Cyador’s Heirs (67 page)

“Ser!”

Lerial turns to see a ranker hurrying toward him.

“Ser … the majer requests you join him immediately.”

Lerial glances around, but does not see Altyrn. “Where is he?”

“Oh … he’s over there by the trees.” The ranker points to the northwest.

“I’ll be right there.” Since Bhurl is the closest squad leader, Lerial walks to him and says, “I’ll be with the majer over there.”

“Yes, ser.”’

The spot the ranker has pointed out is over two hundred yards away, but since the mounts are on tie-lines almost as far away, Lerial walks the distance. As he nears, he sees that with the majer are two of the high elders of Vernheln—Donnael and Ruethana.

“Captain Lerial, I thought you should hear what Elder Donnael has to report.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial moves beside Altyrn and looks at the two elders.

The senior elder’s face is drawn and has deep lines Lerial does not recall. His eyes are bloodshot and sunken, and his once silver hair is a yellowed white.

“The small Meroweyan army to the west is no more,” announces Donnael.

How did they do that?
Lerial wonders.

“You might explain how you managed that,” suggests Altyrn.

“The Meroweyans were following the west road to Verdell. The next large town after Truyver is Faerwest … or was. They were angry after what your men and our people did at Truyver. When they were thrown back from the stone and earth walls that blocked the entry to the town, they went around the walls. The Lancers withdrew into the town, and the wizards began to bombard Faerwest with firebolts.” Donnael’s mouth offers a twisted smile. “They did not realize that it is on higher ground and that the stream to the east is deeper than it looks. We started fires behind them … and placed a fair amount of cammabark in the right positions … we had to strip most of the camma trees there and made certain that the wind was from the west … and brought down the only bridge before them, just after the Lancers withdrew across it…”

Made certain …
Lerial can sense that those words are deliberate, and he wonders which of the elders is a weather mage … or something like it.

“… the Lancers were able to kill those few who made it across the river. Some of them perished as well, but the rest should be able to make their way to rejoin you later tomorrow … by fiveday at the latest.”

After the Meroweyans attack here.
But at least, they will reinforce the thinned companies holding the south road toward Verdell, reflects Lerial. “What about their wizards? If I might ask?”

“The greatest of chaos masters would have trouble with the chaos of an entire forest burning. They were not that great. We think there were two. They perished with the armsmen.”

“The people?” inquires Altyrn gently.

“I told you about Essiana. Besides her, we lost hundreds … but they lost close to two thousand. We will recover what weapons we can when the ashes are cool.”

Essiana, one of the elders? She died?
She had been the most empathetic, so far as Lerial is concerned, and he is about to ask about her when Ruethana speaks.

“We would have liked to have spared their horses. That was not possible.”

Something about those two statements so close together chills Lerial, especially after hearing the almost casual fashion in which Donnael has almost dismissed Essiana’s death, and Ruethana has ignored it.
And they don’t seem to have the slightest regret over all the deaths.
Given the coldness the two have shown, Lerial can’t help but wonder how much Klerryt might really feel about his daughter’s death.
That’s not fair. You really don’t know.

“The weapons will be useful, if they can be recovered,” replies Altyrn.

Lerial has the feeling, although he could not say why, that behind the evenly spoken words, the majer may be at least somewhat disconcerted as well.

“We have people placing traps in the areas you requested.” Donnael frowns. “You said that you wanted a number of them to be obvious.”

Altyrn nods. “That way they will be more cautious. It also might keep them from spreading their forces too much or putting too many men into the wood. Arrows do more damage among armsmen closer together.”

Ruethana smiles coldly. “I can see that.”

“We will do what we can,” says Donnael. “We cannot call any more storms, not by tomorrow.”

Lerial suspects he knows why, but given their attitude toward the death of Essiana and the total lack of regret about killing thousands and losing hundreds of their own people, he decides to press them. “Why might that be?”

“If you do not know, Lord Lerial—” begins Ruethana.

