Lerial has not loitered, nor has he pressed, since he does not wish to tire the horses, because, while they have brought a score of spare mounts, that number would only suffice for less than a squad. One of the scouts always rides with a parley banner in his lance holder at all times. Even after seeing the green-edged white banner—a narrow cloth triangle a yard in length and half that in width next to the staff, if tapering to a point—no one has come close to them, although Lerial has kept his forces well clear of the local people, except when they ride through a hamlet. At those times, every shutter and door is closed, and the only animal Lerial ever sees is an occasional scrawny cat. Away from the hamlets, there are few tracks in the road, scarcely surprising, since the land is largely sere, brown, and dusty. Dust is everywhere, rising into clouds when the wind picks up, at times so thick that Lerial can see scarcely more than a score of yards, so that he must rely on his order-sensing to determine what lies ahead. All he can smell is dust, and it sifts into his uniform and down into his boots.
Now there is but the slightest hint of a breeze. Even so, that is enough that fine dust drifts across the road. From where he rides at the head of Eighth Company, Lerial scans the gentle slope that leads to the crest of a rise perhaps two kays away. If his maps are correct, before long, they should be nearing Guasyra—the only large town between Cigoerne and Luba. Still, he has his doubts about the maps, a doubt that Altyrn instilled in him.
Hard to believe he’s gone.
He forces his thoughts from that and studies the bent brown grasses and the dust that coats them, then shakes his head. How can people live here? Then, not many do. At those thoughts, he recalls what his grandmere had told him about the original lands she had purchased from Atroyan’s sire, lands so dusty and dry that the old duke had little compunction in selling them … or little enough that the golds outweighed his concerns. Was Cigoerne like this then? He looks north once more and frowns, because he sees dust beyond the crest of the road. He immediately extends his order-senses … and discovers a squad of men riding toward them.
“There’s an Afritan Guard squad riding toward us. Ready arms!” he orders. “Pass it back, Fheldar. Send a messenger to the undercaptains.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial concentrates on the riders he can sense, but not see. He can discern only eleven, with no others farther north. Absently, he wonders if the Afritans have been waiting for them … or if the riders represent a force stationed in Guasyra and he and his companies have been sighted by a routine patrol. Does it matter? After a moment, he answers himself. Probably not.
Before long the road dust becomes a hazy brown mist over the rise ahead, and then riders appear, moving at a fast walk. Lerial squints to make out the numbers, but there are still just eleven, and his order-senses reveal no others nearby. He also can barely sense the Afritan Guard post some four kays to the north, but gains a feeling that it is close to being empty.
When the oncoming riders, all wearing the dull crimson uniforms of the Afritan Guard, are less than a hundred yards away, Lerial calls a halt, then renews his own shields, linked as always to the ordered iron of the knife he received from the High Council of Verdheln. Absently, he wishes he had figured a better way to maintain his shields, but even after five years and discreet inquiries to Saltaryn and other Magi’i he has not found a more effective way of maintaining strong shields without that link to some form of iron, not without continually concentrating on maintaining them.
“They don’t look too happy, ser,” murmurs Fheldar.
“In their boots, would you be?”
The senior squad leader’s laugh is more of a snort.
Before long, the hard-faced undercaptain, older and clearly a former ranker, reins up some five yards from Lerial. “Parley banner? A hundred kays into Afrit? Isn’t that stretching things, Overcaptain?”
“No,” replies Lerial pleasantly. “We’re here at Duke Atroyan’s request.”
“It would be helpful if you had some way of proving that…”
Lerial can sense no surprise, almost as if the undercaptain has expected them but has to fulfill an unpleasant duty. “We can do that.” Lerial extracts the two documents from the dispatch case fastened to his saddle, then turns to Fheldar. “If you’d have someone convey these…” Lerial could do that himself, perfectly safely, but that would reveal too much, besides compromising his position.
“Lystr, forward,” orders Fheldar.
A heavyset but young-faced ranker eases his mount forward, up beside the senior squad leader, to whom Lerial has handed the documents. In turn, Fheldar passes them to Lystr.
“Convey these to the Afritan undercaptain. Let him read them, and then return them.” Fheldar speaks loudly enough—his words in Hamorian, since most rankers, even in the Mirror Lancers, are more comfortable speaking it, rather than Cyadoran—that his words carry to the undercaptain.
“Yes, ser.” Lystr nods, then urges his mount forward, halting beside the Afritan officer and tendering the documents.
The hard-faced undercaptain reads both, slowly, as if he has to struggle with the words, and then finally looks up. “It looks like the duke’s seal.” He stares at Lerial. “But it would, wouldn’t it?”
“It would,” admits Lerial, “but why in the world would we be more than a hundred kays from our border with only three companies if it weren’t real?”
“That does pose an interesting problem.”
“The other problem,” adds Lerial, “is that you’ve already sent most of your forces to Luba, and you couldn’t stop us if you wanted to. And, if you try, you’ll lose men that Duke Atroyan desperately needs, while denying him our assistance.”