Cyador’s Heirs

LXXIV

When he rises on threeday morning, Lerial immediately checks the sky, but sees only high hazy clouds, although, with the tall trees surrounding the Lancer training grounds, he cannot see any that might be near the horizon in any direction. You’re just going to have to practice with the air as it is, clouds or no clouds.

By seventh glass, second company is at the low ridge-really a gentle rise that is no more than two or three yards above the flat meadow to its southwest, so low that the main road just goes right over it, although time and the passage of people, wagons, and horses have worn down a short stretch near the top of the rise. Lerial has to question how four undersized companies are going to defend a rise that extends close to half a kay.

“You have a doubtful look,” Altyrn observes, as he and Lerial wait for Kusyl and Shaskyn to ride up and join them.

“I have several questions,” Lerial admits. “How can we possibly defend this? And why won’t they just find a way around us?”

“The answer to the first question is simple,” replies Altyrn blandly. “We can’t. We’re only going to use the position to inflict as many casualties as possible before we withdraw.”

“They must know that by now.”

“They may.”

“Then why won’t they just avoid us?”

“For two reasons,” replies Altyrn. “First, it’s not a good idea to put yourself where you might be surrounded, and the Meroweyans can’t be certain that we might not have more forces around Verdell. Second, every military leader knows that until you defeat and destroy the forces that oppose you, you can’t control or govern a land. Some can’t even when they do destroy all organized armed forces that have opposed them, but that’s another question. Ask me about that some other time.”

Lerial takes that as a veiled suggestion not to take any more of the majer’s time, at least at the moment.

“Here come Kusyl and Shaskyn. We need to set the boundaries and the angle of the trenches and defenses.”

By midday, second company has completed digging out its share of trenches and is beginning to place the branch and stick figures created in response to Altyrn’s request days earlier-to give an impression of a greater force than actually exists.

In between supervising and walking the trenches, Lerial creates order pattern after order pattern, some of which are complete failures, but discovering in the process several with possibilities, including some with interlinked order “coils.” Although he has said nothing, he knows that some of his Lancers have cast glances at him and at the occasional small clouds that have formed overhead … and then dissipated.

“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.