“Trees want to grow and survive-or they act that way,” the smith continued. “So do animals. And when resources are limited, and they always are, those who have greater control of their environment survive. That’s usually power of some sort. I don’t know that you can escape it.”
“So you want to be world ruler?” she asked dryly.
“Hardly. Civilization has a tendency to smooth things out, where power isn’t so direct for people-but sometimes it’s even harder on the rest of the ecology. I wonder if there’s a way to get that smoothness, that balance, across the ecology without reducing people back to animals-”
“It’s an interesting thought,” Ayrlyn said.
“I know. But for now, we’ve got to reduce the power of a self-centered xenophobic culture that believes all other humans are barbarians and animals, and we’ll do it by becoming even more savage in warfare.” He sat up and shook his head. “Is it time to do the nasty deed?”
“Almost.” She reached out and squeezed his hand. “I do love you, you know. Part of that is because you are an engineer. You do try to find answers, even when it seems impossible. And you still care.” She gave his fingers a last squeeze and stood.
He squeezed her hand back, then rolled over and up, brushing the dust off his trousers and shirt, far more stained than when Zeldyan had presented them.
“Borsa, Vula? Do you have the pack animals ready?” Ayrlyn glanced at Nylan, who nodded in the dimness that was not quite full night.
“Yes, ser.”
“The canisters are ready, and so are the fuses and the striker,” added Nylan.
“Let’s mount up, then,” ordered the redhead.
“Tonsar,” Nylan said. “Stand by. When we head back here, we’ll need to be moving-immediately.”
“Yes, ser.”
Nylan swung into the saddle and glanced toward Ayrlyn.
“You ready?” she asked in a lower voice. “I can see a bit, but-”
“Ready.” Nylan’s night vision-another result of the Winterlance’s involuntary subspace transition from one universe to another-gave him a small advantage as he led the other three riders and the pack animals downhill toward the swale between the two hills. Beyond the swale was a narrow depression that might have been a stream or runoff channel in wetter years, and that channel led in a circling way around the west side of the semiplateau on which the mine complex stood, getting closer to the walls as it meandered south.
An acrid odor drifted over the riders, and Nylan wrinkled his nose. The Cyadorans were clearly doing something with the mines. He glanced upward at the still unfamiliar pattern of stars-cold and clear even in the summer night’s heat.
Once clear of the hills’ cover, the smith could see the yellow flickers of some type of watch lanterns on the walls, but their light only illuminated a few cubits of ground beyond the outer walls, and dimly at that.
Slowly, slowly, the six horses walked through the darkness, carrying their four riders along the gully that circled south of the mine’s walls. Nylan could sense an occasional trembling of the ground. Were the Cyadorans working the mine shafts at night as well?
He studied the ground. They were almost due south of the walls, walls still but barely lighted in places, and seemed to be opposite the corrals and stock area, from what Nylan could tell. He glanced at Ayrlyn.
“Looks good here,” Ayrlyn murmured, and, with a gesture to the two other members of the catapult team, she dismounted.
So did Nylan.
In the comparative silence of the gully, Borsa and Vula began to assemble the catapult with quick, practiced motions, slipping the pegs into place, while Nylan took the first canister from those strapped to the second packhorse. The animal stepped sideways, and the engineer patted her shoulder, trying to project some reassurance, and saying, “Easy there, easy.”
An occasional horse noise might not alert the sentries, but the more time before they were discovered the better. The engineer kept glancing at the mine walls, but the lanterns did not move.
Nylan laid out several rows of the alcohol-filled canisters. He wrinkled his nose again. The semidistilled liquid still smelled like places he’d rather never visit, but he doubted the odor would carry, or prevail above the stench of the mineworks.
“It’s ready, sers.”
Ayrlyn glanced through the darkness at the silver-haired smith.
“Can you sense where the few tents are? We’ll start there.”
“There are only a few.”
Nylan sighed softly. “We’ll hit the tents first, then the corrals. I don’t like it, but…a lancer on foot…”
The healer nodded in agreement, but Nylan could sense the sadness. He just couldn’t do that much about it, not the way matters were playing out. If the choice were between Lornth’s survival and Cyador’s horses, the horses had to lose. He didn’t like it, but war wasn’t exactly a matter of what one liked.
“What about the wagons?” he asked.
“They’re more scattered.”
“Is there any place where there are a couple together? And hay or fodder. That should burn easily and make life harder for them,” Nylan added.
Silence followed while Ayrlyn sent her senses out on the light breeze that had risen with the night.
Nylan tried to follow her perceptions with his, but he was far more aware of the strange wrongness of the ground beneath, and the time-smoothed boulders that lay not that far beneath the drying grass and soil.
“Wind it up,” ordered Ayrlyn, her voice low.
“Ser,” agreed Borsa. The faintest creaks followed his efforts. “Set, ser.”
The angel engineer eased the fuse into place in the canister tube, then placed the canister in the catapult cradle. He took the striker. “You ready?”
“Ready, ser.”
Whhsst-click. The fuse caught, and Nylan let his senses check to make sure the flame was solid.
Ayrlyn did something to the frame angle, then tripped the catch.
Thunk! The release of the catapult echoed dully along the shallow gully.
Nylan could feel Ayrlyn’s order senses doing…something…although what he couldn’t tell.
A flash of light flared from behind the stone and earthen walls that loomed uphill from them.
“Wind it up!” hissed Ayrlyn to Borsa. “Don’t wait for me to tell you.”
Nylan slipped another grenade from the pack and roughened the fuse, holding the striker ready. When the arm was back and the catch clicked, he flicked the striker again, using his own senses to strengthen the flame as he placed the next canister in the fitted cradle.
“Now!” Ayrlyn ordered.
Thunk!
Borsa began to wind the wheel as soon as the throwing arm stopped vibrating, and Nylan had another grenade ready, feeling that the catapult was slow, too slow. Ayrlyn made another adjustment.
Thunk!
Yet…five grenades went over the wall before a series of ragged horn calls echoed into the hot night.
Thunk!
Was that smoke oozing downhill from the Cyadoran walls? Nylan readied another canister and fuse, trying to be precise, despite the increasing pain and pressure in his skull.
Thunk!
The screams of horses began to fill the hot darkness, competing with intermittent trumpet blasts and shouts, and the white chaos of death flowed down into the gully with the smoke from burning hay, and the stench of charred meat.
Nylan forced down the bile in his throat, knowing that Ayrlyn had to do the same, as she sensed, watched, and adjusted the catapult.
Thunk!
Additional watch lanterns flared up, and the four continued to aim, load, and fire the canisters over the wall less than a hundred cubits away. The smoke thickened, and the smell of burned flesh enfolded the gully. Borsa retched, but kept rewinding the catapult.
Thunk!
Before long, yellow and red flames licked into the dark sky, well above the walls, and Nylan’s head throbbed from the screaming of the horses and from the handful of armsmen who had perished in the flames.