Heritage of Cyador

XXXVI

Lerial finds himself lying on a bed or a pallet. His entire body is painfully hot, as if he’d been sunburned all over, and his back is damp from hot sweat. The spot on his hip is especially painful. His eyes open, but he can see only darkness, and he can order-sense nothing. Is this death? His second thought is, Neither Father nor the majer would approve of what you did.

He blinks several times, and the blackness lifts slightly, enough that he can see that he is not in darkness, just in a dim chamber. While the darkness lifts, he also realizes that his head is throbbing and he feels sore across his chest and upper arms, as if they are bruised. He is only wearing smallclothes, as if his uniform has been removed. There is a faint light, perhaps a small lamp, to his left.

“Ser?” asks an unfamiliar voice.

“Yes…” Lerial’s mouth is so dry that he can barely get the single word out.

“You need to drink as much as you can.” A man in a Mirror Lancer uniform moves to stand beside the bed.

Lerial turns his head slightly, but does not immediately recognize the ranker. You should. You should know them all. He squints, trying to place the man, younger than most, but not all, of the men. He’s not in Eighth Company. Lerial tries to moisten his lips, but his tongue is dry, and his mouth feels like it has been stuffed with hot wool.

“This will help, ser.” The ranker lifts a mug from somewhere. “It’s not water. It’s lager with a little water. Undercaptain Kusyl insisted on it.”

“You’re … Twenty-third … Company…?”

“Yes, ser.”

At least he’s not in Eighth or Eleventh. Lerial tries to sit up, but he is so sore and stiff that the ranker has to set the mug on the side table and help him into a sitting position against some scratchy pillows of some sort.

He hands Lerial the mug. Lerial drinks … and is surprised to find himself drinking and drinking. Finally, as he shifts his body to set the empty mug on the table, the pain on the side of his hip shoots up his side, so sharp that he almost drops the mug before easing it onto the small square table. Then he looks down to find a damp compress on his hip.

“There was a bad burn or blister there, ser.”

“What about my knife?”

The ranker looks puzzled. “Your knife, ser?”

“The blister was under my knife and sheath, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know, ser. I just came on duty.”

“What glass is it?”

“Sometime past seventh glass, ser.”

“You’re a field healer, then?”

“I’ve been working at it, ser. I’m not like you, ser.”

Lerial manages a smile. “You’re more likely to survive to practice healing, then.” As he looks at the young ranker, he wouldn’t be surprised if the man had some order-healing talent. But how can you tell now?

“Will you be all right for a moment, ser? I need to send word to Undercaptain Kusyl.”

“Go ahead.”

When the ranker opens the door, Lerial can see that the corridor outside is as dim as where he lies. He doesn’t recognize the chamber, but it looks like a junior officer’s space. He tries to think things through. Whatever happened, the Afritans had not been routed, or he wouldn’t be where he is, but had the Heldyans held their position, or withdrawn, or had Dhresyl been able to take advantage of what Lerial and the Mirror Lancers have done … whatever it happened to have been?

In less than a tenth of a glass, Kusyl steps into the small room, followed by the ranker Lerial does not know.

“Ser … it’s good to see you’re awake.”

“It’s good to be here. I wasn’t sure I would be.” Lerial moistens his lips, damp but chapped, he realizes, then asks, “How many did we lose?” He fears the answer.

“More than you’d like, ser, but a lot less than most of the Afritan companies.”

“That doesn’t tell me much, Kusyl.”

“Fifty men dead, fifteen wounded. We only lost five men and the wounded in the fighting. The rest … that chaos-fire … some of it flared back across us. You did … something … it protected most of us, but not the men in the outer files of Eleventh and Twenty-third Company. It didn’t totally protect you, either.”

“I feel like the sun blistered me.”

“You were blistered, ser. Not by the sun. The front of your uniform was partly charred, and some of your hair…”

“I take it that it’s more unruly than ever … what’s left?”

“Yes, ser.”

“What about the Heldyans?”

“We won. If you can call it that. The Afritan Guard lost more than a third of their men, maybe half killed, half wounded, The Heldyans … I don’t know. I’d judge that a battalion or two of theirs survived. There are some things you ought to know before the commander shows up. Fheldar threw himself in front of you, ser. Squad Leader Dhoraat, grabbed your reins … and followed your orders. He led Eighth Company through the gap in the western hill and then south. By the time we re-formed … well, the Afritans had matters mostly in hand,” Kusyl says dryly. “They should have. We … you, really, ser, took out almost five battalions, maybe more, and that pretty much left the rest of them disorganized.” The undercaptain grins. “Majer Paelwyr drove his battalion right through the gaps we made and cut down the battalion guarding their commanders. Most of them didn’t survive, I heard.” The grin fades.

“What else?”

“Subcommander Drusyn was killed.”

That surprises Lerial, given that Drusyn has avoided leading from the front. “How did that happen?”

“No one I’ve talked to knows. If they do, they aren’t saying. Majer Paelwyr … he was the one who told me. He came to see about you, less than a glass ago.”

“What did he say?”

“He just said it was strange. The commander said anyone could get killed in battle.” Kusyl turns to the ranker. “Erekstone … I’ll call you when we’re done.”

Erekstone inclines his head. “Yes, ser. I’ll be outside.”

Kusyl waits until the door is closed. “We brought you here because it was closer. It’s the older junior officer’s quarters. After I heard from Paelwyr, I brought in some of the men as guards as well, and decided it’d be better if you stayed here. The Afritan company officers like what you did. The ones with sense, anyway.”

“Paelwyr must have indicated something…”

“All he said was that we’d done well putting you here. That was all he had to say.”

Lerial has never been certain about Drusyn, and where the subcommander’s loyalties really lay, but it’s more than clear that, regardless of the outcome of the battle, matters in Afrit are far from settled. “What about the Subcommander Ascaar and what happened in Shaelt? Do you know?”

“No, ser. We haven’t heard anything.”

Lerial suddenly feels drowsy … or exhausted, and his eyes are too heavy to keep open. Much as he wants to know more, much as he tries to open his mouth to ask about whether anyone has heard about the arms-commander, all he can do is yawn … and try to keep his eyes open … except he cannot.