“You don’t know about my forces.”
“But I do. You have an outpost a little more than three kays north of here, just out of sight. It’s largely empty, since I’d judge you have two squads at most—the one with you and possibly one you left there, if that. What forces you have are still here because the duke or his arms-commander doesn’t want to give the people the idea that they’ve been totally abandoned.”
“You’re Overcaptain Lerial, ser?” The undercaptain obviously doesn’t wish to dispute Lerial’s observations.
“I am.”
“Welcome to Afrit. I’d prefer that you take over our post for the night. It’s quite a nice post. We’ll ride to Luba and inform the duke of your arrival. The other squad will remain at the post. We’ll also pass the word to the hamlets along the way to expect you.”
Lerial can sense none of the chaos that usually accompanies lies, but he still frowns.
“It’s simple, Overcaptain. First, you’re here at the duke’s invitation. Even if you weren’t, we couldn’t fight you. You pointed that out. I still would like to protect the people, and I’m willing to wager that if you have a place where you feel safer and have provisions, then both you and the townspeople will feel better.” A sardonic smile follows. “Besides, I was ordered to make the offer.”
“We accept your offer with thanks.”
The undercaptain nods and returns the documents to Lystr, who accepts them and rides back to Fheldar, who takes them back.
“The guards at the post will be expecting you.” With that, the undercaptain turns his mount. In moments, the Afritans are riding north, the hooves of their mounts raising dust once more.
“Friendly sort, ser,” observes Fheldar dryly.
“I don’t know as I blame him.” Lerial’s brief smile fades. “We’ll wait a bit and let the dust settle.” One of the great advantages of having officers with him who were once rankers is that all of them speak Hamorian, while quite a number of Mirror Lancer officers, especially those from a Magi’i background, speak Hamorian poorly and often with a thick accent. That his father assigned Kusyl was anything but coincidental, Lerial suspects.
After perhaps a tenth of a glass, Lerial and his forces set out again and before long reach the crest of the road. At that moment, Lerial’s mouth almost drops open, because the valley below him is green—or as green as is likely at the end of winter—with orchard after orchard, the trees set in neat rows. While the Guard post is but two kays ahead, the town proper is much farther, perhaps another five kays, and appears to sit on the north side of a small river—the Rynn, according to his map. Canals and ditches extend southward from the Rynn out across the wide and low valley. Then, roughly three kays to the west, the trees and green end at the base of low hills that look just like the near-barren lands through which Lerial and his companies have been riding. Beyond the hills lie low but rocky mountains.
Why hasn’t Atroyan done the same thing farther to the south? It’s not as though the Swarth is a tiny stream that would be exhausted by a few more canals. Or is the land beside the Swarth so sandy that it makes little sense? Or don’t the traders and merchanters in Swartheld care?
Lerial pushes aside all the questions that flood through his thoughts and keeps using his order-senses to make certain that there are no surprises hidden in the orchards that begin beyond the bottom of the gentle incline. He finds no hidden forces with his senses, nor does he see anyone near the road. He does cross two bridges over irrigation canals that serve the olive orchards to the west of the road before he and Eighth Company reach the Afritan Guard post. The post stands in the middle of a dusty and largely grassless area roughly a quarter kay on a side, its front walls less than thirty yards west of the road. Those walls are little more than two yards high and are covered with a plaster that might once have been a glistening white, but which has faded and eroded enough that it is more tannish than white. In places the mud bricks forming the walls are clearly visible. The timber gates are open, drawn back. The end of each gate rests on several bricks, suggesting that the gates themselves are tired and would sag to the packed clay of the courtyard.