maybe they’ll have built an actual town or two.”
“After last Spring? Hardly. They aren’t capable of anything that civilized.”
Before anyone can respond to Kettaur, Overcaptain Tygael enters the mess and seats himself. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, ser,” reply the officers.
“Another hot day. Fourth Company ready, Captain?”
“Yes, ser.”
“Good.” Tygael takes a swallow of his ale. “No reports of any raider tracks recently. They’re not usually quite as active in mid-Summer, but you never know.”
Alyiakal smiles politely, reflecting that the unofficial motto of Pemedra might well be “You Never Know.”
Little more than two quints later, Tygael stands and leaves the mess.
Alyiakal has long since finished his breakfast of ham and egg casserole and bread, but before he can even stand Kettaur leaves, followed by Wherryl.
“What did you say to Kettaur?” asks Draakyr.
Alyiakal quickly relates the interaction.
Draakyr shakes his head. “Don’t know that I’d have been even that civil. Don’t worry about it.”
From Draakyr’s tone of voice, Alyiakal decides that he definitely won’t worry about Kettaur, at least not until he gets back from the coming patrol. “I appreciate it.”
“It’ll be my pleasure.” Draakyr grins, but only for a moment, then adds, “Be careful.”
“We’ll try.”
As Alyiakal stands and is about to leave the table, water bottles in hand, the mess aide appears.
“Captain, ser?”
Alyiakal stops.
“Heard you were going on a long patrol, ser.” The ranker aide hands Alyiakal a carrot. “Otherwise, it might be a while before your horse gets a carrot.”
Alyiakal smiles warmly. “He’ll appreciate that, and so do I. Thank you.”
“Have a good patrol, ser.”
Alyiakal is still smiling as he heads for his quarters to get the rest of his gear. He isn’t smiling by the time he carries all his gear and the healing satchel to the stable, where he saddles the bay, fastens his gear and water bottles in place, and gives the gelding the carrot.
“There’s only one, and it’s the last one for quite a while,” Alyiakal tells the bay, knowing that, as soon as the horse finishes the carrot, he’ll still nudge Alyiakal for more—which he does.
Alyiakal pats him on the shoulder. “I said that was all.” Then he leads the bay out of the stable and mounts, riding to where Yurak is mustering Fourth Company. Given what they might face, Alyiakal has added three spare mounts to the company, both in case of injury to other mounts and to carry additional supplies, as well as a sack of grass-seed grain as emergency fodder.
“Morning, ser. Any word?”
“It’ll be hot, and there haven’t been any recent raider tracks. That was all the overcaptain had to say.”
“Could have been worse.”
“There wasn’t much else he could have said. Any problems with mounts or men?”
“Had to change out Rumbaar’s mount. Cracked hoof. Doesn’t look that bad, but there’s no reason to risk problems.”
“Not on a patrol as long as this one,” agrees Alyiakal. “Anything else?”
Yurak grins. “I managed to get more trail biscuits. Cooks are right fond of you, ser. I hope we won’t need them, but it can’t hurt to have them, and they don’t weigh much.”
Alyiakal looks back at the formation, then sees Elbaar, now third squad leader, and Renkaar, the second squad leader, riding forward.
They rein up, and all three squad leaders report.
“First squad, ready to ride, ser.”
“Second squad…”
“Third squad…”
In mere moments, Fourth Company rides through the post on the sunstone road toward the north gates. The three scouts have ridden well ahead, although it’s unlikely they’ll spot any potential problems before Fourth Company enters the hills.
“Any new thoughts on what to expect, ser?” asks Yurak.
“As I told you before, I don’t know what to expect, and I don’t think the overcaptain does, either. I suspect someone in Mirror Lancer headquarters is worried about better-armed and better-trained barbarians.” Alyiakal isn’t about to mention his concerns that the Mirror Lancers are being used as counters in some political or power game of which he is unaware, but he’s scarcely surprised at the possibility.
On twoday morning, Alyiakal calls a halt on a ridge overlooking a rolling plain covered with greenish-gold grass that stretches for kays, if not farther. From where he sits on the bay, the Grass Hills seem to angle to the northeast while the wide expanse of grass seems to widen to the north and northwest. He can vaguely see trees in the distance to the north, probably bordering a stream or small river. Beyond the watercourse, he can barely make out the squares and rectangles of fields, and brown lines of roads.
He does clearly see a series of hamlets dotting the nearer plain. They’re separated by roughly ten kays and joined by roads somewhere in between straight and winding. Those hamlets closest to the Grass Hills are markedly smaller than those farther away, with small plots of cultivated ground around the dwellings.
“What do you think?” Alyiakal asks Yurak.
“Doesn’t look much different from hamlets around Pemedra, except they’re not walled,” replies the senior squad leader.
“We’re not raiding them all the time,” replies Alyiakal.
“Not worth the bother,” says Yurak. “Their raiding us isn’t, either, but they’re too dumb to realize it.”
“Or there’s something going on that we don’t know. That’s why we need to see what we can. Pass the word that no one is to use a firelance unless ordered.” Alyiakal shouldn’t have to give such an order, but he doesn’t want anyone killed who’s not a threat.
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal continues to study the plain below as Yurak passes the word to all the squads. He doesn’t see dust on the roads or in the fields, not that he’d expect any tilling in late midsummer.
When Yurak returns, Alyiakal orders, “Company! Forward!”
The trail leading down to the plain shows no recent hoofprints and certainly no footprints, but then there haven’t been recent tracks anywhere on the trails for the past ten kays.
Too early to raid for harvest coins … and no reason to risk men needed for harvest?
No scouts out, that he observes, but that’s not surprising, since Mirror Lancers haven’t traveled this far across the Grass Hills in years. When Fourth Company leaves the lower hills, the road forks, one trail running northeast parallel to the base of the Grass Hills, while the other turns westward toward the nearest hamlet. There are a few hoofprints on both rudimentary roads, but not enough to indicate large groups of riders. Alyiakal decides to follow the road westward toward the nearest hamlet.
More than two quints later, Alyiakal and Fourth Company finally approach the hamlet, barely visible over the tall grass. Before too much longer, the plains grass gives way, in places, to small fields and plots, with crude dwellings built of mud brick beyond. They have higher front walls and shorter walls to the back and woven grass-thatch roofs slanting between the two. Most of the small dwellings have a mud-brick chimney roughly in the middle of the back wall.
