Heritage of Cyador

XIII

Four of the wounded lancers die before midnight on twoday. Although Lerial’s efforts at healing seem to be working with those he has been able to help, and while those with less chaos in their wounds and broken bones also appear to be improving-at least, they were when he left, late in the evening-Lerial is still worrying in the gray dawn light as he goes to meet with his officers … well before breakfast and the morning meeting that will follow, and which he dreads. He knows that he did not handle the battle before the wall well. He should have gathered all his forces within the wall, let the wall take the brunt of the initial attack, and then struck back with his own abilities. He is more pleased with the second battle, although his timing could have been better.

For all the maneuvers you’ve conducted, and the handful of skirmishes with raiders, you haven’t fought a pitched battle in almost five years. That thought does not console him. Nor does the fact that he and his men likely would have taken far higher casualties, or even been slaughtered, without his order-chaos abilities. Maybe not Kusyl’s company, no thanks to you.

The tents holding the various Afritan Guard companies are largely quiet as he walks down the open space that serves as an avenue of sorts. Two Afritan rankers, handling guard duties, nod politely and step back. Lerial returns the nod and continues on, trying to use his order senses to see what they may say to each other.

“… the one … tell by the red hair…”

“… rode out of the rubble and killed all the Heldyan bastards?”

“… same … doesn’t pay to cross Mirror Lancers…”

Lerial only wishes that were true. Duke Khesyn has been crossing Cigoerne for years, what with his raids and his occasional attempts to block river trade.

When he reaches the Cigoernean tents, Fheldar and the two undercaptains are waiting.

“How are the wounded?” Lerial asks immediately.

“There are some…” begins Strauxyn.

“Let me deal with them first. Come along.” Lerial leads the way to the tent holding most of the wounded, where Kusyl points out a young ranker from Twenty-third Company.

“Nothing that I can see,” says Kusyl. “Just … something.”

Lerial studies the young man, who feels warmer than he should, with both eyes and order-senses, the latter likely to be more accurate in the grayness before dawn. There is more wound chaos than there should be in the wound-a thrust into the upper chest, at an angle, not even to the bone. Lerial can sense a small object there, surrounded by wound chaos.

Can you use order, maybe with a touch of chaos, to get that out? His brow is covered with sweat within several moments, but he finally removes part of the dressing and uses the tip of his belt knife, touched with order. The knife, a pulse of order, and the tiniest touch of chaos result in a narrow sliver of something that feels ugly on the tip of the knife, and some pus on the skin around the wound.

“Have them clean the skin with clear spirits and re-dress the wound.” Lerial follows Strauxyn to the end of the tent to a ranker moaning in his sleep. His left leg and forearm are splinted.

“He seems to be moaning more than the others…”

Lerial uses his order-senses to probe gently, then shakes his head. “He should be all right. Broken bones, especially where he has them, can be very painful.”

He applies a touch of order to two other wounded rankers, then leaves the tent, followed by the other three, and makes his way to the officers’ tent. Once there, he asks, “What have you heard, if anything?”

“Not much,” replies Kusyl. “None of the junior officers know any more than we do. I’ve had my squad leaders asking some of the Afritan squad leaders. They took more casualties than we did. Well … their lead companies did. Some of the companies that were at the hunting park didn’t even fight before the Heldyans backed off.”

“The ones that met the Heldyans north of us all fought,” adds Fheldar. “All took casualties. Maybe one, two men in ten.”

Two battalions, ten companies-that’s more than a hundred casualties, perhaps two hundred. Lerial frowns. That suggests that Luba was indeed a target, rather than a feint. But why? The ironworks are more than ten kays away. Or does that just confirm that the attacks were made to put Rhamuel at a disadvantage … as he intimated? And with whom? It has to be with more than his brother … doesn’t it? “It appears as though we had the fewest casualties.”

“Some of the Afritans noticed that, too,” comments Fheldar. “And we fought two times.”

“Keep listening. I’ll be back after the senior officers’ meeting and let you know what I find out. Is there anything else?”

The three exchange glances. Finally, Kusyl speaks. “Not that we haven’t talked about.”

“Then I’ll see you later.” Lerial walks swiftly back to Atroyan’s country house, but does not overhear any comments pertaining to himself or the Mirror Lancers.

He slips into the private dining room, somewhat surprised that Majer Prenyl is the only officer there, and takes a seat at one end of the table.

Prenyl immediately rises and walks over. “Ser?”

“Yes?” replies Lerial pleasantly, wondering why Prenyl is addressing him and what adverse news the majer might be about to convey.

