Thunk!
“Time to go!” ordered Ayrlyn. “Someone’s gathering a force together, and we don’t need to stay and get discovered. Besides, we don’t have that many canisters left.”
Fighting the stabbing pain in his eyes and skull, Nylan slipped the remaining grenade canisters back into the half-quilted pockets on the pack mare, then handed the hammer to Ayrlyn, who knocked out the pegs-the low-tech equivalent of massive cotter pins-while Borsa and Vula tied the framework together and strapped it on the other packhorse in swift movements.
Ayrlyn’s insistence on practicing in the dark in Syskar had clearly paid off, Nylan reflected as they rode back down the gully and up toward the swale where the rest of the squad waited.
As he rode, trying to ignore the pounding in his skull, Nylan remained absently bemused, simultaneously horrified, that in such a short span of time, they had created such a mess, and were leaving before the Cyadorans were even really organized. Then, how could they fight fires in what was nearly a desert?
He jerked in the saddle as he sensed the Lornians ahead, realizing that pain was fogging his senses.
“…that them?”
“…four riders…silver hair…”
“It’s the catapult party,” he announced; not knowing what else to say. “We’re back.”
Tonsar had the ten others mounted and waiting. “The flames, they reach the stars.”
“Hardly,” answered Nylan, “but let’s go. Before they send out lots of riders.”
“You’re leading,” Ayrlyn pointed out. “You’re the one with the night vision.”
Nylan turned his mount, easing her into a fast walk, resisting the temptation to trot or canter.
“Is anyone coming?” he asked Ayrlyn.
“I can’t sense anyone. They’ve sent some patrols out to where we were, but nothing on the road to the north.”
Nylan nodded. Maybe, just maybe, the Cyadorans were afraid of some sort of night ambush. He hoped so.
While he kept looking back, and while Ayrlyn rubbed her forehead and cast her senses on the evening breezes, no one followed. No one at all, and that bothered Nylan…somehow.
The glow on the southern horizon had faded into a blurred smudge of light, and the crunching of hoofs on the dusty trail had taken on a monotonous rhythm before anyone spoke again.
“The white ones-they will be most angry,” ventured Tonsar.
“That’s generally what happens to whoever takes the damage in war,” Nylan said, one hand massaging the back of his neck, hoping that easing the tightness would help his headache. Why did the death of horses create the white-based chaotic pain? It wasn’t so bad as that of the soldiers that had died, but it still hurt. He took a deep breath.
“You angels have won another victory,” said Tonsar. “Yet you are not pleased.”
“We killed soldiers and horses, and killing horses isn’t exactly a glorious victory,” Nylan pointed out tiredly. “Not the way anyone would prefer to fight. We just don’t have many choices.”
“You were not happy about sending your mage-fire at the horses, but you did,” said Tonsar.
“We also fired the hay they had collected,” Ayrlyn said with a sigh. “And a few wagons. It’s all the same thing.” She shifted her weight in the saddle.
Nylan concentrated on the trail, trying to sense if it were as empty as it seemed to his night vision, trying to ignore the white agony that blanketed both of the angels.
“But why?” pressed the burly subofficer.
“Tonsar, we killed close to twoscore soldiers and twice that in mounts, I think,” answered the redhead. Nylan could sense the pain in her voice, and his own head still ached. “Even with the men they lost, the Cyadorans will be short of mounts and fodder for those they have left. Where will they find it now?”
“Our camp, I would say. Or the hamlets. Somewhere.”
“Fornal won’t leave it for them. Besides, how will they get there? And will they want to leave a third of their force behind-without mounts?”
“No,” predicted Nylan. “They’ll take it out on someone else. That’s usually the way it works.”
He turned his eyes to the long road northward, a road that seemed to stretch forever. Even the thought of Ayrlyn beside him and Weryl waiting in Syskar offered little comfort.
LXXXII
“So much for honor among barbarians,” snapped Azarphi. A long red welt covered his forearm, and scattered burn marks dotted his forehead.
“The lack of honor was to be expected,” answered Majer Piataphi. “The fireballs were not. Where did they learn about those?” He turned to the third officer.
“It’s hard to tell, ser.” Miatorphi frowned, then winced. Like the others, he sported scattered burns. “They couldn’t burn the buildings, not with all the earth, but they got those few still in tents. Then they went for the horses, the wagons, and the hay.”
“Even with all the earthworks, they got one of the barracks and the small mill building, too,” added the majer.
“That took awhile. Most got out. The horses weren’t so lucky.” Miatorphi lifted his tunic away from the burn on his arm.
“Those aren’t barbarian tactics,” pointed out Azarphi. “Not any barbarians we’ve heard about. There must have been scores of them.”
“No,” answered Miatorphi slowly. “There were less than a score. There were no wagons, either. We found tracks. The fireballs came from down in the south gully. They had to get close.”
“White magic?” asked the majer. “I don’t see how. You can follow a white fireball, the magely kind. These just flared up when they hit.”
“There were clay fragments,” Miatorphi added.
“So…” Piataphi pursed his lips. “A disciplined night attack, and the barbarians have never done that. Targeted fireballs, no wagons, no wizards, and less than a score of barbarians. Yet we lost nearly fourscore mounts, between those that went over the wall or were burned or so badly injured that they had to be destroyed. There’s not much fodder, and three supply wagons are charcoal. That doesn’t count the eighteen men who were burned, the barracks, and the mill. How do you suggest I explain this to His Mightiness?”
Both the captains swallowed. Miatorphi looked at the ashes that had once been a corral.
Azarphi grinned nervously. “Could you blame it on those angels?”
“Where did you hear about them?” asked the majer.
The younger captain shrugged. “You hear things, ser. Could be that some are helping the barbarians.”
“How likely would that be? Supposedly, the barbarians fought a war with the angels last fall. Why would the angels help them against us?”
“Stranger things have happened. Besides, ser, you don’t have to say that it was the angels. You could sort of hint…I mean, where would barbarians come up with fireballs? And they really like horses…the barbarians do. You’ve heard the joke. You know, what’s a barbarian sodomite?” Azarphi paused. “He’s one who likes his woman better than his mount.”
Miatorphi shook his head.
The majer touched his chin absently, stifled a wince, and frowned. “I had not thought of it in that way. Yes…we could raise those points.” He smiled a hard smile. “We also need to strike back. It does not have to be at their warriors. But we will show that Cyador is not mocked.”
The other two nodded.
LXXXIII
The candle wavered behind the sooty mantle, adding its own infinitesimal heat to that of the dwelling’s main room.
Nylan wished he could put it out. Any relief, however little, from the heat would have been welcome. Instead, he finished the water in his mug and refilled it, then looked at Ayrlyn, who nodded. He refilled her mug as well.
Across the table, Fornal took a small sip of the near-spoiling wine and winced, but took another sip before setting the mug down hard enough to shake the wobbly table.