Cyador’s Heirs (62 page)

“For trying to divert those chaos-bolts. Fire is sort of like chaos … and it’s less dangerous to try new things with fire.”

“I can see that. I think.” Kusyl nods. “I wish you well. I’m turning in.”

“Me, too,” adds Shaskyn.

Once they have left the main room, Lerial goes out to the woodpile, where he gathers more green wood, then returns to the fire and adds another two lengths of what he has brought in. For all of his resolve, after but a few more attempts, his eyes are blurring, and he knows he can do no more. He just watches the fire until it burns down more and he can safely bank it.

Then he heads for his bed, such as it is, and discovers that Altyrn is already asleep.
You never even heard him come back in.

Before long, he, too, is asleep.

LXVII

Lerial wakes early on fourday with his eyes burning and their corners filled with sleep encrustations. The still air in the bedroom holds the acridity of wood smoke. Because Altryn is still asleep, snoring lightly, Lerial eases out of the small bedroom, carrying his boots and personal gear, and into the main chamber of the dwelling, where he finishes dressing as quietly as possible. Then he makes his way outside. The entire sky is hazy and reddish to the east, where the sun lurks below the horizon. To the west, the smoky haze is far thicker, and Lerial wonders just how much of the Verd has burned … or is still in flames.

He sees smoke coming from the chimney of the dwelling being used as the kitchen for second and fifth companies, and he catches a whiff of something being baked or cooked, but that odor is largely overwhelmed by that of wood smoke.

“Good morning, ser.”

Lerial turns to see Alaynara, the head archer of fourth squad, standing at the corner of the dwelling. “Good morning. How are your archers?”

“They’re fine. We don’t have any shafts. Not many, anyway.” She tosses her head slightly, not enough to move her short reddish brown hair.

Lerial answers the unspoken question. “We’re supposed to get more this afternoon. It’s not likely we’ll fight today.” He pauses, then says lightly, “I’m not promising.”

Alaynara’s distant expression softens. “You weren’t allowed to be a child long, were you, ser?”

The question takes Lerial so aback that he does not answer for a moment. “I suppose not. What matters now…” He struggles for a moment. “What matters now is that others will have a chance to be children when they should be.”

Abruptly, Alaynara looks away. “I’m sorry, ser. I didn’t mean…”

“No offense was meant, and I didn’t take any.” He manages a smile. “If you and your archers can find any more arrows or anything else that will stop Meroweyans, I’d be obliged if you’d let me know.”

“We’ve been looking. We’ve found a few shafts that might do in a pinch.”

“Good.”

“Thank you, ser.” She takes a step back, then turns.

Lerial watches as she walks north, most likely toward the dwelling that holds the archers, wondering what prompted her question.
That you look so young for what you’re doing?
He isn’t about to ask. That might invite a familiarity he cannot afford.

For some reason, her question raises an entire series of questions—those he has not thought about for a time. What is Lephi doing? Is he riding routine patrols or are the Mirror Lancers in the southeast of the duchy fighting pitched battles with the Heldyans? Or do the feint-and-pursue skirmishes continue? Is his father still spending most of his time in the north, keeping the Afritans from sacking Penecca? Have the Afritan forces backed off? Or have they begun full-scale attacks? And how are Emerya, Amaira, and Ryalah faring?

This far from Cigoerne, how will you ever know?

He takes a deep breath, knowing he will get no answers, not soon, and perhaps not for seasons, if it is that long before he can return to Cigoerne.

After mentally going over what he should do, Lerial checks with his squad leaders, eats quickly, and then walks along the lane, testing his order-senses. He is relieved to discover that he can discern objects and individuals almost a kay away.
You might have most of your skill back by tomorrow.
Except he’d been able to sense more than three kays before being felled.
Or in a few days … maybe.
He also knows that the Meroweyans aren’t likely to stop attacking while he recovers.

He tries to think about weapons … and ponders whether they might try making spears or javelins. There is certainly enough wood around. Finally, he returns to Altyrn who is back at his table in the dwelling.

“Ser, I’ve been thinking … What about spears or javelins?”