“Ah … I just wanted to say that … some of us … we appreciate that you came to Lubana.” The major offers an embarrassed smile. “The Heldyans might not appreciate your presence, but some of us more junior officers do.”

“Thank you. I’m glad we were able to help. I don’t think any of us want Duke Khesyn on this side of the river.”

“No, ser.” Prenyl smiles again. “That’s all, ser. I won’t be keeping you.”

Abruptly. Lerial understands. “Thank you very much.”

“Not at all, ser.”

After the majer retreats, Lerial nods, wondering exactly what words Sammyl will be using to minimize or otherwise imply less than favorable behavior on the part of the Mirror Lancers … or their commander.

Ascaar sits down across from Lerial. “Saw you out early this morning.”

“I was checking on the wounded.”

“You didn’t have that many, did you?”

“Not as you did, I hear, but we only have three companies, not ten. On a man-for-man basis, it’s likely not much different.”

“Hadn’t thought of that.” Ascaar takes a swallow of lager, then adds, “Your three companies took out more Heldyans than our twenty.”

“We were fortunate.” Lerial is tempted to confess some stupidity, but refrains, instead eating more of the warmish eggs scrambled with ham chunks. As he does, he sees Drusyn enter the officers’ mess and sit down with Subcommander Klassyn. Shortly, Sammyl and Valatyr enter and sit together, and Captain Waell joins Prenyl.

“I don’t much believe in fortune.” Ascaar offers a sly smile. “Except as an ally to keep others from realizing you’re more skillful than they are.”

“There are times when any ally is welcome.”

“You were welcome, and then some, yesterday. I saw those boats coming in to the piers, but we couldn’t get there. Appreciate it. When the Heldyans saw they’d lost any chance of reinforcements, they backed off.”

While Lerial has his doubts that the Heldyan withdrawal was entirely because of his effectiveness, he merely says, “I’m glad we could get there in time. It was a close thing.”

“Close doesn’t matter … not unless it’s close on the wrong side.”

Ascaar’s words are so sardonic that Lerial smiles in appreciation.

The two finish and leave the private dining room, just behind Majer Prenyl, and make their way to the salon, where they wait by one of the wide windows.

“Beats me as to why the duke’s sire ever built this place here,” offers Ascaar. “His consort didn’t like it, even died in childbirth right here when she bore the arms-commander’s younger brother. The present duke hasn’t been here in years, but I hear he always talks about how much he likes Lubana. Every once in a while, the arms-commander mentions it, too.”

Lerial nods.

Before long, Drusyn and Klassyn appear, and then Valatyr, although none of the others make a move to join Ascaar and Lerial.

The officers all stiffen as Commander Sammyl enters the salon, although Sammyl immediately orders, “As you were. Take your seats.”

By the time Sammyl reaches the end of the salon and turns, all the officers are seated and waiting. The commander offers a bleak smile. “Yesterday was interesting. I don’t like interesting days. Neither does the arms-commander. For your information, and so that everyone understands…” Sammyl pauses. “The verified Heldyan casualties consist of three hundred and twelve dead, sixty wounded, and one hundred prisoners. The prisoners were largely captured by Overcaptain Lerial’s companies. One disturbing matter is that at least one company, possibly more, of the attackers was made up of Tourlegyn warriors … even if they wore Heldyan blue. The number of Heldyans and Tourlegyns killed in the chaos-explosions here at Lubana and at the piers of Luba cannot be determined. The lookouts report that more than fifteen flatboats were destroyed, and most boats carried fifty armsmen. Those are, of course, estimates. The Heldyan death toll is likely less than that because a good three boats’ worth of advance troopers had vacated the boats at Luba before the explosions.”

Captain Waell glances toward Lerial, his eyes wide.

“Given the high death toll among the Heldyan attackers, the arms-commander has determined that an increased risk to Swartheld and the cities and towns north of here exists.” Sammyl pauses and takes a breath, as if for emphasis. “Therefore, Subcommander Drusyn and his battalions will depart for Swartheld on fiveday, saving the wounded, who will recover here. One of Subcommander Ascaar’s battalions-Sixteenth-will remain at Lubana, under Majer Chorazt, while the subcommander and Fifteenth Battalion will depart Lubana to return to Shaelt on sixday, again saving the wounded.”

Trust Sammyl to place the blame for danger on you. Despite that thought, Lerial maintains a pleasant expression, if not a smiling one.

“Whether Overcaptain Lerial’s companies will remain here is a matter being considered by the arms-commander, and, of course, is at the sufferance of Duke Kiedron. At present, scouts and lookouts have determined that only three flatboats remain at the piers in Vyada.” Sammyl pauses, then asks, “Do any of you have anything to add to what I’ve said? Or any questions?”

