Cyador’s Heirs (47 page)

Lerial tucks the letter inside his riding jacket and follows the majer.

LII

Over the next several days, something nags at Lerial, but not until twoday, as he has finished his sabre instruction with the Verdyn recruits, who, he has to admit, are actually able to practice moves with real sabres, although they still spar with wands, does he finally realize what has been bothering him. He almost stops in midstride as he walks toward the stable as it hits him.

Altyrn’s near matter-of-fact attitude toward the death of Captain Dechund.

The majer hadn’t liked or respected Dechund, but the total indifference—or was it the underlying lack of surprise in Altyrn’s feelings?—that was what has nagged at Lerial, without his even realizing it.
But you didn’t like Dechund, either, and he was keeping information from Lancer headquarters.
That was clear enough, although Altyrn has avoided talking about it, despite saying that they would later. But “later” had never come … and the majer isn’t one to forget anything.

“You’re looking serious. Very serious,” offers Altyrn, standing beside his mount. “What are you pondering?”

Lerial halts, caught off-guard.
What can you say … that makes sense without being obvious? Or too obvious?
“Captain Dechund’s death. It seems so … odd. Maybe ‘ironic’ is a better word. You can ride out against raiders or armsmen, and nothing happens, and then, something stupid, like a flux, hits you, and it does what armsmen couldn’t.”

“Life is like that.” Altyrn laughs, a sound as much sardonic as humorous. “So is death.” He pauses. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I didn’t exactly express sorrow at his death. I don’t know why he wasn’t reporting the Afritan patrols, or why he was ignoring the raids close to the border, but those aren’t the acts of a good or loyal officer. And to have a situation where an Afritan archer took a shot at two officers in a Cigoernean town next to his post … that’s not an indication of an effective post commander.”

“An Afritan archer?”

“I kept the shafts. Those shafts are only used by Afritan armsmen. The arrowheads were those used on Afritan war arrows.” Altyrn shook his head. “Given all that, I trust you can see why I was actually relieved that he died. I’d cautioned Majer Phortyn, but…” The majer shrugs. “I could have sent him the arrows, but they just would have disappeared.”

The revelation about the arrows stuns Lerial. The majer is implying that Dechund was worse than incompetent … and that Phortyn isn’t much better.

“There’s nothing more to be said,” Altyrn goes on, almost genially. “Seivyr will make a good post commander, and most people will forget or feel sorry for Dechund. In a way, he was fortunate, I suppose, because if we brought the arrows to your father with all the Lancers who saw it happen … well, we still behead traitors, but that would have just created bad feelings among the Magi’i toward the Lancers, and that’s not something the Duke needs.”

Another thought strikes Lerial, one at which he has the feeling of both laughing and being totally appalled. “Majer Phortyn
assigned
Seivyr to Tirminya under Dechund? After his comment about uniforms?”

“He did indeed. That’s his prerogative as Lancer Commander. You should know that, but I wouldn’t mention it to anyone. Not for a while.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial desperately wants to ask why he shouldn’t, but decides that he needs to think that over before asking the question. So far, the majer has been right in everything about which he has advised Lerial.
But this?

An ostler walks Lerial’s gelding from the stable. “Seeing as you’ve been occupied, ser…”

“Thank you.” Lerial takes the reins and then mounts, his thoughts scattered and less than organized.

Altyrn rides beside Lerial toward the cleared area where the recruit squads—and now companies—practice maneuvers. After several moments, he asks, “What do you think of the Verdyn Lancers, such as they are?”

“They can charge and do basic movements.” Lerial pauses. “But, with those brown uniforms, the Meroweyans will know they aren’t Mirror Lancers.”

“That’s likely, but Casseon’s men will be surprised to find six companies of any sort of Lancers.”

“What about the other two hundred recruits?”

“They’re supposed to arrive on fiveday.”

“I can’t imagine they’re all that happy about it all. They work with a will, but there’s a … something…” Lerial shakes his head.