“Those look even worse up close,” says Yurak.
A woman hoeing a patch of ground that appears to be a garden looks up, then grabs the child beside her in one hand, and with the crude hoe in the other, hurries inside the small dwelling, closing the narrow door behind her.
“Didn’t even look to see who we were,” offers Yurak.
“She acted like all riders are dangerous.” That bothers Alyiakal, because no lancers he knows of have been this far north in years.
At the sight of the lancers, the various people outside scramble to get inside and close doors and shutters … until Fourth Company reaches the far side of the hamlet, where a gray-haired and bent man leaning on a stick stands, apparently waiting, not far from a tiny mud-brick hut.
Alyiakal reins up and says, “Good day.”
The older man replies.
Alyiakal has trouble understanding some of the older man’s words, but one phrase is definitely clear. “Why are you here?”
Alyiakal speaks slowly and deliberately as he replies. “We came to find out why your young men keep trying to raid our lands.”
“Those are the men who do not want to plant or harvest, and they have nothing better to do. They do not live here. We avoid them, as we can.”
“Where do they live?”
“That way.” The man gestures almost in the direction from which Fourth Company has come.
Alyiakal suspects that Fourth Company might well have run into the raiders had the company taken the other fork in the trail when it came out of the hills, and says, “They have horses. Horses are hard to come by.”
“They cross the river and steal them. Some of them are killed by those of Cerlyn.”
“I see few horses here,” says Alyiakal.
“Most have donkeys. They cost less, and no one wants to steal them.”
“How far is Cerlyn from here?”
“Beyond the river.”
“How far is that?” asks Alyiakal.
The man shrugs.
Alyiakal waits, then says, “How long on a good horse?”
“Four glasses, they say.”
“Which road goes there?”
“Any road that goes north. I have not been there in years. It is not safe.”
“Why not?”
“It is not safe. You go there and you will see.” The older man turns and limps back toward his hut.
“Ser?” asks Yurak.
“We’ll head for the river. We can always deal with raiders. I have the feeling the overcaptain will be more interested in what might be happening with Cerlyn than another fight with raiders. Besides, if we have to, we can always deal with them on the way back. That’s if they cause trouble.”
“They likely will,” predicts Yurak.
“I won’t wager against you, Senior Squad Leader, but there’s something odd going on here. The overcaptain won’t be happy if we don’t find out more.”
“An unhappy overcaptain usually leads to unhappy lancers.”
“It has been known to happen. Company! Forward!”
For the next three glasses Fourth Company follows the road leading mostly north, going through two other, larger hamlets, where the reaction to the presence of the Mirror Lancers is similar to that in the first hamlet.
As he rides, Alyiakal reflects on the differences and similarities between the steads near Pemedra and those through which Fourth Company has just passed.
They’re really not that different, except those near Pemedra are better off.
Then again, holders farther from the borders are even better off, and most people are much the same anywhere. Some few are not. Certainly, Adayal was, and surely still is, far different from those who wrest a living from the ground.
Because she is part of the Great Forest and lives and works with it?
Alyiakal shakes his head. While he can see, even respect, her choice, he would feel trapped by the Forest, as he would if he were one of the men laboring to make a living from the land. Adayal, on the other hand, feels freer in the Forest, just as he feels freer as a Mirror Lancer. Being consorted to you would have destroyed her … and made you miserable. And she saw that when you didn’t.
Almost absently, he wonders why the seemingly endless grass and the poor hamlets have reminded him of Adayal, not that he hasn’t thought of her now and again. Or is freedom the combination of having the ability to do what you want that is meaningful to you?
Alyiakal continues to ponder those questions until, finally, he can see the tops of the trees that usually signify running water. The plain grasses actually are shorter nearer to the water. What surprises Alyiakal the most is that the road comes to an end thirty yards short of the stream. The second surprise is the number of tree stumps on the south side of the stream. The stream itself isn’t that wide, perhaps three cubits, but the banks drop steeply almost a yard to the water, suggesting that at times the stream might resemble a small river. On the far side, there are trees and almost no stumps.
Alyiakal halts Fourth Company well short of the water and surveys the opposite bank, and its almost ankle-high grass. Farther west along the bank he sees a small herd of goats, with a youthful herder who could be male or female. Perhaps sixty yards north of the stream is a field, but Alyiakal cannot tell what grows there. A narrow road ends short of the low grass and trees on the north side of the stream.
A bell being rung vigorously breaks the comparative silence of the midafternoon.
“First squad!” orders Alyiakal. “Five-man front. Staggered formation! Ready firelances!” That formation will allow ten lancers to fire simultaneously, not that Alyiakal intends such—unless the Cerlynese immediately attack.
The bell continues to ring for almost half a quint.
Almost another half quint passes before Alyiakal hears the sound of hooves and then sees mounted riders coming. The six men who ride up to the end of the road have polished brass shields and sheathed sabres. All six carry strung bows.
All six look surprised as they take in Fourth Company and the firelances leveled at them.
Finally, one man rides slightly forward, closer to the grass, and calls out, “What are Cyadoran lancers doing at the border of Cerlyn?”
“We’re here looking for the raiders who keep attacking our holders,” replies Alyiakal, raising his voice. “We heard that they sometimes raid Cerlyn for horses.”
“You’re looking in the wrong place. We allow none of those in the wild plains to cross the river … on pain of death.”
“Then where do they get their mounts?” asks Alyiakal, sensing that the other is not entirely truthful.
“I have no idea. You’d have to ask them.”
While the man’s first statement is a lie, Alyiakal doesn’t want to start a fight with another land over a lie, especially without knowing more. “Are all the grasslands south of the river what you call the wild plains?”
“That is so.”
“And everything north of the river is Cerlyn?”
“It is.”
“Then we will look for the raiders in the wild plains,” declares Alyiakal. “We will withdraw, peacefully, provided you do not attempt any attack.”
“That might be best,” says the other, condescendingly.
“I would not speak quite so arrogantly,” replies Alyiakal, triggering his firelance with the shortest of bursts, sufficient to turn a small bush to the right of the speaker into flame and instant ashes. “Cyador is to be respected.”
