Arms-Commander (14 page)

Despite Jennyleu's comments about the Suthyans and Saryn's worries, travel for the next two days was uneventful, past hillsides filled with inhospitable ironwoods and hamlets populated by Lornians who were neither friendly nor unfriendly—just wary. On fiveday morning, under a clear green-blue sky and less than a glass after setting out from their camp on the hillside lands of a halfway-friendly herder, Saryn caught sight of a rider in brown, stationed on a rise nearly a kay ahead. Abruptly, he turned his mount, but before he disappeared, she caught the glint of sunlight on metal—armor of some sort, she thought.

“You think that was a scout, ser?” asked Hryessa, easing her mount along beside Saryn.

“He was a scout. He wasn't wearing purple or blue. Those are the Lornian colors.”

“Local lord-holder, then.”

“That's the best option.” Saryn certainly didn't want to run into Jeranyi or Suthyan forces, since that would have proved the regents had no control away from the capital city.

Almost half a glass passed before Saryn caught sight of a kaystone ahead on the right, one newer and considerably more elaborate than any they had passed earlier. The oblong stone sat on its own pedestal and bore the name DUEVEK in elaborate Anglorat lettering. The name was framed by a sculpted frieze depicting sheaves of grain.

Saryn blotted her forehead, already damp in the still air. “Of course, the road's down here where it doesn't catch the wind,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone.

Past the kaystone, the road turned more due west, toward the town proper, but to the northeast of the town was a flattened hilltop on which stood a walled villa, and a wide road leading down from it to the main road. While there were scattered cots on the left, with small plots and outbuildings, the lands on the right were empty of habitations, with just wide meadows and tended fields. Farther away were orchards.

“These have to belong to the local holder.” Saryn gestured to the left. As she did, she caught side of the dust on the road down from the villa—and she began to sense…something.

She turned to Hryessa. “That scout told the local lordling we were coming. Have everyone ready arms and string their bows, all of them. We're about to be stopped. We couldn't outride them. Their mounts are fresher. I'd like to talk them out of anything foolish, but I'm not counting on it.”

“No, ser.” Hryessa eased her mount to the side. “Guards, to arms! String all bows!” Then she rejoined Saryn.

The two—and Xanda, still bearing the parley flag—continued to ride toward the town ahead, followed by the thirty Westwind guards. As they approached the point where the road from the villa met the main way, Saryn concentrated on the armsmen. The local armed riders were uniformed in brown, and had taken a position across the road. There was also another group of riders hidden behind a small orchard to the right of the road.

“We'll play stupid,” Saryn said quietly. “We'll stop, but with enough distance to use the bows, if necessary. We probably will, because there's another group behind that orchard there.”

“We could just ride the ones here down and kill them,” suggested Hryessa.

“We have to let them see the parley flag and give them an opportunity to do the right thing. We just won't give them much of a chance to do anything else.” Even with the local lord-holder's forces more than half a kay away, Saryn could sense the hostility. “We'll halt a good thirty yards out. Have the archers ready to take out the leader and the first rank at my command.”

“Yes, sir.” Hryessa let her mount drop back, then turned and began to convey Saryn's orders. Before all that long, she rejoined the commander. “They understand. They'll take care of the first rank and as many others as they can if they attack.”

“They probably will,” said Saryn sourly. “We'll just have to see, though.”

The locals, in brown leathers, with brass-trimmed breastplates, were reined up across the main road a good hundred yards before a junction in the road. The left road—the main road—headed into Duevek. The well-maintained but narrower way led uphill to the elaborate walled stone villa and outbuildings, all with shimmering red-tile roofs. The middle track skirted the base of the hill and doubtless rejoined the main road northwest of the town.

As the guards reached a point about forty yards from the armsmen, Saryn called out, “Guards, halt! Staggered formation!” Then she eased the gelding to the shoulder of the road to allow the guards, already staggered, a clear field of fire.

In a lower voice, Hryessa turned in the saddle, and ordered, “Ready arms.”

