“Exactly? I don’t know.” The majer coughed. “Angel-damned dust. The barbarians got them-the smart one, probably.”
This time Azarphi and Miatorphi exchanged looks. Funssa pulled at his short ginger beard.
“There have to be two barbarian groups out there,” the majer explained slowly, picking his words as though he had drunk far too much beer. “Nothing else makes sense. There were two camps. They don’t even act the same. One is the same old barbarian tactics-hit and run, but some semblance of honor. The other one avoids any skirmish except where he can destroy our force totally, or pick off a lot of our lancers with almost no losses. He’s the one who dumped the fireballs on the corrals. Did you notice that he went for the fodder, too? What barbarian thinks about fodder, for darkness’s sake?”
“A barbarian is a barbarian,” offered Miatorphi.
“Your shafts were closer than you thought, Azarphi,” continued Piataphi, as though Miatorphi had not spoken. “A barbarian would not think of fodder, but an angel might. And an angel would think of supply wagons.”
“What do we do now?” asked Azarphi. “We can’t exactly beg for more lancers and a bunch of foot.”
“No. We can make His Mightiness force them on us.”
The other three looked dubious.
“Trade and gold-that is all those in Cyad value. Pah…they talk of honor, but we have no fleet because it would have cost many golds to rebuild it. Even His Mightiness builds but one fireship, when we need many. The steamwagons fail because it takes too many golds to replace them, and with only barbarians around, why need we such devices?” Piataphi looked owlishly through the twilight. “So…we are going to send all the copper we have mined back to Syadtar. And we are going to do everything that we can to ensure that the barbarians know this.”
Funssa swallowed. “Ser…the men?”
“I am most certain that you will pick the men most suited for such a mission, Funssa, as well as a messenger and a scout that could ride like skyfire if anything untoward happened.” Piataphi looked soberly around the staff room. “His Mightiness would wish to know if anything happened to his precious copper, and so would the white mages.”
“I do not understand,” protested Funssa.
“Am I supposed to sacrifice good lancers and foot to protect mere copper?” asked Piataphi. “And with the losses we have had, because our forces are not adequate to fight two barbarian lands-or is it three with the dark angels? — I cannot spare more lancers and still hold the copper mines that His Mightiness has entrusted to our care. So…” The majer shrugged and stood. “We do what we can.”
“Ser.” Funssa swallowed once more.
“Good,” replied Piataphi ambiguously. “Good evening, captains.” He turned and walked out the half-open door, each step taken with exaggerated care.
Funssa looked at Azarphi and Miatorphi. “Sers?”
“You heard the majer,” said Miatorphi.
With a deep breath, the serjeant departed.
“He must have been hoarding the beer for himself,” Azarphi muttered.
“Wouldn’t you? Do you know what his life is worth right now? Or ours?”
“Why is he doing this?” asked the thin-faced captain.
“To get all the merchants roused up, I suppose, and His Mightiness to send more lancers, before we get whittled down to nothing and killed.”
“We’ve still got more horsemen than they do, lots more.”
“For how long?” asked Miatorphi. “We’re getting picked off. They aren’t. Besides, they don’t seem to care if they die, just so long as they die honorably. I do.”
Azarphi shook his head in the dark.
XCI
A light breeze whispered across the sun-browned and dusty grass. The two angels remained mounted at the head of their three squads on the back side of a low hill. On the west side of the hill, one indistinguishable from the other Grass Hills, ran the rutted road between the mines and Syadtar, although the mines-and the bulk of the Cyadoran troops-were a good fifteen kays north of where the Lornian force waited.
A single man rode from the north, puffs of dust and bits of brown grass tossed up by his mount’s hoofs.
The angels waited until the rider reined up. Both man and mount were breathing hard.
“The wagons are coming!” exclaimed Wuerek, his eyes going to Ayrlyn. “They’ve got less than a squad guarding them. And slow…I could hear the groaning from up in the grass.”
As her eyes unglazed, Ayrlyn smiled to herself.
“Those wagons, they’re not rolling faster than a walk, with mayhap fifteen lancers,” Wuerek repeated.
Nylan and Ayrlyn exchanged glances. It made a sort of sense. No military commander wanted to denude himself of resources-wagons, horses, or whatever-merely to supply goods to civilians. So the wagons carrying the copper ingots back to Cyador were heavy laden and-this first time-lightly guarded.
“We’ll set up below the next hill, as we planned,” Ayrlyn said. “At the turn before the climb.” She turned in the saddle and glanced at Tonsar, who nodded slowly.
The setup was straightforward. Accompanied by one squad, the two archers-Buretek and Ailsor-would wait until the supply convoy reached the turn where the road rose. Then they would begin shooting, and keep shooting their shafts until they ran out-or until the lancers reacted.
At that point, Nylan would bring the squad with the archers down, while Ayrlyn and Tonsar would strike from behind.
It was, Nylan reflected, simple enough, if it worked. Simple enough to get a few more armsmen killed, but he needed the wagons close enough to a side road or trail that would allow him to circle back to Syskar far east of the mines-and that meant a locale where digging up more boulders wasn’t feasible.
If things went the way they usually did, he’d probably pay for not doing the hard work with something else-like lives. As he flicked the mare’s reins and began to lead his squad to the southwest side of the hill, just out of sight of the road and the oncoming wagons, he hoped one of those lives didn’t happen to be his-or Ayrlyn’s.
Fuera eased his mount up beside Nylan’s. “You still want me to take the second group, ser?”
“Yes,” answered the angel. “Why wouldn’t you?”
The blond shrugged.
“You’re impatient,” Nylan added, shifting his weight as the mare continued onward, “but I need someone who will lead, not talk. Just wait until I give the order. That’s all.”
“What if-”
“Fuera, you wait until I give the order. The only reason you shouldn’t wait is if lightning or something knocks me dead. Then you’re in charge. If that happens, I wouldn’t charge. I’d turn those left alive and ride out of here as fast as you can.”
Fuera’s heavy blond eyebrows furrowed.
“Look,” Nylan explained slowly. “Anything that can take out a force’s commander even before the fight starts can probably do worse to all of you. If that happens, look to Ayrlyn or Tonsar. Follow their orders. If they’re out,” he shrugged, “you can do as you think best.”
The blond nodded. “You think we can take out these lancers?”
“We should be able to-if we follow the plan. Let the archers get rid of some of them first.”
“It doesn’t seem…exactly…fair…”
“War isn’t fair. It wasn’t fair of the whites to slaughter the children in Kula or Syskar, or in those Jeranyi hamlets, either. We’re not in this to be fair. We’re in it to win.” Inside, Nylan winced. How much had he come to take on the characteristics he’d deplored in Ryba? Did war do that to everyone who wanted to survive?
As his squad rounded the side of the hill, he looked northward to where the road ran downhill and to the south. A low rise still blocked the more northern section of the road from view. “All right. Rein up. We’ll wait here.”
Ayrlyn and Tonsar would be farther north, waiting behind the hill crest until the wagons passed, until the archers began to shoot.
Leather creaked; harnesses jingled; horses whuffed gently. The brown grass hung limply in the hot midday sun. A low drone seemed to come from the north-the conversations of bored lancers?