The Cerlynese leader immediately says, “I meant no disrespect.”
“Then you withdraw, and so will we.”
The leader turns his mount and gestures; the other five follow him.
“Have the company withdraw,” Alyiakal says quietly. “Leave two lancers with me. We’ll rejoin you once everyone’s out of range of those bows.”
While Alyiakal does not trust the Cerlynese in the slightest, none of the six Cerlynese riders return, although they have withdrawn only a few hundred yards up the narrow road. He keeps watching over his shoulder as he and the two lancers ride back to rejoin Fourth Company.
Once he is at the head of the company, heading south, he turns to Yurak. “Your thoughts about what happened?”
“He was telling the truth about the border. I think he was lying about the horses and the raiders.”
“Those are my thoughts as well, but it’s definitely not a good idea for a relatively junior captain to start an attack on another land. Especially when he’s been ordered to find out about raiders.”
“Still would have liked to flame that sow’s ass,” mutters Yurak.
“That makes two of us.” Alyiakal laughs, then adds, “It’ll be a long ride back to where I think the raiders’ hamlet is. Where do you think a good campsite might be?”
“There was a stream and a bit of a ridge near the second hamlet…”
Alyiakal nods and looks out at the unending grass, as much a confinement in its own way as the walls that enclose the Great Forest. He leans forward and pats the bay on the shoulder.
Threeday morning, Alyiakal wakes up early and stiff, deciding that he much prefers a hard lancer officer’s pallet bed to uneven matted plains grass. Less than three quints later, Fourth Company rides south toward the second hamlet through which the company had passed on twoday.
A glass later, as the company approaches the hamlet, Alyiakal’s bay lifts his head slightly. Wondering what the gelding has scented, Alyiakal reaches out with order/chaos senses to the east, since the light wind comes from the northeast. He senses something several hundred yards to the left, but the deep golden- green grass conceals whatever it is, although Alyiakal suspects it’s a grass cat, and the amount of patterned order and chaos is too great to be an antelope. The pattern does not move as the company rides past.
When the company appears at the edge of the hamlet, those few individuals who are out early immediately retreat to the small dwellings. Alyiakal feels a certain scrutiny as he rides through, but it has to be through the cracks in the narrow shutters. Almost absently, as he sees the narrow doors and shutters, he recalls the tree stumps on the south bank of the stream to the north and shakes his head.
Almost two glasses pass before Fourth Company again passes through the hamlet closest to the Grass Hills, with the same retreat by the inhabitants.
When the company nears the way back to Pemedra, Alyiakal studies where the roads join, then looks to Yurak. “I don’t see any tracks besides ours. Do you?”
“No, ser. Just ours from yesterday.”
Alyiakal nods, feeling most grateful, since raider tracks heading to Pemedra would have made his task much, much harder. Instead he can focus on the trail and anything he can sense ahead or in the high grass on either side of the narrow road, a road that contains a few hoofprints heading to the northeast.
“If the raiders have a hamlet in this direction,” Alyiakal says, “there’s not much sign of anything.”
“There weren’t any tracks or any signs of them going the other way, ser,” Yurak points out.
Alyiakal still wonders, but less than a quint later, at the top of a low rise in the road, only a few yards above the surrounding grasslands, he sees dwellings nearly a kay ahead, far more than in the last hamlet they’d passed through. The mud-brick buildings are slightly larger than the grasslands dwellings he’s seen in the other hamlets, with thatched roofs that look pitched rather than single-sloped. The outbuildings might well be stables. The road leads to a central open area among the houses.
“That looks a bit more prosperous,” Alyiakal says to Yurak. “Think it might be our raiders?”
“I’d say so. Folks with horses and weapons are bound to be better off.”
“Ready firelances!” orders Alyiakal, hoping that he doesn’t have to use them, but suspecting that he will. He urges the bay forward.
Fourth Company, still slightly less than half a kay from the nearest dwelling, continues on the road when a bell begins to ring, a sound somehow familiar to Alyiakal. He realizes the bell sounds much like the one he heard at the border to Cerlyn. Pushing that thought aside, he turns to Yurak. “First squad will take the west side of the hamlet, second squad the east, and third squad will hold the road as our rear guard. Pass the orders! Don’t fire unless fired upon … or I order it.”
“Yes, ser.”
When Yurak returns from passing the orders, Alyiakal commands, “Company! Forward!” Then he urges the bay into a trot, since he doesn’t want the raiders to get that organized, and the use of the bell suggests that they’ve planned in some fashion for intruders or attack.
As Alyiakal nears the cleared area surrounding the houses and outbuildings, he sees men sprinting toward the scattered stables, and two men on mounts already flee northeast, both seemingly armed.
Alyiakal sees what could happen. “First squad on me! Second squad! Hold the square!” Urging the bay into a canter, he heads straight through the hamlet toward the northeast to block the road before too many of the raiders escape. The high, thick plains grass will certainly hamper or slow other avenues of escape.
Another rider makes the road on the far side of the hamlet where the high grass begins before first squad reaches it. “First squad! Re-form! Five-man staggered front. Take down any mount if the rider won’t stop.”
Alyiakal senses Yurak’s confusion and snaps, “Dead men don’t talk!” And without horses they’ll have trouble raiding—until they get more from Cerlyn.
An older bearded man, seeing first squad blocking the road, turns his mount toward the grass.
Alyiakal immediately fires a short burst at the mount’s chest. The horse goes down, and throws the rider forward. He doesn’t move, but Alyiakal also doesn’t sense a black death mist. Not yet, anyway.
Yurak brings down another mount, but riders keep trying to escape. Two men on foot charge Alyiakal with broadswords, and Alyiakal uses two bolts to kill them both.
In little more than a quint, ten mounts are down, and Alyiakal counts eight dead and close to a score of wounded or captured men. From what the squad leaders report, somewhere between five and ten men have gotten away, mainly on foot, and are somewhere in the high grass. Alyiakal doesn’t sense any close by.
Second and third squads patrol and keep watch so that none of the escapees will surprise the lancers, and so that no one leaves the score or so dwellings. First squad has tied up eleven captives, who sit in the dirt of what passes for a central square.
Alyiakal dismounts and hands the bay gelding’s reins to a mounted lancer. He walks toward the first of the captives, a man who looks to be possibly fifteen years older than Alyiakal himself.
