LXXVI
Nylan patted the mare’s neck, easing her into a wide turn, and rode slowly back toward the south end of Jirec, trying to see the approach to the abandoned hamlet as the Cyadorans might. On the right side of the road were the remnants of a long animal shed, the west end collapsed, so that the ruins looked like an earthen ramp. Beyond the sod-roofed shed were the blackened walls of a dwelling that had been fired by the Cyadoran sweep of the hamlet eight-days earlier.
Thin plumes of gray smoke-cookfires for the “Lornian camp”-rose from the far end of the rough oval of dwellings that clustered around the seasonal and now dried-up watercourse.
If Kula and Syskar were ovens, Nylan reflected, Jirec was an antique blast furnace where a low wind carried gray grit everywhere, pitting building walls and removing all color, roughing exposed skin and faces, irritating already over-stressed eyes, shortening tempers, and turning every scrap of food into something resembling internal sandpaper.
He blinked, trying to let his tears dislodge another fragment of wind-blown grit, as he rode slowly along the rutted way until he neared the small olive grove where eight armsmen-and Ayrlyn-labored.
“I am not a laborer,” said Fuera, under his breath, looking up from the thigh-deep trench, then looking away from Ayrlyn, whose eyes flashed.
Nylan turned in the saddle. “Ayrlyn didn’t want to hear your complaints, Fuera, and now you’re bitching to me. Neither of us wants to hear it. We’ve been doing our best to keep you alive, and you keep complaining. Do you think Ayrlyn likes plaiting grass? Or that I liked sharpening poles?” His arms went to the scratches across his uncovered forearms. “Your bladework has gotten good enough that you could rejoin Huruc’s squad. If you keep it up, I just might let you. Besides, why complain now? You’re almost done.”
Fuera looked down at the shovel and resumed digging.
“…may be tough, Fuera, but most’d have flogged you or killed you…”
“…poor Fuera doesn’t want to get his white hands dirty…”
Ayrlyn continued to rough-plait weed stalks and grasses into mats which she had stacked along the trenches. Meresat laid sticks across the completed trenches, then set the mats over them, concealing the lines of sharpened poles that angled up, before gently covering the mats with a thin layer of gravel and dirt-some of which blew away even before touching the mats.
Nylan guided the mare around the road. He glanced toward the trenches opposite the olive grove. That part had already been completed. “You have that nasty look in your eyes again,” he said as he drew up beside Ayrlyn and looked down at the redhead. “The one that says people are going to get hurt.”
“If I have to go back to basket-weaving, someone is going to pay for it. I don’t get to ride around looking important.”
“I did cut and sharpen most of those poles,” he pointed out. “And I was lugging stones for a barrier.”
“Let’s hope this works.”
“It should. The Cyadorans are arrogant enough to ignore most of the details. They always attack later in the day.” He pointed. “The shadows from the olives-I think they’re olives, anyway-they’re already hitting on the covered trenches.”
“You’re sure they won’t see them?”
“That’s where the archers come in. You don’t look at the ground when people are firing arrows at you, particularly dumb barbarians.”
“So…they’ll keep moving?”
“That’s the general idea.”
Ayrlyn tossed out another mat and stretched. “That should do it.” She walked back across the road and toward the side of the grove farthest from the road to where she had tied the chestnut. She eased her water bottle from the holder, uncorked it, and took several long swallows.
“That’s better. This place is dusty.”
“Let’s take a look at where we set up for the archers, and then check and make sure Tonsar has everything ready to bring to the diggers if the Cyadorans show up.” Nylan waited as Ayrlyn mounted, then let his mare walk slowly away from where the eight men completed the last trench. If the Cyadorans didn’t show, then they’d start adding another trench or so at twilight and finish early in the morning.
North of the olive grove were more burned-out buildings-a dwelling, two sheds, and the earth-banked and stone-walled ruins of a long barn. The faint odors of death and charcoal swirled together with the grit of the hot light wind.
Nylan swallowed and pointed. “We can hold all the mounts here. You can’t see them from the grove or the road.”
“This is the third time you’ve told me,” Ayrlyn answered with a hoarse laugh. “I believed you the first time.”
Nylan grinned sheepishly. “Sorry.”
They rode past the back of the burned-out dwelling where Nylan had built a ten-cubit-long stone barrier from behind which they would be able to use their bows. He hoped his skills with his composite bow hadn’t deteriorated too much.
Then they headed north, toward their temporary quarters and the mock “Lornian” camp that consisted mainly of outsized cookfires and all-too-rustic quarters in a mostly roofless barn.
Tonsar paced toward the two as they reined up, swinging a short length of rusty chain, almost idly.
“How much longer might we be here?” asked Tonsar. Behind him, in the shade of the half-burned barn-stable, were ranked the armsmen’s mounts, saddled and ready. Most of the armsmen sat or stood under those undamaged parts of the roof that provided shade from the unforgiving sun. Ayrlyn and Nylan had been rotating the diggers and trap-builders, so that no more than a third of their force was laboring at one time. “Been near three days…and no one comes.”
“They’ll be here,” Nylan said, shifting his weight in the saddle and blotting his forehead. “They’ll be here.”
“You may not have to wait that much longer.” Ayrlyn pointed to the southeast, where a single rider galloped along the dusty road through Jirec, skirting the olive groves, much as Nylan had.
“He be riding like the white ones are behind him,” agreed the burly subofficer.
The three watched as the rider pulled into the holding, glancing from one end of the former barnyard to the other before seeing the angels and heading toward them.
“They’re coming! Scores of them! They got those long stickers,” gasped the slender armsman.
“How far back?” asked Ayrlyn.
“Not more than five kays.”
“Are they riding hard?” Nylan pursued.
“No, ser.” The scout swallowed. “Measured pace, like always.”
“We’ve got enough time to do it right,” Ayrlyn said, nodding to Tonsar.
“Siplor! Get out there to the traps, and tell’em to clean up and mount up!” Tonsar gestured, then marched toward the half-walled quarters, tossing the chain over the end of a charred timber. “Form up!”
“Buretek! Ailsor! Get your bows!” Ayrlyn’s voice cracked across the compound like a whip. “We need to set up.”
The other two archers scrambled across the barnyard toward their mounts, and Ayrlyn swung the chestnut and began to head back toward the ambush point.
Under the hot sun and clear sky, Nylan waited, his skin itching from sweat and dust, his face burning from the same. He forced himself to watch, then eased out his water bottle and took several long swallows. Commanders were supposed to be calm, even when their hearts were pounding. He replaced the water bottle slowly, deliberately, then shifted his weight in the saddle slightly.
Although the armsmen seemed frozen in molasses, Ayrlyn was less than half a kay ahead of Nylan when the remaining armsmen had mounted up, and the smith flicked the reins.
“Let’s go.”
“I see no dust,” said Tonsar.
“Good.”
When they had crossed the center of the loose grouping of devastated structures and reined up behind the long shed that would shield them from the view of the Cyadorans as the white lancers entered Jirec, Nylan turned his mount, raising his hand for quiet. Siplor and the diggers were already mounted and waiting. Meresat grinned, but Fuera avoided looking at the angel smith.