“We can only manipulate the forces that are, not create them,” says Donnael, overriding the other elder. “And there are fewer of us now.”

“That is too bad,” Lerial says, trying to sound regretful. “The storms over the stream battle were most helpful.”

“We do what we can, as do you,” replies Donnael. “We should depart to allow you to continue with your preparations.”

“Matters are well in hand,” replies Altyrn with a pleasant smile that Lerial knows is false, or forced. “We will be grateful for anything you can do.”

“As we are for what you have already done … and what you will do.” Donnael’s smile is also pleasant, yet distant.

Once the two elders have left, Lerial looks to Altyrn. “They didn’t seem all that upset that one of their own was killed.”

“She was the one who controlled the fires. Doing that was what killed her.”

“She was an ordermage. How…” Lerial breaks off his words as he thinks about his own experiences, then says, “I think I see what might have happened.”

“What might that have been?”

“You have to keep great amounts of order and chaos either balanced or separated. If you fail with either separation or balance … I don’t know, but I think … I think there was just too much chaos created by the fires.”

“Something like that happened to you when you stopped breathing?”

“I
think
so … except there was too much order. There had to be too much chaos with that much fire.”

“What happened in the west of the Verd won’t help us tomorrow,” Altyrn says. “According to the scouts, they still have fifteen companies. In actual numbers, we have less than four, perhaps even less than three if we don’t count the riding wounded.”

“That’s why all the stick figures?”

“They’ve helped before. At the very least, they should slow the Meroweyan advance, until someone gets close enough to see that’s what they are. That should give us enough time to bring down more of their armsmen before we have to withdraw.” Altyrn pauses. “Is there any possibility that you…”

“If their white wizards throw chaos at us, I can often—not always”—
That’s not something you ever want to promise as certain
—“divert some of it back onto their forces.”

“If you can, that would be helpful.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

“I’d better get back to my company and make sure the stick figures look as real as possible.”
And keep working on some other way to use your abilities against the Meroweyans.

“Go.” The single word is delivered lightly, with a humorous smile, if one that vanishes even before Lerial turns.

The rest of threeday is long, but by the time the sun drops behind the trees at the west end of the meadow, the modest earthworks do indeed look like they shelter more than twice as many Lancers as will be actually holding the defenses.

Lerial is tired, not from what he has to do as company commander, but from what he has been attempting to discover. For all the ways he has tried to use order, by the time he stretches out in the tent he shares with Altyrn, he still cannot find a way to draw enough chaos from the area around him to create more than a tiny fireball.
Chaos wizards can do it. So can great ordermages.
He looks through the darkness at the fabric overhead.
But you’re not a great ordermage, and you must be doing something wrong.
Not necessarily wrong, he decides. It’s just that he doesn’t know how to do it right. Before his eyes close, he just hopes that he can find a way … before it’s too late.

LXXV

When Lerial wakes on fourday, he has no new ideas.

Perhaps you’ll get one. Right now? Not likely.
He snorts softly as he pulls on his boots and looks out at the sky that is still gray—but very clear.
And perhaps thunderclouds will appear from nowhere.

Early as it is, Altyrn is already awake and gone, doubtless looking over the meadow and checking the reports from the scouts and dispatching more scouts. Lerial shakes out his blanket, rolls it up and slips it into the loops on the side of his kit bag, then puts on his visor cap and goes to look for the majer. He finds Altyrn at the edge of the trees on the north side of the meadow, looking southward at the trenches. In the low light before dawn, the stick figures, even from behind, look convincing.

“They don’t look bad, ser … the stick figures, I mean.”

“If they just keep the Meroweyans together for a time, that will be helpful.”

“They’ll help,” Lerial affirms.

“For long enough? We’ll see.”

“What have the scouts reported?”

“The Meroweyans are forming up in a very small hamlet. They’re about two kays south. Might be a little less.”