“Who leads the hamlet?” asks Alyiakal.
“Domraak. You killed him.”
“Why do you raid Cyador?”
“What else can we do?”
“The other hamlets don’t raid Cyador.”
“They live like peasants. They have no worth. They have no honor. They grub in the dirt.” The man spits to the side.
“Where do you get your horses?”
“Where we can.”
“Where is that?”
“It is where we can.”
Alyiakal is tempted to flame the man, but asks, “Why does Cerlyn give you horses?”
“Because it works better that way.”
Alyiakal steps forward, extending unseen order and chaos. “That’s not an answer.” His words are cold.
“What will you do? Kill me?”
“No. You might lose your right hand and left foot.”
“I’ll die then, anyway.”
“No. You won’t. I’m a healer.” Alyiakal smiles as cruelly as he can, while projecting absolute certainty.
The raider looks to Yurak. The senior squad leader nods. “He is.”
The man swallows, then says, “We get so many from Cerlyn every year.”
“Blades as well?”
The man nods.
“And women?”
“Sometimes … the ones who won’t do as they like.”
“And sometimes their young men who cause trouble?”
“If they’re strong. If not, we leave them with the peasants.”
“Food?”
“They give nothing.”
“Do you get anything from traders?”
The man spits to the side again. “Cerlyn kills any traders they find who cross the river.”
“You must have a way around that,” says Alyiakal. “Someplace where those of Cerlyn do not go or know.”
“They have mages who talk to all the traders. They can tell if they lie. If they lie, they die.”
The conviction in the older man’s voice, and in his order/chaos balance, chills Alyiakal.
“Why did you become a raider?”
“It is better than being a peasant and tilling the dirt for almost nothing.”
“How long has this been going on?”
The man shrugs tiredly. “Many years. Since before I became a man.”
“Did anyone ever try to tell anyone in Cyador?”
“Many years ago, it was said. Mirror Lancers killed them.”
The man believes that to be true, and, unfortunately, Alyiakal can see that as a definite possibility. “Are there any other hamlets like yours? With horses and good blades?”
“We are the only one. The peasants have no will and no honor.”
“What if someone wants to leave?”
“Where would they go? If they go south, you kill them. If they go north, those of Cerlyn kill them. If they go east, they die in the hills. If they go west, the Jeranyi enslave or kill them.”
Alyiakal turns to the next man. “You heard what he said. Is it true?”
“Yes, ser. Except sometimes, the bastards in Cerlyn torture people.”
“Have you seen that?”
“Once, when we went for horses. Before they delivered the horses, they chopped off a trader’s fingers. Then they took his manhood. They said worse would happen if we ever crossed the river.”
For the next glass, Alyiakal questions the rest of the captives. While he learns a few more gory details, all of the raiders tell the truth as they see it. While he could break into some of the dwellings and question the women, he sees little point in it, except to terrify and/or anger them further. He’s learned more than enough to give a solid report to the overcaptain. Visits to more hamlets won’t add much, except time in the grasslands.
After the questioning, he orders, “Gather up all the blades and spears, and find enough healthy mounts to carry them.”
Then he mounts the bay gelding and watches as the lancers go to work. Once the loading is finished, he turns in the saddle and says to Yurak, “We’ve learned enough. We’ll head back.”
“What about us?” asks the older man, still bound and on the ground.
“I’m sure that the women or those who escaped into the grass will be back before long,” replies Alyiakal, who then orders, “Fourth Company! Form up! Keep an eye out for armed raiders!” He hopes the men in the high grass have enough sense to remain hidden until Fourth Company is well away from the raiders’ hamlet.
Once the company has ridden a good kay west of the hamlet, Yurak says slowly, “Almost feel sorry for the poor bastards.”
“I feel sorrier for the women,” replies Alyiakal. “And children.”
“What do you think the overcaptain will say, ser?”
“He won’t be happy.” For more than a few reasons.
During the three days it takes Fourth Company to return to Pemedra, Alyiakal thinks over how he should write his patrol report. He also makes notes for the maps and works diligently on carrying a better concealment shield and a much heavier inner protective shield, one where the elements of chaos are firmly linked in order. He suspects, but does not know, and certainly doesn’t want to test the suspicion, that the inner shield might deflect not only order and chaos, but also weapons such as spears and arrows. While he hopes his next posting will not be around Magi’i, he certainly cannot count on such, and that is why he redoubles his shielding efforts.
Although Fourth Company arrives after evening mess on fiveday, Alyiakal stays up late writing up his report, thankful that he has composed most of it mentally while riding, and makes sure it is in the overcaptain’s inbox before he goes to bed. Even so, he rises early on sixday, cleans up, shaves, and dresses, glad to be in a clean uniform, then makes his way to the mess.
Draakyr and Wherryl arrive shortly after Alyiakal does, but Alyiakal knows he won’t see Kettaur, because the undercaptain is patrolling to the northwest, looking for possible raiders from the West Branch valley.
The two more senior captains seat themselves across from Alyiakal.
“That was a long patrol,” says Wherryl. “What happened?”
“A fair amount of the unusual,” replies Alyiakal. “I’d rather not say much until the overcaptain has a chance to read my report.”
“The duty ostler said you brought back seven or eight mounts loaded with weapons. That so?” presses Wherryl.
“It was an unusual patrol,” replies Alyiakal cheerfully.
“I think that’s all we’re going to get for now,” says Draakyr, with a chuckle. “Probably all we should for now.”
“That’s right, Captain Draakyr,” says Tygael as he slips into the chair at the head of the table. “I do prefer to be the first one to get the entire report.”
“What’s been happening here?” asks Alyiakal.
“Not that much,” replies Tygael. “We did get a report from Subcommander Grevyll advising us that the barbarians to the west have been rebuilding the town at the end of the West Branch valley. First Company is looking for signs that the barbarians have been scouting or riding in our direction.” Tygael offers an amused smile. “We received an interesting dispatch on fourday.” He takes a swallow of ale, then helps himself to the strips of meat, which Alyiakal recognizes as antelope, rather more gamy than ham, and then the cheese-egg scramble.
Alyiakal waits for Tygael’s next words, although he has the feeling that the other three all know what was in the dispatch.