“Fatalism, perhaps? It doesn’t matter,” replies the majer. “They’d have to fight Casseon anyway, or have most of their young people in slavery or servitude. He’s the sort that wants everyone to believe in the same things as he does, and in the same way.” Altyrn pauses. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but that was one of your grandsire’s worst faults.”

“I couldn’t say, ser. I understand he was far from perfect.”

The majer nods. “Do you know what one of your father’s greatest strengths is? As a ruler, that is?”

“I wouldn’t want to guess, ser.”

“He doesn’t believe that people should all think or believe in the same way, just so long as they follow the laws of the land. None of the other Dukes think that way, and it’s one of the reasons why Cigoerne has grown. It’s why the elders of Verdheln came to him, and it’s also why the other rulers are trying to unite against him.”

“Won’t that help over the long run?”

“Who can tell? When people are different, and there’s no danger, they argue. Sometimes, even when there is danger, they argue more. It’s always about whose ways are right. That’s one of the clarifying things about a battle … or a war. No matter what the mages and philosophers say, whoever wins is right. That’s because dead men can’t argue, and most historians belong to the winner.”

As the winter has waned, and spring is approaching—as is the likely attack of Casseon’s armsmen—Lerial can see the growing cynicism of the majer … and that too troubles him.

As they rein up on the north side of the maneuver field, Lerial turns to Altyrn. “Do the Meroweyan armsmen wear breastplates the way the Afritans do?”

“Only the heavy cavalry of the Afritans wear armor, and that includes greaves and helmets. The Afritan ceremonial guards wear breastplates. I have no idea why. Casseon might have heavies, but I’ve not heard of any. Khesyn has at least three heavy cavalry companies.”

“Will our archers be able to slow or stop any, if Casseon brings them?”

“That’s the idea. Not that all ideas work out.”

Lerial decides to stop asking questions for the moment. It’s clear that Altyrn’s thoughts are elsewhere.

LIII

The first eightday of spring arrives, along with more cold winds … and no rain … and it passes, and Lerial keeps working on blade skills with new Lancers in the morning. In dealing with some of the less-skilled Lancer recruits, he has begun to instruct them using his wand left-handed, and no one has remarked upon it. But then, transferring a skill from one hand to another seems easier, far easier, at least to Lerial, than learning it completely anew. In the afternoon, he works with and continues to learn about mounted maneuvers and tactics with Juist, and more and more often, with Altyrn. In the evening, he strengthens his abilities to deal with chaos, chaos-fire, hoping that what he is doing will work with mage-created chaos.

Chaos is chaos,
he tells himself, even as he wonders whether that is indeed true, much as Saltaryn had once told him that.

Most times, the majer is more than approachable … and yet, in some ways, Lerial feels that he does not know Altyrn at all. But then, he has felt the same way about his own father, especially when he had seen him laughing and joking with Altyrn’s daughters.
Could he do that just because they were daughters … or because they aren’t his own children?
He also recalls the great respect that Rojana and her sisters have for their father.
Or is it that there is always a certain distance between strong parents and their children?

All those thoughts remind him of Ryalah, and the guilty pleasure she and Amaira take in playing with their dolls when Kiedron is not around—and Ryala’s almost secretive smile. Lerial can only hope that she is indeed as well as Emerya had written.

More and more, he has come to meet with Altyrn at the end of the training workday, just before dinner, and this fourday is no exception.

“We have a new report from the scouts,” declares the majer even before Lerial finishes closing the study door. “The Meroweyans are assembling in Yakaat. They’re also readying their forces for what looks like an advance on Verdheln.”

“Without building the fort?”

“They’ve put the people to work on the fort. The armsmen are gathering supplies.”

“Raiding the local people?” Lerial does not disguise the contempt he feels.

“Lerial…” Altyrn’s voice is low, almost tired, but there is iron in that single name.

“Yes, ser?”

