Cyador’s Heirs

LXVI

Lerial keeps a close watch on the main road behind second company as they ride northeast toward the meeting point described by Altyrn, especially since he does not recall the creek or the bridge mentioned by the majer. Shouldn’t you? His first thought is that there is no reason he should, since it had been almost a season ago and since, until today, he has only ridden this section of road that one time. Yet he suspects that Altyrn remembers all aspects of a road after riding it just once. Does his father? Or Lephi? About their recollections, Lerial has his doubts.

All he can do now is try to keep track of the distance they cover, but in the end it does not matter-this time-because once they pass over a bridge after what he thinks have been five kays, he sees that fifth company has already reined up several hundred yards past the bridge, and that Shaskyn is talking to a squad leader. He halts second company and rides forward to join the other two.

“Captain,” offers the squad leader, “Majer Altyrn sent me to lead the way to Ironwood.” The young Verdyn Lancer grins. “It’s not hard to find. Three more kays on the right side of the road.”

“Do you know what happened with the majer’s company this morning?”

“No, ser. Not really.”

That doesn’t sound all that promising to Lerial. “And the majer?”

“He’s in Ironwood, ser, with first and fourth company. We got there around midday.”

“How is Undercaptain Kusyl?”

“He’s there with the majer, ser.”

Since Lerial can see that the ranker doesn’t want to say more, he nods and says, “Lead on. We’ll follow behind fifth company.”

Lerial cannot help but worry about what may have happened to the two companies that Altyrn used for his attack on the Meroweyans. But if Altyrn and Kusyl are in Ironwood … All he can do is wait.

The road is completely empty except for the Lancers, although Lerial can see cart and wagon ruts, and signs of heavy traffic-something he has not seen on the roads of the Verd before. There is also a continuing acridity in the air, although Lerial has no idea whether that is a remnant of earlier burning caused by the Meroweyan wizards, the result of more recent wizard-caused fires, or both.

Slightly more than a glass later, the column turns onto a side road. Ahead about two hundred yards are a set of stone posts, one on each shoulder. Lerial has barely passed the stone posts flanking the road, on one of which is chiseled the word “Ironwood,” when a ranker rides up.

“Captain, ser, the majer sent me to show you your company’s quarters.”

Quarters? Since when do we get quarters? “Lead the way.”

“Yes, ser.”

The road continues through the woods for another four hundred yards or so before the trees thin, and a score of yards past that point it splits into four lanes. The ranker takes the westernmost lane. Lerial can see that Ironwood is laid out in similar fashion to Nevnarnia, except that the dwellings and structures are located along four lanes, rather than three, and the plank siding of all of the buildings has been stained with a gray oil. As in Nevnarnia, the few dwellings Lerial can glimpse on the more easterly lanes are shuttered. When they turn onto the western lane proper, the buildings are unshuttered, and he sees mounts on tie-lines. The dwellings appear to be occupied, or are being prepared to be occupied, by the Verdyn Lancers.

Halfway down the lane, fifth company moves off to the side, and the ranker rides back to Lerial. “The majer says that your company is assigned the next four dwellings-the ones starting after the covered ditch. The fifth one is for him and you and the other officers.”

Once the ranker leaves, Lerial assigns the squads to their respective dwellings and stresses that they are to treat them with care-the Meroweyans might burn them, but his rankers aren’t going to damage them. Only after he is satisfied does he lead his gelding to the dwelling serving as the officers’ quarters. After unsaddling and grooming the gelding, and tying him securely to a brass ring on a stone post, with enough rope to let him graze on what grass there is, Lerial carries his gear into the dwelling. He finds Altyrn there in the main chamber with his maps. He glances around, noting that there are no small items in the chamber, and no furnishings that he would call fine … or costly.

“Good afternoon, Majer.”

“Good afternoon, Lerial. What do you have to report?”

“We followed your orders. We used almost all the fire arrows, and between us and the barricade and the ditches, they might have lost half a company, possibly more. They reacted better than I thought. The white wizards burned gaps in the barricade and after they lost half a score of shieldmen, someone ordered the others to use their shields to flatten the stakes and then scoop the earth with shields and pile the shields and dirt up to allow the horsemen through. The second ditch took down five or so, maybe more. They sent two companies through the woods, but I couldn’t tell what happened there…” When Lerial finishes, he immediately asks, “Might I ask what happened with your attack?”

“We had similar results,” Altyrn says, his eyes straying to the map on the small table behind which he is seated. “We took casualties, though. How is your ability to handle order?”

“It’s returning, but I can only sense things for a hundred yards or so.”

“Let’s hope you improve more in the next day or so.”

“What happened here, ser? What about the people?”

“Everyone’s left,” says Altyrn. “By the order of the High Council.”

“Left? The Meroweyans are a day away.”

“The people know what will happen. Word has spread faster than the fire.”

“They hadn’t even gotten around to burning Nevnarnia when we left,” replies Lerial.

“We’re fighting in more than one place. I had to send Juist and Denieryn farther west. The part of the Meroweyan force that split off there has already burned two hamlets, and they’re advancing on Truyver. It’s good-sized town as Verdheln towns go. The people there will fight. Not well, most likely, but well enough, with Juist to guide them, to whittle away a few more companies.”