“You're blocking the road,” Saryn called.

The squad leader stationed at the west end of the formation glanced at the parley flag, then at the armed squad. “Parley or not, you're not welcome.”

“We're on our way to Lornth to meet with the regents.”

“Anyone can offer a parley flag. That doesn't mean you're friendly. Those weapons, small as they are, don't suggest friendship.”

Saryn refrained from pointing out that, if the Westwind force had not been friendly, they certainly wouldn't have ridden up without attacking. “We didn't go to arms until you blocked the road. We're not fighting each other. That was ten years ago. Westwind and the regents have a treaty,” Saryn said politely. “Now…if you block our way, that breaks the treaty.”

“The regents don't say how we run our lands. The only place you're headed is back to the Westhorns, if you can make it.”

“Are you telling me you—or your lord—refuses to honor the treaty and a parley flag?”

“You aren't coming any farther into Lornth.”

“We are,” Saryn said. “We have the duty and the right to talk to the regents.”

“You only honor conditions when it suits you.”

Saryn had a good idea where that had come from. “We honor those who hold to them, not those who use them to attempt poisoning and murder.” Her words made no impression, not that Saryn would have expected it.

“I have my orders. Nothing you say will change that.”

“That may be. But I don't think your successor would like to explain how you lost an entire squad in a few moments. Undercaptain, or squad leader,” Saryn said. “You have two choices. You can let us pass peacefully, or you can let us pass over your dead body.”

“You're women. There's nothing special about you.” He shouted, “To arms!”

“Fire!” snapped Saryn.

Before he could spur his mount forward, the squad leader slumped forward in the saddle. So did the six riders in the front rank.

“Charge!” ordered someone from the rear of the body of armsmen.

“Fire!” Saryn ordered again, the black currents around her amplifying her voice, even as she drew the first of her three short swords.

Another rank of armsmen went down, with the exception of two men partly shielded by the squad leader's mount, which had half reared. In moments, the arrows sleeting across the space between the two forces had reduced those in brown to a mere handful. Even so, that handful charged the guards.

“Charge!” ordered Hryessa.

In moments, the guards had swept though the remaining brown-tunics, and had reversed their mounts. Saryn had held her ground, concentrating on the second group of Lornians, now breaking clear of the orchard and less than a hundred yards away. “Captain! Attack from the south!”

“Archers!” snapped Hryessa. “Line abreast on me!” The captain gestured.

Not all of the Westwind archers caught the command, but twelve managed to get into formation.

“Fire!”

The roughly three volleys that the guard archers loosed were enough to halve the number of able-bodied attackers even before they were within fifty yards.

Saryn found two Lornians aiming their mounts directly at her. She forced herself to wait until they seemed almost upon her before throwing her first blade, smoothing the flow and using her order-skills to guide the weapon, even as she drew the second and parried the wild swing of the oncoming Lornian, then back-cut across his neck before he could recover.

The melee that followed lasted less than a tenth of a glass, and by the end, every one of the brown-clad Lornians was either dead or wounded severely enough to be unable to fight.

Saryn reined up and studied the road. Close to forty dead and wounded. For what? She scanned the road up to the villa, but it remained empty. The locals had clearly received orders to attack, or to keep the angels from reaching Lornth, if not both. She could see the hand of the Suthyans in that, but why would a local lordling throw in with Baorl? Or were matters that unsettled in Lornth?

Hryessa rode over and reined up. “We've secured the area, ser.”

“What are our casualties?”

“Three slashes. None that serious. For all the fancy uniforms, these boys weren't that good. The blades aren't bad.”

“Pack them up.”

“We've recovered most of the shafts and arrowheads, but some will need to be reworked.”

“What about our mounts?”

“Two won't make it.”

“Take the ten best of their mounts. Use two for replacements, and load the rest with the blades and anything else of value. Let's find one of the survivors who looks to be able to take a message back to his lord or whoever. Then we need to be moving out.”

