Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (41 page)

“I don’t know. I’ll have Norstaan draft some orders and send word. Sammyl’s there, isn’t he?”

“Yes. What about sending Drusyn’s battalions north…”

“That would be fine … if the Heldyans haven’t attacked elsewhere. We still need to take care of you. I need to see how they’re coming.” Keeping an eye on Rhamuel, Lerial goes to the door and tells the two Afritan Guards, “You can come back.”

While waiting for Norstaan to return with what he needs, Lerial steps out into the courtyard. Nothing has changed, and palace guards and rankers are still looking through the rubble. Bodies covered with blankets lie in a line on the stone pavement in front of the east entrance to the palace. Lerial walks to his mount and grabs the water bottle, from which he takes slow swallows, hoping that the watered lager will help his light-headedness and the flashes that have returned to plague his vision.

Norstaan hurries from the southwest corner of the courtyard toward Lerial. “We should have everything in a few moments, ser.”

“Good. You never told me what happened.”

“I don’t know, ser. Not really. I heard that the duke wanted the arms-commander and had sent a messenger. When he entered the courtyard, I came out to see him, but he barely stopped, just long enough to tell me that we’d talk after he met with the duke. He left his mount with one of the rankers and hurried to the east entrance. I went back to looking at the duty rosters. A little later, there was an explosion, and everything shook. I ran out. The palace was pretty near like it is now, but some stone blocks were still falling.”

Lerial nods. “I’ve talked to the arms-commander. Have some men look through the undamaged part of the palace to see if they can find out about the duke and his family—”

“Ser … we already did. The arms-commander ordered it. They’re not anywhere in the safe parts of the palace. Neither is Councilor Dafaal. Lady Haesychya and her daughter are likely safe. They left early because her father is ailing. They should be at Aenslem’s villa. We couldn’t find any trace of Lord Natroyor. Lord Mykel departed for Lake Reomer early this morning with his … friend.”

Lerial finds himself letting out a deep breath at the news about Haesychya and Kyedra. After a moment, he says, “You need to send a messenger to Aenslem’s villa, if you haven’t already. It’s cold, but the lady needs to know that the duke is dead, and that the heir is missing in the rubble. Tell them to stay there because the city is facing Heldyan attack.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Draft an order to Commander Nythalt, or the senior officer in command at Harbor Post. Order him to set up a line of defense to assure that the Heldyan forces to the north of Swartheld do not take the city. Tell him he’ll need to consider earthworks because the Heldyans have chaos-wizards. We’ll have the arms-commander sign it, and you’ll take it to the Harbor Post.”

“But … what will I tell them?”

“That an explosion blew up part of the palace. That the duke is buried in the rubble and likely dead. That the arms-commander was injured and has a broken leg, but as arms-commander and possible heir, his commands stand. We’ll also need to send orders to Commander Sammyl at South Post. He needs to report here to assist the arms-commander, and Subcommander Drusyn needs to take whatever steps are necessary, if he hasn’t already, to repulse any Heldyan troops that may attack from the south.” At Norstaan’s questioning look, Lerial adds, “I’m certain they have standing orders to that effect,”
at least they should,
“but with the explosions and rumors that are going to circulate, a set of written orders, confirmed by a live officer or squad leader who can confirm that the arms-commander, although wounded, is alive and alert, will help settle officers and men.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial can see several troopers and a man in green headed toward them. “I didn’t know there was a palace healer. Is he the one you mentioned?”

“Yes, ser. He can’t do order-healing, but he’s good with other kinds of healing, cleaning and stitching wounds, setting bones…”

“Good.”

As the healer approaches, Lerial sees that he is a trim square-faced man with graying brown hair. The healer also manifests a strong order-presence, if not as much as a true order-healer.

“Jaermyd, ser.”

“It’s good you’re here. I’d like your help … or perhaps it might be better to say that I’ll help you in setting the arms-commander’s broken leg.”

“Is that all…”

Lerial shakes his head. “He’s got welts everywhere. Much of his body will be bruised, but some of the bruises are so deep that they won’t show up for a day or so…”

“I heard you were a field healer, but that…”

“I can do some order-healing. Not so much as the best…” Lerial pauses. “His lower back is damaged. He doesn’t have any feeling there. There’s a knot of wound chaos there … but we still need to set and splint the leg so it will heal.”