“Captain Draakyr’s duty here has been extended two years, and in late Autumn, when I depart, he’ll be promoted to overcaptain.”
“Congratulations!” Then Alyiakal says, “At least, I hope it’s congratulations.”
Draakyr smiles. “It is … and I’ll get two eightdays’ home leave, plus travel time, before I take the position.” His smile widens as he adds, “After I’m promoted.”
From the feelings he senses, Alyiakal has the impression that there have been times in Draakyr’s past when supposedly good news or dispatches were not so good as others thought. Following Draakyr and Wherryl, he fills his platter and takes a chunk of warm bread from the basket.
“Home leave where?” asks Wherryl.
“Summerdock.” Draakyr begins to eat.
“You’ll be gone almost four eightdays, then,” says Wherryl musingly.
“Pemedra will be getting another senior captain before Captain Draakyr goes on leave,” says Tygael, “and shortly after that, a new undercaptain or captain to replace Captain Alyiakal. We don’t know Captain Alyiakal’s next post, and likely will not until mid-Harvest, possibly a little later.”
“Quite a change coming here,” says Wherryl. “Any word on the replacement for Majer Klaavyl?”
“Not yet,” replies the overcaptain.
The rest of the breakfast conversation is scattered, but pleasant, possibly because Kettaur isn’t present. At least, that’s Alyiakal’s feeling.
As Tygael rises from the table, he looks to Alyiakal and says, “In half a glass.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal isn’t totally looking forward to the overcaptain’s questions, but given what he saw and experienced in the grasslands, he’d have been even more worried if Tygael hadn’t summoned him.
Once he’s seated in the small study, Alyiakal doesn’t have to wait long for Tygael to speak.
“I read your report. It appears quite thorough … and timely. As usual. I do have a few questions.”
More than a few, I suspect. “Yes, ser.” Alyiakal waits.
“Do you believe you covered enough of the grasslands for your report to be generally accurate?”
“As I reported, we did not visit every single hamlet we could observe from the vantage point on the northern edge of that part of the Grass Hills, but so far as we could see, we only missed visiting three others. We could see six such hamlets and the one that held the raiders. None of the three we visited differed that much from each other. The area south of the river is smaller than the area here north of Pemedra.”
“You’re suggesting that the grasslands south of the river cannot support that many more hamlets, then?”
“Not without trade, better tools, and coins … I don’t think so. It does appear that the area has more streams and seems to get more rain. The grasses are still partly green.”
“Did the raiders you questioned give any other answers for raiding Cyadoran hamlets besides the fact that they had to?”
“No, ser. The Cerlynese have set it up so that there’s not much choice. I’d guess that they’re clever enough not to encourage the raids directly.”
“Did anyone mention the Jeranyi?”
“Only the older raider. All he said was that the Jeranyi would kill anyone heading west.”
For the next quint, Tygael asks what seem to Alyiakal to be variations on the questions the overcaptain has already asked and that Alyiakal had put in his patrol report.
Then Tygael pauses for several moments, before saying, “Did you think about … just destroying the hamlet and the surviving raiders?”
“I didn’t see much point in doing more, ser. We killed eight of them and two died of wounds before we left. We destroyed eleven horses. We took all the blades and spears, and eight of their best mounts. There were close to a half score who fled and hid in the high grass. It would have taken days to track them down.” The last part is a partial lie, because Alyiakal could have found some of the fugitives, but even with order/chaos sensing, he couldn’t have found them all in that sea of grass. “The houses are built of mud brick. You can’t fire them, and it’s too early in the season there to start a grass fire. Besides, that could have killed many of the people in the other hamlets who aren’t raiders.”
Tygael fingers his chin and then nods, slowly. “I can see that. You wrote that the Cerlynese border guards were initially dismissive and required a slight demonstration of power. I’d like to hear about that.”
Alyiakal describes in detail the situation over the stream and the condescension of the Cerlynese speaker.
“You didn’t think that was a deliberate provocation?”
“It might have been, but it was clearly out of ignorance, and I didn’t think a comparatively junior captain should be taking an action that could have killed Cerlynese border patrollers in their own territory.”
Tygael chuckles. “Much as they deserved it, I appreciate your restraint. So should headquarters.” The amused expression vanishes. “What is your feeling about the Cerlynese?”
“I trust them far less than the raiders. They’ve encouraged if not effectively forced some of the grassland people to raid this part of Cyador. They apparently torture and kill traders who try to sell to or trade with the grassland people. I don’t see why that’s necessary. The people can’t afford to buy much, and there’s little to sell. The Cerlynese also exile ‘difficult’ women and young men to the raiders. The fact that they also have those polished brass shields and archers with what looked to be identical bows I think should be a concern for Mirror Lancer headquarters.”
“So do I, I have to admit.” Tygael takes a slow, deep breath. “This all bears some thought before I forward your report and my observations and recommendations to Mirror Lancer headquarters.” After a long moment, he adds, “Very good report, Captain. You seem to have handled the patrol as well as possible in a difficult situation. Fourth Company will have at least six days off before your next patrol.”
“The men will appreciate it, ser.”
“They deserve it. So do you.” He pauses. “That’s all for now.”
“Yes, ser.” Alyiakal stands, inclines his head, and leaves the small study.
Once he is out in the corridor, the duty squad leader says, “Captain, ser?”
“Yes?”
“You have two letters that came in while you were on patrol. We kept them here rather than put them in your box in the officers’ study.” The squad leader hands both to Alyiakal.
“Thank you.” Alyiakal takes them and looks at the names, Saelora’mer and Captain Hyrsaal’alt—not that he’s surprised, but he is pleased. He wishes he could read them immediately, but he needs to meet with Yurak and convey the news, as well as plan the company schedule for the next eightday, because, even without patrols, there are necessary tasks and duties. Then he pauses and thinks. Saelora’mer? Has she consorted a Merchanter? Or become one?
As it turns out, much as he wants to discover what Saelora has been up to, he doesn’t get a chance to open the letters until well past midafternoon. He starts with the letter from Hyrsaal.
Alyiakal—
I’m glad to hear that you’re continuing to guard the northwest and surviving barbarians, raiders, and grass fires …
Here in Summerdock, it’s the same all year round. Patrol the coast roads north of the port. Patrol the coast roads south of the port. Catch the stupid smugglers. See traces of the smart ones but rarely get there in time. Then do it in reverse.