“What about us? What do you have planned for tomorrow?”

“If the Meroweyans stay in Nevnarnia for a day or two, we’ll wait and prepare for their attack here. The local people will harass them from the woods. If they move out tomorrow, then we’ll withdraw.”

“Because we’re short on war arrows, fire arrows, and oil?”

“Short?” Altyrn snorts. “First and fourth company don’t have any of those, not to speak of. I’ve got some who have experience as fletchers working on something that might pass for fire arrows. Local youths are bringing in spent arrows and arrowheads. The elders have promised more oil by late tomorrow…”

Lerial also understands what Altyrn is not saying-that hand-to-hand fighting with sabres is unwise against an enemy that outnumbers them seven to one … although it might only be close to five to one by now.

“They’ve also promised more shovels and mattocks.” Altyrn looks down at his maps.

“If you need anything from me, ser, just let me know.”

“I will.”

Lerial finds a bedroom and leaves the bed for the majer, while creating a makeshift bed for himself against one wall. Then he goes back to second company and takes inventory of all the weapons, discovering that his archers have only one or two war arrows each, and only a handful of fire arrows, and no oil. The three Lancer squads have less than a score of shafts among them. Unlike Altyrn’s company, none of Lerial’s rankers have any real experience in crafting shafts or fletching them.

There is a hot meal, of sorts, that night, something with the consistency of stew and the various items sliced as if they had been meant for a casserole, but what they might have been, other than some sort of meat, cheese, and root vegetables, Lerial cannot tell. It doesn’t matter. He eats it all.

After he finishes, he makes his way back to the dwelling serving as officers’ quarters, where he finds Altyrn in the main room. The leather map case is folded closed, and there is a small fire in the blackened hearth.

“Did you eat, ser?”

“I did.”

Lerial can sense the truth of that and says, “Good. If you don’t mind my saying it, I do worry about you.”

“I appreciate that.”

Lerial eases himself into a rickety straight-backed chair and waits.

After a time, Altyrn does speak. “In one of the old books-I wish so many had not been lost in the fall of Cyad … One of the greatest privileges of being the head of the Palace Guard was the ability to borrow books from the Malachite Library. I learned so much there.” Altyrn shakes his head. “What was I saying? Oh … about Lorn and Alyiakal. One book said that even when Lorn was old and looked feeble that his technique with either blade or order and chaos was so superb that no one dared stand against him. He was so able that he could use the strength of his opponents against them. There were similar words about Alyiakal. So many, especially the young, believe strength and power are everything. Some strength and power are necessary for success, but technique makes the difference. Technique is not just important. In the end, it is what decides what will be.” A wry smile crosses his face, and he adds, “If you have the weapons and the men.” He pauses briefly. “I’m going to take a walk. I’ll be back later.” With that, Altyrn rises and leaves.

Lerial sits for a time, thinking, but the majer’s words continue to ring in his ears. If Altyrn is right, then Lerial should be able to improve his technique with order so that he can handle much stronger chaos mages. Should? Not if you don’t work on it. He looks into the fire burning in the hearth. How fine a line of order can you formulate? He pauses, recalling that he had experienced one other problem. And how fast can you do it well?

After several moments, with a sigh, he stands and goes outside to the woodpile, where he looks for the greenest wood. He finally selects three modest lengths that look and feel less seasoned, both to his eyes and order-senses, and carries them back into the dwelling, where he eases them onto the hot coals, then steps back. He hopes what he has planned will work.

After several moments there is a spark, but Lerial cannot even see it, much less sense it.

He concentrates more intently, and by the time several more sparks have popped, he is able to find them quickly, but it takes almost a third of a glass before he is able to find each instantly.

Next comes making a pattern quickly to trap them.

More than a glass later, Lerial feels exhausted, but he is finally managing to catch each spark-a tiny bit of flame and chaos-within a tiny “cage” of order.

The door opens, and Lerial turns to see Shaskyn and Kusyl enter.

“What are you doing?” asks Kusyl.

“Practicing technique,” replies Lerial blandly. “What have you been doing?”

“Scrounging through the dwellings, trying to find weapons.”

Lerial should have thought of that, he realizes. “Did you?”

“Not a one,” admits Shaskyn.

With that admission, Lerial feels somewhat less guilty. Somewhat.

“Technique?” presses Kusyl.

“For trying to divert those chaos-bolts. Fire is sort of like chaos … and it’s less dangerous to try new things with fire.”

“I can see that. I think.” Kusyl nods. “I wish you well. I’m turning in.”

“Me, too,” adds Shaskyn.

Once they have left the main room, Lerial goes out to the woodpile, where he gathers more green wood, then returns to the fire and adds another two lengths of what he has brought in. For all of his resolve, after but a few more attempts, his eyes are blurring, and he knows he can do no more. He just watches the fire until it burns down more and he can safely bank it.

Then he heads for his bed, such as it is, and discovers that Altyrn is already asleep. You never even heard him come back in.

Before long, he, too, is asleep.