Jaermyd nods. “Maybe ought to brace his back first. Otherwise…”

“We might damage it more?”

“He might. Even the best bonesetting’s painful.”

You should have remembered that.
“You’re right.”

“Begging your pardon, ser.” Kusyl clears his throat and steps forward. “Thought you might like these.” He extends several biscuits.

“Thank you.” Lerial takes the biscuits and immediately eats one, then the other, before taking another swallow from his now nearly empty water bottle. Then he turns to Jaermyd. “We need to do this.”
Before everything else gets worse and while you can.

Lerial and Jaermyd fashion a brace, using wood and canvas, to keep Rhamuel’s lower back as immobilized as possible, since there is little else that they can do, not that Lerial knows of, anyway. Then Lerial lets Jaermyd take the lead in setting Rhamuel’s leg, but does at one time stop the older healer. “Wait. There’s some wound chaos…”

Throughout both procedures, Rhamuel is silent, except for breathing heavily, but his forehead is damp by the time the two finish.

“Are you two done?” the arms-commander finally asks, his voice ragged.

Lerial forces a smile. “For now. Don’t move for a bit.”

“How could I, the way you’ve trussed me up?”

“That’s the point,” replies Lerial. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Then he leaves the chamber with Jaermyd. He says nothing until they are outside and well away from the doorway. “Thank you. You have more experience in setting bones.”

“You would have done just fine, ser.” The healer pauses. “You can sense wound chaos inside a body?”

Lerial nods. “There was a touch of it at the end of the spot where the bone broke. I thought it might heal better with a little order. I’m just glad the bones didn’t break the skin.”

“You know … ser…?”

“That he may never walk again? Or that he may not survive for that long? I know both are possible. It is also possible that he will live many years, even if he cannot walk.”
But Afrit and Cigoerne both need him alive and alert for as long as possible, and many years would be for the best, especially if Natroyor is still alive. Or Mykel, for that matter.

“I will wish for the best.”

“You’ll have to do more than that, I fear, Jaermyd. You’re going to have to take care of him. I have this feeling I’m going to be needed elsewhere in Swartheld. I’ll need you to stand by near here. He’ll need to be moved to somewhere in the west wing of the palace where he can be guarded and where he can recover.”

“There are others…”

“You can tend to them, but don’t go far. Rhamuel is not only arms-commander of Afrit; he may also be the duke, or acting in place of the heir until he can be found.”

“Oh…”

“Exactly. Now … I need to talk to him.” Lerial pauses. “Thank you.”

Jaermyd looks down for a moment, then replies, “It’s what I do. I will do my best.”

“That’s all I ask.” With that, Lerial nods and then turns and walks back into the small room.

“Am I supposed to lie here while all Afrit falls apart?” Rhamuel demands.

“No, but you’re going to be mostly on your back for a while. We can tilt you, so long as your back is stiff. That’s why you’re bound so tightly…” Lerial is amazed that Rhamuel can talk so coherently with all his injuries. “In a bit, Jaermyd and Norstaan will have you moved to somewhere in the west part of the palace.”

“You’re not telling me everything.”

“I don’t know everything. I’ve told you all I know about the Heldyans. We haven’t had any word—”

“Ser…” Norstaan peers into the small room.

“Do you have the orders? And a pen and ink?”

“Yes, ser.”

“What orders?” demands Rhamuel.

“The ones we talked about. You can read them. If you don’t like them, we’ll change them, but we need to get them out to Sammyl and whoever’s in command at the Harbor Post.”

“
We
need to get them out?”

“
You
need to decide the orders. We need to get them where they go.” Lerial hands the first order to Rhamuel.

Rhamuel has to squint to read the words, but he finally looks up. “It sounds like me. Not you. That’s better.”

“I had Norstaan write them. I thought he might know how you write.”

“He drafts most orders.”

“Here’s the second order.”

Rhamuel’s hands are shaking by the time he lowers the second sheet. “Good. Your ideas?”

“What I thought should be done. Can you sign them?”

“I’ll see.”

“I brought a writing board,” Norstaan volunteers.

“Good.”

With Norstaan holding the inkwell, and the two troopers holding the writing board, Rhamuel manages to sign both orders … and add words to the effect that his seal was not available.