Altyrn looks up from the square of paper on which he has been sketching a map or battle plan of some sort. “That’s a good idea. I’ve had some of the men working on that … and on some old-style spear-throwers. I thought about lead spear points, but the Verdyn don’t use lead. They say it’s a poison. So we’ll have to do with sharpened tips.” The majer grins. “Don’t look so discouraged. I do have a little experience. In fact, I should have thought of throwing spears earlier, but we’ve been so used to lances it didn’t occur to me. We also weren’t expecting an army of four thousand men.”

Lerial is glad that the majer used the word “we,” but he still feels stupid. What else should he have thought of … and hasn’t?

“If you or your squad leaders or rankers have any other ideas, please let me know.” Altyrn shakes his head. “I’m about out of ideas.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial understands what Altyrn hasn’t said—that any “new” weapons need to be the kind that they can use from a distance because they don’t have rankers to spare. He leaves the majer to his battle plan, if that is what it is.

Lerial meets once more with all his squad leaders and asks for their thoughts on weapons or traps that they can make easily that won’t take excessive effort and will be effective.

“Slings, maybe, ser,” suggests Bhurl, but before Lerial can reply, the squad leader shakes his head. “They’re effective, but it takes time to learn how to do it … and you need the right kind of stones, too.”

Fhentaar and Korlyn each mention javelins, and Moraris just shakes his head, and says, “The farther a weapon reaches, the more time it takes to make it.”

“And usually the more iron,” replies Lerial.

Less than a half glass later, just before eighth glass, he is still thinking the matter over when he notices that the majer, accompanied by a squad from first company, rides out.
Scouting for another battle site?

Over the course of the late morning and midday, the smoke and acrid odor from the west abate somewhat, but the sky remains hazy in all directions, most likely because the air barely moves, with only an occasional light breeze from the north that quickly dies away.

Lerial goes back to the fire in the dwelling, practicing variations in catching and diverting chaos-fire, and trying to do so according to the precepts of his aunt Emerya. He has to admit that he feels less tired working that way, but it takes more concentration, especially at first. After more than a glass, he leaves the fire and walks outside. He is still standing there when Altyrn rides back up and dismounts.

“Where are we fighting next, ser?” ventures Lerial.

“If we get the choice … if we do, there’s a bridge over a fairly deep stream some three kays east of here. If we remove the bridge we could make it hard for them to cross.”

“If we get more arrows.”

“There are two wagons on their way. We passed them coming back.”

“Do you know how many arrows?”

“Enough for ten to fifteen shafts for each ranker. Just for the companies here. That’s a rough estimate. Some of the heads are a bit battered, and they might not fly true, but … there are a lot of Meroweyans.”

After a time, Lerial leaves Altyrn and walks south along the lane, thinking … and trying to sense both the order and chaos around him. When he finally turns back, it is likely close to fourth glass, and he believes his order-chaos discernment is sharper. As he nears the dwelling serving as officers’ quarters he sees that Altyrn is sitting on the narrow front porch, talking to Kusyl.

The majer gestures for Lerial to join them. “I hoped you’d be back before long. Practicing again?”

Lerial nods.

“You were earlier, too. I could tell. That main room is like an oven.” Altyrn smiles. “That’s why we’re out here.”

“Ser…,” ventures Kusyl. “There’s a ranker. He’s got a messenger sash.”

Lerial turns and watches as the rider slows and asks something of a group of rankers sitting in the shade. One of the rankers points southward toward the three officers on the porch.

The messenger urges his mount forward. When he reaches the dwelling, he rides right up to the porch and dismounts, hurrying to Altyrn. His brown uniform is dusty, his eyes reddish and twitching, and his voice hoarse as he says, “Dispatch from Undercaptain Juist, ser. He said it was urgent.”

“Thank you. When did you leave him … and where?”

“The east side of Truyver, ser. Eighth glass last night. I took two mounts. Had to come the long way.”

“If you’d stand by.”

“Yes, ser.”

Altyrn reads the short dispatch quickly. “Juist and Denieryn have pulled back. Juist reports that they each lost close to a squad. The locals did everything they could. Some flung crocks of burning oil, and they put pit traps everywhere. Juist thinks they wounded or killed more than three companies of Meroweyans. The Meroweyans killed scores of men, women, and even some youths. They bombarded Truyver with firebolts. The entire town and much of the surrounding forest are in flames.” He hands the sheet to Lerial. “Read it. Did I miss anything?”