“There is great danger in feeling superior to one’s enemy. That is especially true of moral superiority. Being a better person—or a better land—by itself does not make one more likely to prevail in battle … or in the events that follow a battle. The one who prevails is the one who destroys the enemy’s ability to fight. One can win a battle by every measure … and lose. But … almost never can one lose a battle … and still win. There are two ways to lose, and only one to win. All too often it may be the land that we would deem more worthy that loses, because moral worth in itself does not win battles. What wins battles and wars is the ability to prevail and the willingness to do whatever is necessary, however distasteful that may be. There are no moral victories in defeat; there are only ashes and suffering.”

Lerial is so taken aback by the iron in the majer’s voice that he does not speak as Altyrn continues.

“There are also ashes and suffering in victory, but with victory comes the opportunity to rebuild. Most times.” After the slightest pause, Altyrn continues. “If a land is willing and able to raise and train armsmen or Lancers without equal, to forge and sharpen weapons to supply them, and to appoint leaders who are able, perceptive, and determined, that land will prevail … even if it engenders suffering, all manner of evils, and the enslavement of much of its people.”

“You make it sound as though power obtained through evil will always prevail,” Lerial replies slowly.

“It often does.” Altyrn offers a bitter smile. “Until that evil makes it impossible for there to be wise and able leaders, and those who have been enslaved revolt or are so beaten down that they can no longer work effectively. History seems to show that power alternates between those who are worthy and neglect their strengths and those who are less wise, often evil, and preoccupied with gaining power at all costs.” He pauses. “The people of the Verd are wise in the ways of governing themselves, but they have been too trusting of those around them for too long, and one way or another, what they have been will be destroyed.”

“Even if we beat back the armsmen of Merowey?”

“Matters will be better for them if we do, but what was here before will never be again.” A sad smile follows. “Now … we need to go over what we can do. Once we know for certain that they are on the march, we need to take the road south and take a position outside the Verd.”

“Outside?” Lerial cannot help but feel that it is less than wise to abandon the protection of those thick and twisted massive trees that stretch a hundred yards deep around the Verd.

“It is better to choose where to fight than to allow one’s enemy to make that choice,” Altyrn says dryly. “We may indeed use the trees as a fortress, but if Casseon brings a number of white wizards, any of our forces within those trees could be turned to ashes.”

“Old trees don’t burn that easily,” ventures Lerial, then stops for a moment. “He might actually send white wizards? The Afritans and the Heldyans almost never send them against the Mirror Lancers, do they?”

“Not since the early days,” replies Altyrn. “Remember, Casseon like as not doesn’t even know we’re here. If he does send white wizards, he’ll be sending them to subdue a rebellion of his own people … and to make it easier by burning into the Verd.”

“He’d do that?”

Any ruler is likely to do what he feels necessary. As for burning trees … any tree will burn if enough chaos is used, as you should know, and the thornbushes among them will burn hot, especially before their leaves turn from gray to green. The other problem is that those same trees that might offer protection will not allow us to deploy our forces quickly. Remember how narrow the forest road entry to Apfhel is?”

“Couldn’t we create another entry point?”

“I already have inquired of the elders as to whether other hidden entrances exist, ones that we could use for attacks, if it appears possible … or for a withdrawal, if matters develop otherwise.” The majer stands and spreads a map on the narrow table-desk. “This shows the approach road from Yakaat. You can see the hills here … and here. We may be able to conceal archers in the trees here, and have them attack the Meroweyan column if it holds to the road. The scouts report that Casseon may be dispatching as many as twenty companies.”

“And we have six, and two barely into training,” says Lerial, hoping to get a reaction from the majer.

“We also have a stronger defensive position—unless the Duke sends a number of white wizards. I can’t believe he won’t send some, because it will be far easier for them to burn their way into the Verd than to fight their way in. By the way, that’s another reason for assembling outside the Verd. If we don’t, they won’t even need wizards to start fires everywhere. You’re going to have to command a company and one with an assignment of moving to deal with outlying forces. Since you can sense weather, you can sense general forces from a distance, can’t you?”

“I don’t know how far, ser.”
That’s because you’ve never tried.

“Then you’d better find out in the next few days.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Another thing. Some of the members of various councils
might
be joining us. They have some order or chaos talents. That could make matters … interesting, but we’ll need every talent they can bring…”