“There.” The arms-commander takes a shallow breath.

Lerial hands the signed orders to Norstaan. “You’ll need to send those out as soon as you can.”

“The messengers are ready, with escorts.”

“Good. What about copies?”

“I wrote one of each, ser. They’re not as neat.”

“They’ll have to do.”

As Lerial watches Norstaan leave the chamber, he wonders what he has forgotten or overlooked and turns to Rhamuel. “What else needs to be done?”

“Besides appointing you arms-commander?” Rhamuel’s voice is both wry and dryly raspy.

“Getting you a little lager or something to drink.” Lerial turns to one of the Afritan Guards.

“I’ll see what we can do, ser.”

“I’d like to know what’s happening. Lying here and worrying…”

“I’m certain we’ll hear before long.”
Whether we’ll like what we hear is another matter.
“I doubt that the force to the north has reached the Harbor Post yet. They may not have even begun an advance. There were more merchanters heading for the tileworks pier.”

“Four battalions and they’re sending more?”

“They might be sending more horses,” Lerial points out. “There might be more than four battalions. That was what we could see.”
Not that I actually saw that much.

Before long, one of the Afritan Guards approaches Lerial. “Ser, there’s a messenger here from South Post. He insists on seeing the duke.”

Lerial walks out into the courtyard, where another Afritan Guard stands, with two others mounted behind him. “You have a message for the duke?”

The guard looks puzzled as he takes in Lerial.

“I’m Lord Lerial, overcaptain in the Mirror Lancers.”

“I’m supposed to deliver the message to the duke. If he is not here, then the arms-commander. No one else, ser.”

“Come with me, then.” Lerial doesn’t even consider objecting.

“Ser…?”

“Look at the palace. The part that was destroyed included the duke’s quarters and study. The arms-commander is resting inside this building. He was injured.”

Once the messenger enters, Lerial says, “There’s a messenger here from South Post.”

The courier steps forward, extending a rolled sheet.

“Give the dispatch to Lord Lerial. He can read it to me.”

Lerial takes the dispatch, breaks the seal, and scans the single sheet quickly, taking in the important points. Then he says, “It’s from Commander Sammyl. The Heldyans have landed about twenty companies on South Point, as you had said they would. Drusyn has them surrounded. He can’t attack without losing too many men because they have at least two chaos-wizards there. Sammyl is requesting more forces to enable Drusyn to advance. He doesn’t say whether the Heldyans are still landing forces. Now … I’ll read it word for word.”

“I suppose you must.”

Lerial skips the salutation and begins, “‘The battalions stationed at South Post are engaged in a holding action against superior Heldyan forces in a battle at South Point. Sometime before dawn, Heldyan flatboats began to land on the river side of South Point…’” When he finishes, he asks, “Do you want me to read it again?”

“No.” Rhamuel turns his head very slightly toward the courier. “Thank you. You may go. You can stand by for a reply.”

“Yes, ser.”

“What do you think?” Rhamuel asks Lerial once everyone else has left the small room.

“It’s hard to know what to do. We don’t know how many battalions of those remaining at the Harbor Post are able to fight. We don’t know what else might be happening, either, or whether anything has happened to Haesychya, Kyedra, or Mykel. What about Natroyor?”

“I don’t know. He usually sleeps late…”

“We’ll have to assume the worst, then.”

“Send out scouts to see where the Heldyans are,” insists Rhamuel. “And if they’re trying to land at the harbor. And have someone find out who’s in charge at the Harbor Post and how many men are able to fight.”

“I can do that. We need to move you—carefully—to the west end of the palace.”

“I should be at headquarters.”

“You shouldn’t travel that far … and you certainly can’t ride.”

“Not yet.”

Looking at Rhamuel, Lerial has his doubts as to whether the arms-commander will ever ride again.

Slightly less than a glass later, with the messengers and couriers on their way, and Rhamuel moved to a large guest bedchamber on the third level of the west wing of the palace, Lerial is still worrying. He glances at the arms-commander, eyes closed and lying in the large bed, his back supported not only by the brace, but by a flat and wide frame, once a cabinet door, padded with quilts and slightly inclined. At the near silence, Lerial stiffens, but then sees Rhamuel’s chest rising and falling.