It looks like my next posting will be a border post like yours. I have no idea which one it might be. When I find out, I’ll let you know. Then I hope you can pass on some helpful advice. The raiders you’ve encountered seem deadlier than smugglers …
After my next posting, Catriana and I plan to be consorted. She has a small inheritance and has been working at a healers’ center in Fyrad. She’s been able to save some because she’s living with her older sister. Her older sister’s consort is a smallholder …
Alyiakal smiles. Hyrsaal deserves someone who loves him.
After he finishes reading Hyrsaal’s letter, he opens the second letter and begins to read.
Alyiakal—
I always enjoy reading your letters. I’m so glad you keep writing.
We’re selling more of the greenberry brandy now that I have the new distillery complete. I also bought a five-hectare plot that was already mostly covered in greenberries. The nasty-tasting wilder ones make better brandy. The plot also has a little house that I’m having fixed up so I can have my own place. Since Gaaran came back and has recovered, I don’t think Mother needs me so much, and the house won’t be so crowded.
I still have trouble realizing that I’m officially a Merchanter now—Saelora’mer.
Alyiakal smiles. She’s certainly worked hard for it.
I’m the only woman Merchanter in Vaeyal, but Vassyl sponsored me, and he pointed out that since I was already an enumerator and owned a growing business, how could I not be a Merchanter. No one objected. I guess that’s good. Vassyl helped me negotiate an agreement with a trader out of Lydiar. The first sales look promising. We’re also going to meet with another trader out of Valmurl next fourday.
I don’t know if Hyrsaal wrote you, but he and Catriana are planning to get consorted. I don’t think it will be soon, but when he says he’s going to do something, he does, just like Karola. She said she’d consort Faadyr, and she did …
Karola? Then he remembers—Saelora and Hyrsaal’s older sister. Neither has mentioned her often … or recently. Alyiakal has no idea who Faadyr is or what he does, possibly because no one’s ever mentioned him before.
He continues reading, occasionally smiling.
Predictably, after Fourth Company’s patrol into the northern grasslands, patrols for all companies posted at Pemedra remain uneventful for the rest of Summer and the first five eightdays of Harvest. There are no raids from the north and only signs of possible scouting from the west, but those tracks never actually enter the valley, and none of the Pemedra companies encounter raiders.
As a result, Alyiakal spends most of his time on patrol strengthening his shields, extending his ability to sense, and improving his ability to hold concealments and move quietly while under one. He also works on making fair copies of his personal maps.
Late on twoday afternoon of the sixth eightday of Harvest, Alyiakal sits at his table desk in the officers’ study poring over maps of Cyador when a ranker messenger approaches.
“Ser, Overcaptain Tygael would like to see you at your earliest convenience.”
Meaning immediately. Alyiakal stands and says, “Thank you. I’m on my way.”
He walks swiftly, but not hurriedly, from the study to the headquarters building and to the small study beside the still-vacant study of the commanding officer of the post.
“Close the door, Captain,” says Tygael as Alyiakal enters, motioning to the two chairs before the desk.
Alyiakal seats himself and waits, assuming that Tygael might have his posting orders. Either that, or another long scouting patrol.
Tygael smiles enigmatically, then says, “I’ve received your orders.”
“Ser?”
“Your handling of the northern grasslands patrol was apparently influential in assuring a … useful … posting. You won’t think so when I tell you what it is, but I can assure you that it will allow you to develop your capabilities in ways that would not be possible anywhere else.”
Alyiakal nods slowly. “But?”
“If you fail … well, you won’t have to worry about the future.”
Alyiakal manages not to wince. “I haven’t the faintest idea what or where such a posting might be.”
“Neither do most field-grade Mirror Lancers. You’re being posted to Guarstyad.”
“That’s a port town almost two hundred kays northeast of Fyrad. Is there even a Mirror Lancer post there?”
“There wasn’t, not until earlier this year. By mid-Autumn there will be six companies there. You’ll be in command of one of them.”
“Is the town being threatened? By the Kyphrans? Kyphrien is more than five hundred kays northeast, and Ruzor is almost that far to the east.” Alyiakal frowns. “If I recall correctly, Guarstyad is in a river valley partly surrounded by the Westhorns.”
“It is. It’s a very fertile valley, if prone to flooding every Spring, but it has a very good and sheltered harbor, one that the Kyphrans would very much like to obtain. There’s also a silver mine several kays north not far from the river. The Kyphrans have been landing troopers on the coast southeast of Guarstyad at the edge of their territory and at the eastern edge of the Westhorns. They’ve established a fort there. It’s built well enough and far enough from the ocean that fireships wouldn’t be effective against it.”
Alyiakal begins to see where Tygael is leading. So he asks, “Does that mean that I’ll need to be in Guarstyad rather quickly?”
“As a captain, you’re due four eightdays’ home leave, and travel time. You likely won’t be able to take all the leave you have, possibly only two eightdays, depending on where you intend to take leave. Have you thought about where?”
“I have,” replies Alyiakal, “but the only places I really remember are Jakaafra and Pyraan—that’s a little town near Westend. My great-aunt lived there, but she died some years ago.”
“As a Mirror Lancer officer, you can take the leave anywhere that’s accessible by firewagon, or no more than a day’s ride from such a point—unless you want to use leave time to travel farther. Also, if it’s where there’s a post you can use the visiting officers’ quarters. That wouldn’t be a problem if you took leave in Geliendra.”
Alyiakal refrains from pointing out that he knows what the overcaptain has just said, partly because that would be rude and unnecessary, and partly because he has the feeling the overcaptain has something else in mind. “I understand that I don’t have to take all the home leave I’m due.”
“That’s true. You can carry over two eightdays’ worth to the next time you’re reposted or due leave.”
“So if I took two eightdays in Geliendra, and after a full tour of duty at Guarstyad,” says Alyiakal carefully, “I’d have six eightdays of leave on the books.”
“I won’t mislead you, Alyiakal. After a full tour at Guarstyad, you might need six eightdays of leave.” Tygael pauses, then goes on. “If you’re as capable as I believe, you might even leave Guarstyad as an overcaptain, or be promoted shortly after you leave. That’s certainly not a promise, but it is a possibility.”
