Read Online Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) by Jr. L. E. Modesitt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jr. L. E. Modesitt
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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.
A young and worried-looking guard stands on each side of the post entrance as Lerial and Eighth Company ride through. Lerial surveys the post, with its stables set against the south wall, and another set of buildings extending from the north wall, all of them showing a certain lack of repair. Nowhere is there any paving in the open courtyard in the middle of the walls and buildings. The windows he sees have shutters of worn wood that has not been painted or recently oiled, nor do any appear to be glazed, and there are drifts of dust in the corners where buildings join the walls.
A single figure in a crimson uniform, presumably a senior squad leader, stands in front of a long building whose rear wall is also the rear wall of the post. When Lerial reins up, he says, “Welcome to Guasyra Post, Overcaptain, ser.”
“Thank you.”
Lerial smiles politely. If Guasyra is a “nice” post, he shudders inside to think what a post that isn’t nice might be. Still, any hospitality is better than none.
VIII
On sevenday morning, Lerial is a bit surprised when it takes his force a good glass to reach the center of Guasyra, not because the road is rutted and blocked, but because the Afritan Guard post is more than four kays south of the town. The second surprise is the almost total lack of interest in the Mirror Lancers—except from several small boys who stare at the lancers from behind a porch railing on the north side of the town, which seems as though it might be a third the size of Cigoerne.
North of Guasyra are rocky hills that are closer to small mountains, and the road winds back
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.
A young and worried-looking guard stands on each side of the post entrance as Lerial and Eighth Company ride through. Lerial surveys the post, with its stables set against the south wall, and another set of buildings extending from the north wall, all of them showing a certain lack of repair. Nowhere is there any paving in the open courtyard in the middle of the walls and buildings. The windows he sees have shutters of worn wood that has not been painted or recently oiled, nor do any appear to be glazed, and there are drifts of dust in the corners where buildings join the walls.
A single figure in a crimson uniform, presumably a senior squad leader, stands in front of a long building whose rear wall is also the rear wall of the post. When Lerial reins up, he says, “Welcome to Guasyra Post, Overcaptain, ser.”
“Thank you.”
Lerial smiles politely. If Guasyra is a “nice” post, he shudders inside to think what a post that isn’t nice might be. Still, any hospitality is better than none.
VIII
On sevenday morning, Lerial is a bit surprised when it takes his force a good glass to reach the center of Guasyra, not because the road is rutted and blocked, but because the Afritan Guard post is more than four kays south of the town. The second surprise is the almost total lack of interest in the Mirror Lancers—except from several small boys who stare at the lancers from behind a porch railing on the north side of the town, which seems as though it might be a third the size of Cigoerne.
North of Guasyra are rocky hills that are closer to small mountains, and the road winds back
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