Cyador’s Heirs (21 page)

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial watches as Altyrn unfastens a narrow leather case from behind his saddle, opens it, and takes out an almost circular construction that appears to be made of some sort of polished horn or the like. A second case holds a quiver. He looks at Lerial. “It’s a horn bow. Some of the nomads near Atla use them. They’re very effective.”

“How did you find out about them … or get one?”

“Maeroja knew about them. She persuaded a friend to obtain it for me. It took me almost a year to learn how to use it properly.”

Altyrn strings the bow, a maneuver that takes both coordination and strength. When he is finished, the almost circular object is a relatively small double-curved bow. Then the majer takes out the quiver and straps it in place on his right side. Lerial wonders about that for a moment, then realizes that the majer will be holding the bow in his left and nocking the arrow and drawing the bow with his right. Finally, the majer slips what looks to be a guard on his thumb. Then he takes the reins from Lerial and remounts. More than half a glass passes before Chaarn returns and reins up. “There are two groups, ser. Six or seven riders are headed this way. They’re moving quickly. The scout says that there may be more, but he’s only seen tracks.”

“If there’s anyone left at the hamlet, there’s not much we can do. There might be more coming, but if we stop the first group, that might give the locals a chance to make the woods.”

Chaarn looks anything but happy.

“I can pick off some of them before they even get close.” Altyrn pauses, then adds, “You know how the captain—or the Duke—would feel if we didn’t do something.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial can feel the tension. “If we leave now, everyone will think I ordered it to save myself. I can’t let something like that happen. It would reflect badly on my father and Cigoerne.” Lerial makes a rueful face. “Especially since I have an older brother.”

“He’s right, you know, squad leader.” Altyrn laughs. “You can’t answer that. Don’t try. We’ll stay behind your men.”

The squad leader nods, if reluctantly. “We need to move to the top of that rise.” He points to the slight crest in the trail some hundred yards south. “If they see us there, they might decide against pursuing the locals.”

“And they might not,” replies the majer. “But it’s worth a try. Let’s go.”

Chaarn turns his mount and starts back toward the waiting Lancers.

Lerial rides beside Altyrn as they follow.

“Why do you think the raiders won’t turn back?” asks Lerial.

“If the Meroweyans have ridden this far, they’re desperate. They’re not likely to turn around for ten Lancers. I’ve seen a score attack an entire company. They all died, of course.”

But we’re far less than a company.
“You think they’ll have a score of riders?”

“More or less. That’s the size of most raiding parties. I’m hoping that they’ve split their force.” Altyrn pauses, then clears his throat, and looks directly at Lerial. “You’re right about your not being able to ride away and leave the local people. That doesn’t mean you’re going to be in the front when we deal with these raiders. You and I will ride behind the Lancers, and you are to remain behind them. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ser.” While Lerial would like to think that he is ready to ride patrols, he knows that it would be foolhardy to think he is as accomplished as the rankers accompanying them.

Once they have reached the top of the rise, the ten Mirror Lancers form a five-man front, two deep, with the middle rider at the point of a wedge. Altyrn reins up several yards back from the middle of the second line of riders.

“You stay here. I’m going forward, but I’ll be back.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial understands, but still resents what he sees as being overprotected, even as he understands the position in which his presence has placed both the majer and the Lancers. Rather than dwell on that, he stands in the stirrups of the gelding and looks south from the low crest of the trail, which stretches in a straight line south for more than a kay before curving westward around a rise. To the right of the road is an open gully, but one so eroded and shallow that it presents no barrier to a man on horseback. Beyond the gully is a patch of scrub brush and trees, no more than a half kay long and less than that east to west, and behind the miniature woods is a grassy rise, just high enough that Lerial cannot see what lies beyond it, although he could see beyond when he had been farther north on the trail. To the east of the road crest, and especially to the southeast, there is an endless expanse of browning grass.