“You suggested that it would be a good assignment for me, didn’t you? Might I ask why?”
“Because you know how to combine unconventional initiative and Mirror Lancer imperatives. I also suggested it because you’re suited for such duty. Unless someone has worked closely with you, from reports and mere observation, they would only see a quiet and very competent officer.”
In short, you won’t get noticed and promoted that far without excelling in unconventional duties.
“You, of course, have an option that can only be used once in your entire career as an officer, and that is to reject these orders. You already know that, but I am required to formally inform you, and you will sign a letter that says you have been so informed and that you either accept or reject the orders.”
“If I accept them, and I will, when do I leave Pemedra?”
“No later than the last eightday of Harvest. Travel to Guarstyad will take almost two eightdays, possibly more, since the last part of your travel will be aboard a fireship from Fyrad to Guarstyad, and it’s best to accomplish that before the year-end storms make sea travel uncertain. That only allows you to take two eightdays’ leave in Geliendra.”
Alyiakal nods. “That’s the way it will be, and I do appreciate your guidance and work in making it all possible.”
“I think it will be good for you and for the Mirror Lancers. That doesn’t always happen.”
“I appreciate it. I do have a question … about personal logistics. I’d like to visit the family of one of the officers I went through Kynstaar with. They live in a small town close to Geliendra. Is it possible to use a lancer mount…?”
“That is a privilege for officers on leave. Use of a mount for the day, when mounts are available, is customary. For longer periods, you have to get permission from the officer handling logistics at that post.”
“Thank you. I wondered about that.”
“Where is that officer serving, if I might ask?”
“He has a company in Summerdock patrolling the coast to deal with smugglers. He doesn’t yet know his next posting … or he didn’t the last time he wrote.”
“Guarstyad won’t be that tedious,” declares Tygael. “Now … since you’ve decided to accept your orders, you have a few papers to sign.”
A half glass later, Alyiakal leaves the overcaptain’s office, half wondering if he has done the right thing, yet knowing that rejecting the orders would have meant he’d likely never rise above overcaptain and would be rotated between combat-related duties and assignments that Tygael would definitely have termed as tedious.
He’d hoped to be able to get to Jakaafra to see if he could track down Adayal, but getting to and from Jakaafra from Geliendra would take almost an eightday, if not longer, and trying to get there from anywhere else that had a firewagon stop would take even more time traveling.
She could have written you earlier. She knew you’d be in Kynstaar for several years. She even said you’d do great things in the Mirror Lancers.
With that thought, Alyiakal smiles sardonically. Great things? Protecting impoverished holders from even poorer raiders that you’ve had to kill to stop more raiders … or killing other raiders being used as game pieces by outlanders?
He shakes his head as he continues to walk toward the officers’ study. At least he can write Saelora and Hyrsaal and tell them he plans to visit Vaeyal on his home leave. He doubts that his home leave will overlap much with Hyrsaal’s, but it’s possible.
The next three eightdays pass slowly and methodically, and Alyiakal takes Fourth Company on four more patrols, during which they discover no signs of barbarian raiders or horses other than those of local holders and of Mirror Lancers.
As Alyiakal leads the company back through the northern gates of Pemedra on sixday of the eighth eightday of Harvest, Yurak clears his throat.
Alyiakal does not smile, but maintains a pleasant expression, as he says, “Another uneventful patrol.”
“That’s because of you, ser.” Yurak clears his throat again. “This is your last patrol with Fourth Company?”
“It is. I’m leaving with the dispatch riders on eightday.”
“Hardly an easy ride, going that way.” Yurak pauses again. “Don’t know how to say this, ser. But there’s not a man wouldn’t serve under you again. Can’t say that about many, especially junior captains.”
“I’d serve with any of them again,” replies Alyiakal, “especially you, Elbaar, and Renkaar.”
“I heard it said you’re going to Guarstyad to fight Kyphrans.”
“I’m being posted there. The Kyphrans have built a fort close to the border. What that will mean isn’t certain yet.”
Yurak shakes his head. “The Kyphrans anywhere are nasty bastards. Worse than the Cerlynese. You can’t trust them except to be bastards.”
Alyiakal senses and knows what the senior squad leader is trying to say beyond a mere warning. “I won’t ever turn my back on them. I appreciate the warning.” He smiles.
“You know who’ll replace you?”
“I haven’t heard. I’m leaving earlier than usual because of the situation at Guarstyad and worries about Autumn weather. The overcaptain may take Fourth Company on a patrol or two until my replacement arrives. I suspect you’ll get a captain, possibly even a senior captain, rather than an undercaptain.” Because Wherryl isn’t that senior, and Kettaur’s still green, and Draakyr’s moving up to overcaptain. “But I don’t know, and I don’t think the overcaptain does either. Not yet.” After a pause, Alyiakal adds, “Whoever it turns out to be, he’ll be getting a good company.”
“Might be because someone spent time working with it.”
“More likely that someone was fortunate to be able to work with good squad leaders,” replies Alyiakal cheerfully.
Once Fourth Company reaches the stables, Alyiakal dismisses the company to duties for the last time and then leads his mount into the stables. After he unsaddles and carefully grooms the bay, he stands in the stall, talking quietly to the gelding. “I’m going to miss you. You saved me when I was too green to know better. I hope that your next rider appreciates you as much as I have.”
His eyes burn when he finally leaves the stall, and he walks quietly to his quarters. After a time, he washes up and then makes his way to the officers’ study, where he begins his patrol report. Given that little occurred and less has changed since previous patrols, all he can note is limited, and he finishes writing it up before evening mess.
He steps into the mess behind Wherryl and Kettaur, but Draakyr is already there, and Alyiakal sits down beside him.
“Last patrol, right?” says Draakyr.
“I don’t think the overcaptain’s going to send me out tomorrow, and I leave on eightday. It was very quiet.”
“Likely will be until next Spring when the Cerlynese give more weapons and horses to the barbarians,” replies Draakyr.
“That’s a waste of silvers,” says Kettaur, with a snort.
“Not from their point of view,” replies Draakyr.
“How do you figure that?” asks Wherryl. “The barbarians don’t harm that many of our men.”
