Cyador’s Heirs (52 page)

After a few moments, the first fire arrow arches into the darkness of the sky and then drops toward the Meroweyan camp. Within a few moments, flaming arrows are raining down upon the eastern end of the camp.

“Enemy archers!” shouts one of the sentries, but he does not advance.

“Fire arrows! Scores of them!” yells a second.

Lerial hears voices, and several loud voices giving orders, but he is too far away to make out what all those orders might be. What he does sense is that, so far, no one is moving toward the archers. Before that long, more than a hundred fire arrows have left the archers’ bows, and more than a handful of tents or wagons have begun to burn. Lerial can hear more shouts and orders, and, in the scattered light cast by the fires, see and sense men running, some beating out flames with blankets, but he does not feel the building chaos he had experienced during the last attack.

Why not? Because the archers are spread out … and the fire arrows aren’t doing that much damage to the armsmen?

Abruptly, a larger tent bursts into a ball of flame.

Within moments, Lerial can sense men running toward the horses on tie-lines, some two hundred yards to the northwest of the westernmost of the fourth squad archers, as well as another group of armsmen on foot beginning to form up. He can also sense chaos probes sweeping the area, followed by a concentration of chaos near the burning tent. Then a wagon goes up in flames, as if it had contained oil.

“Archers! Withdraw! On the double!” While Lerial has not sensed that the Meroweyan riders have finished forming up, they are moving quickly, more quickly than he has expected.

“Archers! Withdraw!” echoes Moraris.

“Keep your intervals!” Lerial turns the gelding and urges him forward, feeling that if the archers group together that could result in a fireball being lofted at them, especially as the chaos near the burning section of the Meroweyan camp continues to build.

For the first fifty yards, Lerial is almost comfortable—until he realizes that there is one company riding directly toward him and fourth squad—a company that is far closer than he had thought.
Were they under a concealment from order-sensing?
That is certainly possible, although that isn’t a skill he has even considered, let alone tried to perfect. “Double time! Otherwise they’ll catch us before we clear the other squads.”

“Double time!” echoes Moraris.

Several moments later, Lerial can sense a mount going down—one of the archers out to his right, but there is little he can do, not with speed of the pursuit. Then two of the pursuing riders somehow get tangled and go down, and Lerial can sense that slows the company riding directly after them. But there are two more companies, and one behind their direct pursuers, and one riding due east, as if to try to cut fourth squad off.

Lerial can only hope that company will turn south before the gully shallows out beyond the base of the ridge. Being chased by two companies is bad enough.

After covering another two hundred yards or so, Lerial can sense that their pursuers have only closed the gap slightly, if at all, and are not pressing so much. Just as he wonders about that, he can feel a ball of chaos-fire heading in his direction.
Can you divert it back into the Meroweyans?

Even as he thinks that, he summons up a double-pattern of ten fine order-lines, trying to angle them so that they will accomplish his objective.

Whhssst!

The modest fireball slams into the grass-covered ground well behind fourth squad, but well before the pursuing armsmen. Lerial realizes that trying to ride, to use his senses to know where he is going, and trying to redirect chaos-fire, all at the same time, isn’t the easiest combination of tasks in the world. Then, too, he can sense that they are nearing the remaining three squads of second company.

“Fourth squad! Close up! On the squad leader!”

“Close on me!” orders Moraris.

As the squad leader draws closer, Lerial calls out. “They’re yours now. Set up below.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial slows the gelding and turns more to the east, where he will be on the northwest flank of first squad. In moments, he reins up beside Korlyn.

“Ser?”

“It’s me. Ready bows!”

“Ready bows! Pass it on!”

Lerial can feel as much as hear, the pounding of hoofs as the Meroweyans approach. He scans the darkness, sensing, rather than seeing the position of the first three squads, each with a staggered ten-man front, angled so that each ranker can loose arrows straight forward into the pursuers, approximating a partial cross fire.
If the Meroweyans follow fourth squad.

