Chaos Balance
LXIII
NYLAN RESET THE last stone in the forge bed, then paused and wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm, glancing out at the training yard.
“Rather be here than there, ser,” said the lanky blond barely into manhood from where he pedaled the grindstone.
“You get a chance at both, Sias,” Nylan told his semivolunteer apprentice. “Tomorrow, you get to try it all on horseback.”
Sias groaned.
“Watch the blade,” the engineer cautioned. “Even a healer can't grow back missing fingers.”
Between the two of them, they'd managed to sharpen and clean most of the ill-assorted blades belonging to the two-plus squads of levies that he and Ayrlyn had been assigned. If only upgrading blade skills and horsemanship were that easy!
Still, it had to be possible. Nylan had learned both-albeit with the help of order-field skills and hard-wired reflex speed-ups the locals didn't have. So had the refugee women of Westwind, without his hard-wired advantages or the strength or the conditioning of the levies.
“Are the white demons really six cubits tall?” asked Sias innocently.
“You know they're not, unless you mean on horseback on top of a dwelling. Who's been spreading that nonsense?”
“At night... there are whispers.” Sias took the blade and carefully wiped it with an oiled cloth, before returning it to its scabbard and picking up another.
The drum of hoofbeats drowned out Ayrlyn's orders for a moment as two squads of levies and a squad of the professional armsmen followed Fornal down the lane and toward the road to the south.
Nylan coughed. As usual, the light summer breeze was just strong enough to lift the ubiquitous grit and red dust- this time from Fornal's departing force-across the training yard, but not strong enough to cool anything.
The coregent's scouts had reported in the night before. The Cyadorans had built a rock and earth barrier around the mines, with reinforced gates, and a tall watchtower on the highest point of the hill. Most of the Cyadoran troops were already housed in earth-walled barracks. Cooler than tents, no doubt, reflected the seated smith.
So far, the white forces remained within the compound, except for scouting, raiding, or foraging missions. And they had begun to produce copper again, if the smoke and fires from the furnaces were any indication.
Fornal hoped to confirm that-and pick off any Cyadoran forces that he could. Nylan hoped the Cyadorans didn't pick off Fornal.
A burly figure walked from the barn toward the makeshift smithy, and Nylan nodded to himself as he straightened and walked from behind what would be the forge bed.
Huruc surveyed the makeshift forge, his eyes dropping to the anvil wedged in place between two timbers sunk into the clay. “Your smithy looks ready.” He gestured toward the dust on the hillside. “Let us hope ser Fornal brings back only nicked and damaged blades.”
“As opposed to empty mounts?” asked Nylan.
Huruc nodded, then glanced toward the training yard where Ayrlyn walked from practicing pair to pair.
“Get that wrist stiff, Meresat! Keep your blade up! Up!” The redhead's voice was hard, sharp, yet impersonal.
“They look better already,” observed the armsman. He lowered his voice. “Is it true that you let that young cock Fuera charge you and then cold-cocked him three times in a row?”
Nylan nodded. “I either had to destroy him or kill him, and I don't have enough armsmen to kill one out of hand.”
“They say you have eyes in the back of your head. Both of you.”
“I'm glad they think so.” The engineer laughed.
“You're putting edges and points on the blades.”
“Yes,” answered Nylan neutrally.
Huruc shook his head ever so slightly, and Nylan understood. Good edged weapons-and the idea behind them- could be a danger to an overbearing Lornian lord.
“We need every edge possible against the Cyadorans,” the angel smith added, wondering if Huruc would get the pun.
“Keep your friggin' feet apart!” snapped Ayrlyn from behind Huruc. “A two-year-old could push you over.”
Sias grinned and resumed pedaling the grindstone.
The burly armsman just shook his head.