The Lion of Farside by John Dalmas

He spread his hands apologetically. “And that seems to be all of it. Oh! Except that he has two rows of teeth, all the way around!” The captain showed his own in an almost smile.

The emperor had watched Docheri’s aura for any sign that he was making it up, in whole or in part. Seemingly he was being entirely honest.

Cyncaidh wasn’t surprised that Varia had turned pale. Especially at the last part—that Macurdy couldn’t love any woman but his lost wife.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “my wife has been ill-disposed. With your leave, I’d like to take her home. Perhaps you’ll consent to see me later today.”

The Emperor nodded. “By all means, Lord Cyncaidh. I’ll discuss this with you promptly after lunch.” He turned to Varia. “Lady Cyncaidh, I trust you’ll feel better after resting.”

He and the captain watched them leave, Docheri puzzled. The Cyncaidh hadn’t asked one question.

She knows this Makurdi, Paedhrig told himself. Knows him personally. If he weren’t an Ozman, I’d think they’d been lovers. Well. Raien will enlighten me later. Meanwhile I’d best see that the captain doesn’t wonder too much.

He looked at Docheri. “A highly intelligent woman, Lady Cyncaidh. Also fearless. And highly talented, an adept. I suspect Lord Cyncaidh has gotten her pregnant again; women can be strange in early pregnancy.

“Whatever. Let’s you and I explore those military questions.”

36: Marching North

The road was a major one, graveled, wide enough for wagons to pass without risk of miring on the shoulders, and in many stretches ditched. Macurdy sat Hog in the bogus shelter of a roadside sugar maple, watching a plunder column pass. A thick soft rain fell almost too quietly to hear, had fallen for hours, and the maple dripped as copiously as the lead-gray clouds. Most of the wagons were covered, their canvas canopies streaming water like the flanks of the teams that pulled them, and the slickers of their Ozian drivers and helpers.

It was a short column; Macurdy counted nine wagons. A Kormehri plunder column had passed an hour earlier with twenty-three. This country was richer than he’d expected—much richer than Tekalos or even Indrossa—but even so, only a town could provide that much valuable plunder. More often, single wagons passed, with the take of some country manor.

He’d been out of touch with the lead cohorts, except through couriers. He’d spent two days seeing to the crossing of the rest of his army. There hadn’t been a lot of fighting. After the crushing defeat of the imperial and militia cohorts at the river, more than three days and forty miles ago, the only real resistance had been outside Amotville, and that had been smashed decisively by Ozian cavalry and infantry, supported by archers of several affinities. The imperial garrison, its horses and men disorganized and decimated by heavy archery, had fought hard but briefly, and been overrun. Its militia auxiliaries had already panicked and scattered.

The Ozians too had adopted the Kormehri shout of “Ferny Cove! Ferny Cove!” It had little significance for them, but they liked it, and bellowed it as if they came from there. And at Amotville they’d butchered imperials as freely as the Kormehri had on the night of the crossing. On the other hand, militia men who’d thrown down their weapons had been disarmed, stripped of their valuable byrnies, then freed. A policy Macurdy had propounded beginning with his early instructions to training commanders, and reiterated at every opportunity. And intended to enforce when he could.

When the plunder column had passed, Macurdy rode on, Melody with him. Other officers followed, with couriers and a platoon of Kullvordi guards. Shortly they caught and passed a cohort of Teklan infantry, mud-splashed to the knees. The soldiers recognized their commander, and his oversized horse whose name delighted them. Cheering, they waved as he rode by, some shouting “Macurdy!” and others “Hog!”

He passed through a richly mixed woods along a stream—beech and basswood, tuliptree, ash and elm, assorted maples and oaks—and out the other side. Where he saw and smelled the charred remains of a manor house, a few slicker-clad civilians poking through the rubble. Torched by a plunder company, he supposed; combat units would have had to break ranks to do it. He turned to one of the officers with him. “Bekker, ride over to those people and see if they can tell you who torched that place. Maybe they noticed the emblem on their guidon. And find out whether there were any other atrocities. Even if they don’t have any information, they’ll know we give a damn.”

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