The first Meroweyan company slows as it nears second company, almost as if the captain knows he is nearing Verdyn forces, but the Meroweyans do continue forward.

At that point, another firebolt arcs toward second squad.

Lerial attempts to divert it, but instead, the fireball explodes above the open ground between the Meroweyan attackers and second company—and knives of pain flash through Lerial’s skull, so much so that he can just barely see the oncoming Meroweyans. In the fading glow from the fireball, he orders, “Shafts at will! Loose now!”

“Loose now!” echo the squad leaders.

At that moment, rather than turning or retreating, the Meroweyans spur their mounts forward, directly toward second squad. Lerial belatedly realizes that the southern commander has seen second squad and assumed that second company is massed there.

“Second squad! Bows away! Second squad! Sabres out! Charge!”

As Bhurl repeats the command, Lerial draws his own sabre. Given the relative positions of the squad and the charging Meroweyans, he can only hope that maneuver will give the rankers the best chance.

The first ranks of the attackers charge past first squad, less than ten yards away, as if they have not even seen Lerial and the Lancers … and in the darkness, they may not have. But Lerial cannot leave second squad to face a company, or what looks like one.

“First squad on me!” Lerial rides directly into the side and rear of the Meroweyan company. Neither of the first two rankers he cuts down even see him, and the third barely has a chance to react.

Other sabres clash … and then, for whatever reason, the attack from two sides in the dark causes enough consternation that, abruptly, the Meroweyan company turns, and riders scramble to head away from the mass confusion, mainly heading due west and uphill.

Lerial waits a moment, then orders, “Second company! Withdraw now!”

“First squad! Here!” shouts Korlyn.

“Third squad…”

Lerial turns to the southwest, heading downhill, only to sense a chaos-bolt sizzling toward his regrouping forces. Despite the throbbing in his head, he throws up a diversion pattern.

The firebolt explodes short of second company. Exactly where, Lerial cannot say because the pain is so intense that his entire body feels as though a thousand knives have sliced into him, all at once, and he reels in the saddle. He keeps riding, hoping that the squad leaders can re-form their squads.

“First squad, ser,” announces Korlyn.

“Any casualties?”

“All present. Two wounded.”

Lerial’s eyes continue to burn, but he waits … and waits … for Bhurl to report. Finally, he hears, “Second squad, two missing, one dead, three wounded.”

It could have been much worse.
“Thank you.”

Fhentaar reports three men wounded, none seriously.

“Fourth company, ser, rejoining,” announces Moraris.

“Casualties?”

“One, ser.”

“Was that the archer who went down in the withdrawal from the ridge?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Thank you. Have fourth squad fall in at the rear. Detail someone to watch for approaching riders.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial can barely stay in the saddle as he leads second company east and well away from the Meroweyan lines and the gully just to the north. He can only hope that they do not run into the third Meroweyan company … but given his splitting headache, he cannot sense more than a few yards away.

What a mess …
That thought is an understatement. He could tell who had been where, but he doubted that anyone else could, and trying to convey orders in that confusion … He starts to involuntarily shake his head, but the lance of white-hot pain through his neck and eyes freeze him in the saddle for an instant.

He keeps looking to the west as the sky begins to lighten, but he sees no riders or armsmen anywhere near second company. There are riders and armsmen all over the east end of the ridge, but none appear to be in formation or moving north.

The sky is a medium gray as second company rides the last half kay toward camp. The worse of the pain racking Lerial’s body has lifted, leaving him with aches, soreness in places, and a throbbing headache. At that point, Lerial recalls that he has never even questioned the squad leaders on possible enemy casualties. So he rides back along the column and asks each squad leader. In the end, when he returns to the head of the column, the best estimate he has is somewhere over twenty Meroweyan casualties, perhaps twenty-five. Nothing has gone quite the way he’d planned … and the plan had been his, even if the majer had approved it.

Three missing, likely killed, one dead, and five wounded. Nine casualties.
And Lerial doesn’t even want to think about facing the majer.