Lerial extends his order-senses. While he can sense a mass of men in and around some dwellings on a lane some two kays south, there are so many Meroweyans in such a small areas that he cannot make out details. “Have you heard any more about Juist and Denieryn?”

“No. We won’t hear anything until after whatever happens here today. That’s if the Meroweyans even decide to attack.”

“You think they won’t?”

“You never know until it happens. I just hope they haven’t heard too much about what happened at Faerwest. That might decide them against attacking.”

Lerial understands that Altyrn definitely wants the Meroweyans to attack, outnumbered as the majer’s forces are.

“So that, even if they decide to withdraw, they lose more armsmen?”

“The more they lose here, the less likely Casseon is to consider attacking again … or opposing your father. It would be best if we could defeat them decisively, but that’s unlikely. If we can hold together for a few more battles, and they keep taking the kind of casualties they have been, they might get to the point where their commander will realize that there’s little difference, so far as he’s concerned, between a victory and a defeat. That’s when things could get very deadly.”

“Because he’ll be facing one disaster if he continues and another disaster if he has to return to Nubyat?”

Altyrn nods, still looking at the defense emplacements largely garrisoned by stick figures at the moment. When he does not speak for a time, Lerial slips away to seek out his squad leaders and go over the plans for the day. They are simple enough, not that executing them will be anywhere close to that simple.
Or that things will work out even close to what the majer has planned.

In order to dissuade the Meroweyans from immediately using their horse to sweep over the ends of the ridge beyond the trench, Altyrn has assigned two mounted squads from first company at the east end, and two from fifth company at the west end. The remainder of first company is to hold the center of the trench, with second company on the east and fourth on the west of center. All the mounts for the Lancers and archers in the trenches are on tie-lines on the back side of the rise, close enough for the Lancers to reach them in moments, long moments perhaps, when the time comes for the withdrawal.
The inevitable withdrawal,
thinks Lerial.

Once he reviews the postings with the four squad leaders, he dismisses them to have them position their rankers. Then he grooms the gelding and leads him out to the tie-line below the ridge. From what he can order-sense, the Meroweyans have left their encampment—or most have, since a small group, perhaps a squad’s worth of cooks or others, remains—and are proceeding along the main road toward the meadow and the Verdyn emplacements.

He studies the sky once more, but there are no signs of clouds, and the wind is warm and out of the north. He tests the order and chaos in the air by creating the smallest of clouds by separating the order and chaos, then shakes his head, knowing that he is missing something, but is unable to determine what he is overlooking.
Or what you do not know.

“How long before they get here, ser?” That is the first question Korlyn asks after reporting that first squad is in position and standing ready.

“A glass or so.”

“You said fifteen companies?”

Lerial notes the uneasiness in the squad leader’s tone and replies, “We don’t have to hold the trench to the last ranker. Our job is to inflict as many casualties as possible and then withdraw.”
And keep doing it, retreating from place to place, until we destroy them, or they us, or they decide it isn’t worth it and go away.

Korlyn looks pointedly to the east, then asks earnestly, his open round face expressing worry. “How long do you think it will be before they try to circle around the ridge?”

“As soon as they think they can. Our job is to send arrows and spears into their main body so that they don’t have time to think about what else they might do.”

“What if they don’t attack?”

“Most likely they’ll get hungry and they’ll have to start raiding the local people, and the people will hide everything. Then the Meroweyans will start losing men one by one, and they’ll try to take another town. We’ll be waiting, and they’ll be attacking with fewer men.”

“They’ll start killing people in the forest steads and smaller hamlets. It’ll be hard on them.”

“That’s possible,” Lerial admits.

“What does Duke Casseon really get from all this, ser?”

“He wants to stop the people of Verdheln from becoming part of Cigoerne, because that will strengthen Cigoerne. He thinks that will also protect Duke Atroyan, and he and Duke Khesyn want to eventually take over both Cigoerne and Afrit.” Lerial pauses. “That’s the way I see it.”