Tygael slides into the place at the end of the table and says, “They tie up lancers. The Cerlynese also get rid of their own troublemakers there. Cerlyn uses the barbarians as a buffer between them and Cyador. That makes it harder for us to deal with Cerlyn. Why do you think Emperor Kieffal wanted to build more posts to the north?” He smiles sourly. “And don’t bother to ask why it didn’t happen, especially in Cyad.”
Kettaur immediately replies, “I can’t believe that Merchanters—”
“The only value Merchanters hold dear,” interrupts Tygael, “is that of golds. Assassins also value golds greatly. We won’t say more.” His eyes fix solidly on Kettaur for several moments.
Kettaur closes his mouth, but his eyes hold anger that Alyiakal can feel even without sensing the chaos swirling around the undercaptain.
While Tygael can see the anger as well, Alyiakal suspects, the overcaptain smiles and says, “Our job is to protect the people within the borders of Cyador, no matter who they happen to be. All of you have been most effective in doing that, and I’m confident that all of you will continue to do so no matter where you’re posted after you leave Pemedra. Now … if you’d pass that platter of lamb cutlets…”
While the platter really doesn’t need to be passed, Draakyr eases it fractionally closer to Tygael.
“You’re going to spend your leave in Geliendra?” the overcaptain asks Alyiakal.
“It’s as close to home as anyplace, and I can’t take that much leave because of the travel constraints.” Although Tygael knows that, Alyiakal understands that the overcaptain wants to change the subject and suspects he also wants to point out that sometimes officers don’t get all the leave that they’ve accrued.
“Travel constraints?” asks Kettaur, predictably.
“The captain has to travel by fireship from Fyrad to Guarstyad,” explains Tygael, “and after mid-Autumn, the seas can get quite rough, sometimes for eightdays. Since Fyrad is surrounded by the lower Westhorns, the passes get snowed in early, sometimes even by mid-Autumn.”
Given what Tygael had said earlier and what he just revealed, Alyiakal wonders why he hasn’t been detached and sent to Fyrad earlier. It’s not as though the Kyphrans would be any threat until late the next Spring, if then.
Tygael chuckles, then says, “All of you captains have similar thoughts behind those pleasant smiles. The reasons for the situation are simple. First, headquarters didn’t find out what the Kyphrans were up to until late Spring. Second, it’s not as though the Mirror Lancers have six companies to spare. Neither the Magi’i nor the Merchanters have ever supported excessive numbers of Mirror Lancers, especially anywhere close to Cyad. Headquarters has barely a company’s worth of rankers, largely clerical and administrative. There are less than twoscore officers in all of headquarters. It’s taken three seasons to recruit more rankers and find the right mix of squad leaders, rankers, and officers to create those six companies and to transport them to Guarstyad…”
Alyiakal can certainly see that. While he doesn’t know the exact numbers, he doubts that the Mirror Lancers have more than eighty companies, possibly less. While district guards train and can be called up, they certainly wouldn’t be suited to handling border duties eightday after eightday, or for the extended and more isolated duty required at Guarstyad.
“… Third, which I wouldn’t mention outside this mess, headquarters is rather resistant to sudden change.”
“What about the Magi’i?” asks Kettaur.
“The number of Magi’i is considerably less than the number of lancer officers,” replies Tygael dryly. “The amount of chaos most could summon in a battle is possibly the same as a single firelance. Perhaps a handful might have chaos powers equivalent to a single company armed with firelances. Their powers are best used in creating our weapons and tools…”
As Tygael speaks, Alyiakal wonders, not for the first time, why Kettaur doesn’t already know all that, or is the undercaptain a dunderhead from a high altage family who was tutored and trained intensively enough privately to scrape through officer training?
While Vordahl definitely had those advantages, he was also intelligent and worked hard, not that Alyiakal has thought that much about either Baertal or Vordahl since they all left Kynstaar. A second thought strikes him as well. Since he can gather chaos, why couldn’t he recharge a firelance in a pinch? He wishes he’d thought of that earlier, but there had never been the necessity.
“So, as a company commander,” says Draakyr, “you have more chaos at your command than do most Magi’i. That’s a sobering thought.”
Another indirect and polite way of telling Kettaur he needs to think about what he blurts out.
“Indeed,” adds Tygael. “I think I’ll have a bit more of that lamb.”
Almost immediately, Draakyr turns to Alyiakal. “You going to visit anyone on your leave?”
“Another officer I went through Kynstaar with and his family. They live near Geliendra.” What Alyiakal doesn’t mention is that, based on Hyrsaal’s last letter, Hyrsaal’s leave is later than Alyiakal’s, and they’ll likely only have a few days when they’re both there. If that. At least Saelora sounded pleased that he was coming in her letter. Reservedly pleased, which could mean anything.
“Sometimes, it’s good to keep in touch, and sometimes,” says Draakyr, “you find that you no longer have quite the same outlook.”
“I appreciate the caution,” replies Alyiakal. “What about you?”
“I’m going to Summerdock. I’ll have to stop by the post there, but I’ll stay with my brother and his consort. He’s the foreman at a trading warehouse. My mother lives with my sister, who has three children. That would be crowded, but they’re not that far from each other.”
“That’s good, I take it?” Alyiakal does not ask about whether there’s someone else Draakyr might be hoping to see. His own father had told him that some officers who come up from being squad leaders are very sensitive about consorts … or even about whether they have one.
“It is. I get to see everyone, and I’m there long enough to be reminded why that kind of life isn’t for me.”
“Most Mirror Lancer officers wouldn’t be happy doing anything else,” says Tygael. “From what I’ve seen anyway.”
Wherryl nods.
Kettaur just looks bored.
“Well, if you do stop by the post, you might say a word to a friend of mine,” says Alyiakal. “Hyrsaal. He’s a junior captain.”
“We’ll see.”
After Tygael leaves the mess, Alyiakal stands, then makes his way back to the officers’ study, where he writes the second copy of the report and places it in the Fourth Company file. Then he takes the overcaptain’s copy and walks to the headquarters building, where he leaves the report for Tygael.
Tomorrow, he’ll go through his gear and pack, including his notes and maps. He’ll need to attend to arranging for new uniforms in Geliendra, but he’s certain there will be a tailor on the post or nearby … and that he’ll have plenty of time.