He concentrates on the raiders. They ride slowly, at a walk, toward the Lancers, almost as if the Lancers do not exist. There are nine raiders mounted on horses that range in color from gray to black, and in coat pattern from solid to dapple. No two mounts are even close to the same in color and coat. Nor does any raider appear to be wearing exactly the same garments as any other. The raiders ride three abreast and are already less than half a kay from the Lancers, and still they do not charge, nor do they raise bows. Although Altyrn has told Lerial that some raiders have spear throwers, Lerial sees no spears.

Abruptly, arrows start to strike near the raiders. Then one mount stumbles as a shaft goes through its neck, and a raider slumps forward in his saddle as an arrow slams through his chest.

A shrieking cry comes from somewhere among the raiders, and the remaining eight riders spur their mounts forward into a headlong charge up the very slight slope toward the Lancers.

More shafts fly toward the raiders, then stop as Altyrn slings the bow over his shoulder and rides back toward Lerial. At the same time, the first line of Lancers charges down the road at the raiders, while the second line turns westward.

Lerial wonders why, but only for a moment, because he sees another group of raiders riding out of the small forest toward them.

“Draw your sabre,” Altyrn says as he reins up beside Lerial. “If you need it, it won’t do you any good in the scabbard.”

Since Lerial has already begun to do so, he merely nods. He should have unsheathed it sooner.

Only when the second group of attackers are less than fifty yards from the remaining Lancers, perhaps even closer, do the Lancers charge, clearly waiting as long as possible to remain closer to Lerial and the majer, but also not wanting to take a charge standing still.

Altyrn swings his mount more to the west, and Lerial does the same.

Then, Lerial sees two riders galloping around the clashing raiders and Lancers, heading directly for the two of them.

“Get moving!” orders Altyrn.

Lerial does not respond immediately, instead studying the raider headed toward him. The angular rider has his blade leveled almost as if it were a spear.

Lerial knows that the motion is the beginning of a feint of some sort, then reacts by jabbing his heels into the gelding’s flanks. With the slight jump as the big horse starts to move, the raider’s blade wavers just slightly, enough that Lerial can sense and anticipate the move. He starts to strike in a way that would leave him open, then ducks and slides the larger blade, acting as the majer has taught him in coming in lower than the other, and then manages to come up as he passes the raider and slash just the sharpened tip of the sabre across the side of the raider’s neck, before turning the gelding right, again as Altyrn has instructed him, so that he always has the other rider in sight.

From the corner of his eye, he can see that whatever the majer has done must have been successful, since there is no one that close to Altyrn.

Lerial can see that the rider who had attacked him is slowing … or his mount is. The rider has dropped his sword and is clutching at his neck. Lerial quickly looks around. The Mirror Lancers seem to be scattered around the crest of the road. While he sees several raider mounts, they are riderless, and he sees no raiders nearby, except the one who had attacked him He looks more to the south, still keeping his sabre at the ready, and finally sees two raiders riding southward along the trail, fast enough to raise dust.

“Are you all right?” asks Altyrn, riding up.

“Yes, ser. He didn’t touch me.” Lerial glances back toward the raider, who looks to be trying to dismount, except that he slides out of his saddle and hits the ground. His horse stops.

“I’ll check. You stay behind me.”

Lerial rides behind Altyrn, then reins up short of the fallen raider.

The man who lies on the ground is bearded and grizzled, and his frayed and faded brown shirt and patched riding jacket are covered in blood still oozing from the slash across his neck. His mouth opens and the only words that Lerial can hear, in a strangely accented Hamorian are,

“… by a boy…” He tries to get out something else, then shudders and moves no more.

Lerial can sense the linked order and chaos begin to unravel … until both dissipate unseen into the autumn air that suddenly feels cooler than it actually is. A cold chill settles over Lerial, as if death itself stood at his shoulder.
Why?

After a long moment, Lerial says, “He’s dead.”

“He is.” Altyrn looks up as Chaarn rides up.

“They’re either dead or gone. Mostly dead.”

“What about your men?” asks the majer.

“Hualsh’s got a deep slash in the shoulder. He might make it. Sparan took a spear through his ribs.”

“Let’s see them.” Altyrn looks at Lerial.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

They ride after Chaarn toward a group of Lancers. Most are mounted, in a semicircle, facing south. Three are not, but only one of those is standing.