When none of the other officers speak, Lerial smiles and says, “The only observation I might make is that there were no mounts whatever on any of the flatboats we encountered. Perhaps I am not well acquainted with Heldyan tactics as practiced north of Cigoerne, but in the south most Heldyan incursions have included some mounted units. I was wondering if either Subcommander Drusyn or Subcommander Ascaar encountered any mounted forces or saw any horses.”

“An interesting observation, Overcaptain.” Sammyl glances at Drusyn.

“We did not encounter any mounted units,” replies Drusyn. “They did not disembark all their flatboats. There may have been horses on some.”

“Every last Heldyan got off the boats, and those that survived got back on,” says Ascaar flatly. “Not a horse in sight.”

“Thank you, subcommanders,” Sammyl says so quickly that Lerial could not have replied, even had he been so minded, which he is not. “Now … I will be meeting separately with the battalion commanders shortly…” For the next quarter glass, Sammyl goes over such matters as possible changes to battalion departures from Lubana should the weather change, arrangements for the wounded once they recover or must be invalided out of service, and arrangements for rations for travel north.

Finally, he smiles and says, “If there is nothing else, you all may return to your duties.”

Lerial rises with the other officers, but does not hurry to leave the salon. Neither does Ascaar, and the two walk out together, leaving the salon empty, except for Captain Waell, who, as usual, directs a pair of rankers in rearranging the chairs and settees.

Lerial notices that Sammyl and Valatyr are headed toward the private dining room, and he wonders what they might be discussing. So, as he and Ascaar reach the stairs to the upper levels on the north wing, he pauses. “Go ahead. I’ll see you later.”

“Later it will be. Much later,” says Ascaar. “It appears as though I have more to do than I’d thought.” The older officer starts up the white marble steps.

“Don’t we always?”

Ascaar laughs.

Lerial turns and heads back toward the main hall, pausing by an alcove that is mostly shadowed. When he is sure no one is around, he raises a concealment and then walks as quietly as he can toward the private dining chamber, slipping through the open archway and moving toward the far end of the table where Sammyl and Valatyr are sitting. Valatyr is seated so that he can observe the archway, but the subcommander shows no sign of having penetrated Lerial’s concealment.

“… you think of the overcaptain’s observation?” asks Sammyl.

“He’s very observant,” returns Valatyr.

“His observation was meant to suggest something.”

“You mean that the Heldyans had no intention of invading us at Luba? Just causing destruction? He was just pointing out the obvious.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

Valatyr seems to shrug, although, since Lerial cannot make out facial expressions when he is using a concealment, that is a guess.

“You don’t want to say much, Subcommander.”

“No, ser. I dislike guessing about the intentions of those I do not know. Especially when they are more powerful than they appear. He might well be a mage.”

Sammyl’s snort is more than audible. “Of course he’s a mage. What else would he be? That whole family is descended from the Magi’i of Cyador. His father isn’t much of one, though, and the overcaptain can’t be too powerful, or he wouldn’t be an officer on point … so to speak. He does have some ability as a field healer, but probably not much more. You’ll notice Kiedron didn’t send his eldest.”

“I wouldn’t send the heir, either.”

“Nor would I, but Kiedron sent the overcaptain to Verdheln when he was sixteen or seventeen. If that demon-cursed Altyrn hadn’t been with him, there would be only one heir to Cigoerne, and our problems would be much fewer.”

Why would that be? What do you have to do with Afrit’s problems? Even as those thoughts cross Lerial’s mind, he realizes how much easier matters might be for Duke Atroyan if one heir had vanished years earlier.

“And Casseon wouldn’t be scared of his own shadow,” adds Valatyr.

“He doesn’t have anything to fear now that the majer’s safely dead.”

“Except that Altyrn trained and disciplined so many Verdyn Lancers that it would be a waste of armsmen for him to try to reclaim Verdheln.”

“For now. For now. Times change … and we’ll have to help them change.” After a moment, Sammyl speaks again. “You’re certain that Majer Chorazt is the best commander to leave here?”

“He’s good enough to be a battalion commander. He’s loyal. He’ll do anything to stop any Heldyan raiders, and he follows orders.”

“Good. Would that…”

Lerial gains the impression that Sammyl offers a minute shake of his head.

“I’ll convey that to the arms-commander, and I’ll see if he’s decided what else might be necessary.” After another pause, the commander adds, “No, he hasn’t said. He keeps his own counsel, and sometimes … sometimes … you understand?”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial is afraid he understands as well, but he eases himself into a corner and waits until the two leave the dining chamber before he follows, still holding the concealment.