“Still to Lornth?”

“It's looking more important than even the Marshal thought.”

“I don't care for that, ser.”

Neither did Saryn. “We need one of the riding wounded.”

“There are only two. They're over by the banner.”

Saryn turned and rode the twenty or so yards to the left side of the road, almost opposite the west end of the orchard that had shielded the second group of attackers.

The two men in brown leathers were the only Lornians still horsed. Both were weaponless. One was black-haired, and both hair and beard were shot with white. Blood oozed from a crude dressing around his lower right arm, and a thin slash ran across his forehead. The other looked young enough to be his son, but with pale red hair and a strong nose, he in no way resembled the older Lornian. Pain contorted his face as he held a crooked lower right arm in place with his left.

Saryn reined up several yards from the pair, flanked by Westwind guards with blades in hand. She looked at the older armsman. “You are free to return to your lord and to tell him the price he has paid for dishonoring the parley flag—and for consorting with the enemies of both Westwind and Lornth. You can take your friend here with you.” She inclined her head toward the fresh-faced Lornian.

“The Lord of Duevek will not be pleased, Angels.” The dark eyes flicked from Saryn to Hryessa and back to Saryn.

“That is possible. We're not pleased with your lord. Nor will the regents be pleased with him. That makes us even. Now…ride back to your lord and tell him to send retainers to remove these carrion and clear the road. You can also tell him he should be glad the regents have a treaty with Westwind, because, otherwise, he'd have suffered far worse. We've only taken the mounts necessary to replace those injured by his attacks—and the weapons used against us.”

“There are far more armsmen in Lornth than angels in Westwind.”

“That is very true,” Saryn replied. “You lost forty men. We lost none. You attacked first. The last time that happened, when Lornth attacked Westwind, we lost thirty, and you lost thousands. Think about it. In fact, you and your lord should think very hard about it.” Saryn felt the conflict boiling within her. Given the Lornian male arrogance, she wanted to slit the man's throat on the spot as much as she needed him to convey the message. Given what might lie behind the walls of the villa on the hill, she had no intention of delivering it personally. Yet she could sense the swirling of both order and chaos around her. At least, that was the way it felt.

Abruptly, the man's eyes widened, and he swallowed once, then twice. “Yes…Angel…I will tell him.” He swallowed again. “Might I go…?”

The younger man turned white and swayed in the saddle, then stiffened in greater pain, clearly because he'd moved the broken forearm.

“Go.” While firm, Saryn's voice contained as much resignation as anger, and she watched as the pair started up the narrow road toward the villa. “What was all that about?” Then she turned to Hryessa. “One moment, he was all bluster, and the next, you'd have thought I was like the engineer when he was using the laser.”

The captain's lips quirked into an ironic smile. “You looked much like the engineer, and a bright blackness gathered around you. It's fading now.”

“You don't seem all that worried.”

“You are an angel, Commander. All of you true angels have such moments. That is a mark of the angels.”

Saryn wondered about that, but introspection could wait. “We need everyone to mount up and get moving.” She pointed to the narrow middle road. “We'll take the narrow track around the town, not the main road. I don't imagine we'll be exactly welcome right now.”

“They were stupid,” Hryessa said.

“That's because it's been years since we really exerted any force over Lornth,” Saryn pointed out tiredly. “People who are raised to think women are worthless have a tendency to forget what conflicts with their beliefs.”

“This lord will not forget.”

But how many others are there who already have?

As Saryn urged the gelding forward, she turned back for a moment to see if anyone followed, but the road was empty, except for the dead and wounded. For a moment, she looked back at the hillside and the villa occupying it. If one had to live in Lornth, there were worse places. Set on the hilltop and open to the Westhorns, there would be cool breezes most of the year, and the river wasn't that far. Duevek itself wasn't a bad town…

She shook her head. She doubted she'd ever see either Duevek or the villa again, because she certainly wasn't going to return the way they'd come. That would be asking for even more troubles she didn't need.