Free Cyador’s Heirs by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

herds used for dairying and cheese-making. The fact that raiders are appearing some sixty kays north of Narthyl, which is the largest town in the south of Cigoerne, is definitely a cause for concern.
    “What happened?” asks Lerial.
    “I was going to get to that,” replies Lephi, “if you’d given me a moment.”
    “You might let Lephi talk, dear,” adds Xeranya mildly.
    Lerial nods, seething, and takes a sip of his lager.
    Lephi does not immediately speak, clearly letting the silence speak for him.
    Lerial takes another sip of his lager, thinking he’ll be angel-cursed if he’ll utter another word.
    At last, Lephi clears his throat and says, “For two days we patrolled the area around Barteld. We saw some tracks, but we never saw the raiders. Then a herder sent word that he’d seen riders heading west…”
    West? wonders Lerial.
    “… and the captain figured out that they were riding toward a hamlet southwest of Bartheld where there’s a little lake, and they’ve got orchards and sheep there. He had us ride late that evening, and we got there before the raiders did. They didn’t show up until the next morning, and we ambushed them. Only a few got away. We only captured a handful, but all but one of them died of their wounds.”
    That doesn’t surprise Lerial. The grassland raiders tended to fight to the death if they are surrounded.
    “How big was the band, dear?” Xeranya inquires.
    “About a score. There might have been a few more.”
    “Did you fight any of them?” asks Ryalah loudly from the small table.
    “No,” admits Lephi. “The captain had me with the reserve squad. We were posted between the raiders and the hamlet, just in case any raiders got by first squad.”
    “What did the raiders look like?” asks Emerya.
    “They wore those loose baggy white tunics and baggy trousers, like all the Meroweyans do.”
    “Only the raiders in the north of Merowey do that,” offers Emerya gently. “That’s because the land is so dry there.”
    Lerial could have said the same, but he is glad that his aunt does.
    “Of course,” agrees Lephi genially. “That’s what I meant.”
    “Did they look thin or gaunt?” presses Emerya.
    Lephi frowns. “I don’t know.”
    “What did the captain say about how they fought?”
    Lerial can tell that Emerya is worried, but he doesn’t understand why.
    “He did say something about it being easier than usual. Why?”
    “They’re avoiding Narthyl because it has a garrison there. Your company was sent out to patrol an area north and west of Narthyl. That likely means that the grassland nomads are short of food. We didn’t have much rain this winter, and the hill grasses here are already browning.”
    “I’m afraid you’re right, Emerya,” offers Kiedron as he nears the table. “The southlands are dry, and last fall’s harvest in the north of Merowey was scanty. That’s what all the traders have been saying as well. The Ministry records show we’ve been getting more hides as well.”
    Hides? What do they have to do with it? Lerial wonders, but does not ask, not with Lephi ready to show his superiority.
    Kiedron walks to the serving table and pours himself a goblet of the red wine. “It’s not much better to the west of here. That’s where I’ve been with Fifth Company. We’re even seeing raiders and poachers from Afrit there, and the hill forests are drier than usual.” He sits down between his sister and his consort so that he is on Emerya’s right.
    “Did you come across any raiders from Afrit?” asks Xeranya.
    “One of the squads did, but we killed only two. The others fled into the woods. The area was rocky and dangerous, and I didn’t want to risk the mounts, not over raiders who were more like poachers.”
    “They’re hungry,” observes Emerya.
    “Then they should poach in Afrit,” retorts Kiedron, “except they know Atroyan—or Rhamuel—will execute their families if they’re caught. We can’t do that, because we’d have