Lerial scans the short sentences, then starts to hand the dispatch to Kusyl. The former squad leader shakes his head, and Lerial realizes that one of the reasons that the man was likely never promoted to undercaptain was that he cannot read or write—or not well. Lerial hands the paper back to the majer. “You said everything that he wrote.”

The majer turns to the messenger. “Tell me what you saw, if you would.”

“Ser…?”

“What you saw. The undercaptain only wrote what happened. We need to hear what you saw and went through.”

“Ser … we had trenches … good trenches … the Meroweyans threw firebolts … but the fire didn’t touch us. Our archers, they shot over the heads of the shields … into the men on foot. We ran out of shafts, and the shields came for us, and some of them got caught in the staked ditch. Their own wizards … they dropped fireballs into the ditch … killed some of their own to burn away the stakes … and then they charged. We pulled back and mounted … and the people they threw oil down on the attackers … that’s when they got to the center of town … the undercaptains had us charge one flank … They weren’t expecting it … we killed some … then there was fire everywhere. That’s what I saw … and there was this boy … and he was running, and he was all fire … and there were others … my mate, Fheric, there was a firebolt overhead, and it exploded and part of it went through his chest…”

Lerial swallows quietly and listens until the messenger finishes.

“Thank you,” Altyrn says quietly. “Just take care of your mount. Then go lie down in the main room. There’s water inside. We’ll wake you when it’s time for mess.”

“Thank you, ser. You sure, ser?”

“I’m very sure. You did well to get this here. There’s nothing else you need to do for now … except to get some rest.”

“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.”

Once the messenger makes his way into the dwelling, Altyrn takes the dispatch, folds it, and slips it into the leather map folder, then looks to Kusyl. “Get Shaskyn. We need to go over the plan for tomorrow. Whenever they come, we’re likely to face firebolts first, rather than later.”

Will you be able to handle them? Any of them?
Lerial doesn’t know. He can only hope.

LXVIII

Fiveday morning finds Lerial and second company packing up once more and readying for another ride, another tactical withdrawal, in the majer’s words. When Lerial is certain his squads are ready, he rides over to join the other company commanders, just in time to hear Shaskyn speak.

“We’re … just leaving, ser?” asks the fifth company acting undercaptain. “Now, ser, when…?”

“There’s nothing we can do here,” replies Altyrn. “There are no defensible positions, and we’re outnumbered. It’s better to spend the time to prepare our next line of defense.”

“Seems a shame,” murmurs Shaskyn.

Kusyl nods, but adds, “We didn’t start this.”

“Starting a war is always a bad idea,” replies Altyrn, “assuming you can ever figure out who really did.”

Puzzled expressions cross the faces of both Kusyl and Shaskyn, and for a moment, Lerial doesn’t understand. Then he does, and he nods.

In less than a third of a glass, second company is moving out, if slowly, because Altyrn has assigned Lerial as rearguard. The road, as before, is empty except for Altyrn’s forces, but there are enough fresh ruts and tracks to indicate that quite a few of the local people have fled, although Lerial suspects there may be many who live deeper in the woods and who are gambling that the Meroweyans will stay fairly close to the main road to Verdell. Lerial doesn’t doubt that, but he does think it will only be a matter of time before the fires set by the invaders will get out of control—if they haven’t already in the west where Juist and Denieryn are fighting. When that happens the fire will do to those who are in its path what the Meroweyans haven’t.

Lerial also briefly ponders why the Meroweyans have not set more fires after razing Nevnarnia and Truyver. He shakes his head when he realizes that those advancing toward Verdell don’t want to end up being trapped by any fire they set, and that they would have to answer to Duke Casseon if they fired every hamlet and town because that would destroy much of the reason for even occupying the Verd. In addition, it is clear that the Meroweyans have waited to march on Ironwood until the fires set at Nevnarnia have died away … or been damped down by the elders.

Once everyone is on the main road, the ride from Ironwood to the creek takes little more than a glass.