Even before he dismounts, Lerial can sense that he can do nothing for the man who took the spear through the ribs. The shaft went through at a downward angle, and chaos is everywhere within Sparan. He looks up helplessly. Lerial touches his forehead and lets the smallest amount of order flow. “Just take it easy.” He hates saying something like that, but he doesn’t want to admit he can do nothing.

Sparan grimaces, clearly trying not to moan, as Lerial turns to the other wounded man, who holds a blood-soaked cloth or folded shirt against his upper chest, almost at the shoulder.

Altyrn looks down from where he remains mounted. He nods at Lerial, as if to tell him to do what he can.

“Does anyone have any ale, lager, brandy?” Lerial asks.

“Will that help with a wound that deep?” asked Chaarn, who has barely reined up beside the majer. “Their blades aren’t exactly clean.”

“It will help, and I need all the help I can get. What about a needle and thread or something.”

“I have that,” admits Chaarn. “I’d rather not do a field dressing if anyone else can.”

Lerial bends over the wounded Hualsh, easing the cloth away, slightly. While blood is flowing, more than oozing, it isn’t spurting. He straightens and takes the canvas pack that Chaarn hands to him. Inside are two needles and strong thread as well as what looks to be cleaned raw cotton.

He uses his order senses to feel out the wound, thinking about what Maeroja had said and shown him about stitching wounds. He just hadn’t expected to have to do it so soon.

“Here,” says Altyrn, handing a bottle to him. “Brandy.”

After cleaning the wound as well as he can, Lerial ends up closing it from both ends, but leaving a small opening in the middle, which he packs with the cotton. He is guessing that is the right thing to do, because he feels that the wound will need to drain. Then he presses more order deep into the slash, trying to turn the wound chaos into a dull pink, rather than an angry whitish-red. He stops as his vision narrows, and sparkling lights flash across his vision.

“I … can’t do more … now.” His knees are weak, and he rocks back. He can barely sit up on the matted grass.

“Drink this,” says Altyrn, seemingly suddenly standing beside him and offering a bottle.

Lerial drinks the bitter ale, and the narrowness of vision retreats slightly.

“What…” Chaarn doesn’t finish what he is saying, or maybe Lerial doesn’t hear it.

“… he’s part healer. He put order into the wound. With the brandy and order, Hualsh might make it.”

Lerial hopes so.

“We were lucky,” murmurs Chaarn.

Altyrn nods, then offers a rueful smile. “Not just because…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but says, “You’ve sent a scout?”

“Two, with orders to turn at any sign of raiders.”

After a time, and several more swallows of the warm and bitter ale, Lerial gets to his feet. He is still slightly light-headed, but he manages to mount and square himself in the saddle. Although he has his suspicions, he asks, “What do we do now?”

“We’ll check the village to make sure that raiders who fled aren’t there. If it looks like they’ve all cleared out, we can head back to Teilyn.”

“You don’t think they stayed, do you?” asks Lerial.

“I’d be surprised,” answers Altyrn, “but I’ve been surprised before. That’s why Chaarn sent scouts.”

Lerial doesn’t have an answer for that. He also wonders why they have to check the village if the squad leader has sent scouts, but he doesn’t ask, not wanting to appear denser than he must already seem.

His light-headedness is almost gone by the time a glass has almost passed, and the flickering flashes in his vision have vanished. By then Sparan has closed his eyes and moans softly between intermittent gasps and gurgles. Hualsh’s eyes are closed, but his breathing is more regular, and Lerial can sense that the remaining wound chaos has not increased.

He looks once more at Sparan, knowing that he can do nothing that will change matters. But … still …

“Don’t even think about it,” says Altyrn from where he stands a yard or so away from Lerial.

“I feel stronger now.”

“Even your aunt couldn’t do anything. That spear went through his lungs and gut. You’re weaker than you think. You could kill yourself and not save him.”

Lerial frowns. “Have you seen that?”

After a moment, Altyrn shakes his head. “I could see how much it took out of you for Hualsh, and he still may not make it.”

Lerial glances back at Sparan, whose moans are even softer, then looks up as he sees two Lancers riding up the trail from the south.