When second company reins up, Lerial rides to each wounded ranker, checking each, hoping desperately that none need urgent healing. Three appear to have broken arms, without compound fractures, and Lerial has their squad leaders direct them to the two healers provided by the elders. The fourth ranker, from second squad has only made it back with the help of his squad mates, and Lerial accompanies him and the last wounded man to the healers’ tent. The fifth wounded ranker has taken a thrust straight into the gut, and he is beyond writhing in pain. Lerial doubts he will last the glass … and, again, there is nothing he can do.

So he turns to the other ranker lying on an adjoining pallet, who has a deep slash and gash across and into his thigh. Lerial can sense more than mere wound chaos. He tries to remember the man’s name. “Haermish … was this a sabre wound?”

“It was more like an axe, ser … short axe.”

Battle-axes?
Lerial has never heard of them being used in Hamor … or even in Candar.

“He couldn’t have hit you directly…”

“No … ser…”

Lerial immediately infuses a little order into the wound and tries to strengthen the area around the blood vessels.

He straightens, the tent spins around him, and darkness crashes down on him.

*   *   *

He wakes lying on a pallet in the corner of the tent.

No sooner do his eyes open than an older man in deep brown—one of the healers, Lerial can tell from the well of dark order around him—appears. He smiles almost sadly at Lerial.

“What is it?” Lerial’s voice comes out as a croak.

“You cannot do that often, Captain.”

“What?”

“Kill and heal.”

“How is he? The one with the gash? Haermish.”

“You did enough, Captain. He will live. He won’t likely walk that well.”

“How did … you know?”

“There was no one else who could have … and order flows around you and through you, even now, weak as you are.” He extends a mug. “Drink this.”

Whatever it is, Lerial realizes as he sits up slowly and takes the earthenware mug, it smells absolutely terrible. “What is it?”

“What we drink when we try to heal too much.”

Lerial begins to drink, trying to ignore the taste and smell. When he finishes, he sees that the healer has left and is splinting the arm of one of the second company rankers. Rather than move or say anything, he remains sitting on the pallet for a time until the residual dizziness subsides. Then he stands, slowly and carefully. The older healer nods to Lerial as he leaves, but does not speak.

Once outside the tent, Lerial makes his way to see the majer.

Altyrn is once more under the awning, studying maps and making notes on a separate paper. He looks up. “You took your time.”

“I made sure the wounded got to the healers’ tent.”

“That’s not your job. That’s what squad leaders are for.”

“I had to heal a serious wound. You told me never to do that in the field while in command.” That is not precisely what Altyrn had said, but it is close enough. Surprisingly to Lerial, the majer nods. “Fair enough. Tell me what happened.”

Lerial does. He is so tired that he doesn’t bother to skirt around diverting the firebolts, and the majer doesn’t remark on that, confirming Lerial’s impression that Altyrn had already deduced his ability in that area.

“What sort of casualties did you inflict?”

“It was hard to tell…,” Lerial begins.

Altyrn cuts him off. “You have no idea how many casualties you inflicted?”

“Not really, ser. I saw two Meroweyans killed and another two wounded. I could see two others go down when their mounts hit holes in the ground or something. My squad leaders report that they saw or their men saw another twenty casualties. We know that they lost men to war arrows, but not too many.”

“And the scouts reported that they sent out burial details at first light,” added Altyrn. “I’d judge from all reports that you might have gotten as many as thirty in the skirmish, and possibly more from the fires in the camp. Say, fifty at the outside, and you lost nine rankers. Even taking out five of theirs for every one of ours … we lose.”

Well aware of this, Lerial merely nods.

“On the other hand, five to one isn’t bad for a young very junior undercaptain in your boots. You don’t have the experience … and experience is paid for by making mistakes. Usually undercaptains have experienced squad leaders and senior officers. Our only experienced squad leaders are acting undercaptains, and I can’t be everywhere. Some of the rankers acting as squad leaders don’t have as much experience in fighting as you do. In the end, though, all of those difficulties don’t count. You … and I … we have to find ways to do better.”