“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?