Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (16 page)

“Casualties?”

“We lost three archers, and had five wounded when the wall collapsed. Eighth Company’s Third Squad lost two and had four wounded.”

Ten men dead, and twenty-two wounded.
That is the most Mirror Lancers lost on a single day in more than five years.
And those numbers will seem like nothing if Afrit and Cigoerne end up in a full war with Heldya.

“The wounded?”

“One likely won’t make it; the others should.”

Lerial understands—some will not make it without healing aid. “Where are they?”

“In one of the tents in our area, ser.”

“Thank you.”

Lerial is turning his mount from Strauxyn to return to the tent area where Eighth and Twenty-third Companies are returning when he sees Commander Sammyl riding toward him. He looks back to the undercaptain. “Wait for a moment, until I see what the commander has to say.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial reins up once and waits.

The commander rides within two yards of Lerial before halting. “I don’t believe you had orders to attack the Heldyans, Overcaptain, especially at Luba.” Sammyl’s voice is even. “It also might be difficult to explain the damage to the wall to the duke.”

Lerial forces a smile. “It would have been harder to explain the loss of the entire wall. A Heldyan earth-mage was starting to demolish all the stonework when we stopped him. Nor would I have wished to explain to either Duke Atroyan or my sire why we did nothing when the Heldyans were about to attack and destroy the center of Luba. Since I received no orders, I did what I thought necessary.”

“The arms-commander would like to speak to you.”

“Where?”

“In his study.”

“I’ll be there shortly.”

“He did say as soon as possible.”

“I’ll be there shortly, Commander.” Lerial’s eyes are cold as he looks directly at the commander.

“I would hope so, Lord Lerial.” Sammyl turns his mount.

Once Sammyl is well away, Lerial says to Strauxyn, “I’ll be with the wounded. Have your men remain here, but stand down for now.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial rides to the Cigoernean tent area, knowing he does not have enough strength to heal twenty-two men. Still … there may be some he can tend enough so that he can do more later, when he is stronger. He recalls, belatedly, the loaf in his saddlebags and takes it out, beginning to eat dry mouthful after mouthful and taking swigs of watered lager from his water bottle when necessary. By the time he reaches the tents holding the wounded, he feels somewhat better, and the flashes across his eyes have almost ceased. The throbbing in his skull is muted, but definitely remains.

He eases into the first tent, where those lancers trained as field healers are splinting bones and cleaning wounds. He walks toward the first five men, all with broken legs or arms, or both, splinted earlier, indicating that they were among the archers under whom the wall collapsed. He stops beside the fourth man, touching his shoulder lightly, and easing the smallest bit of order into a small pocket of wound chaos deep inside his leg bone.
With luck …

“That’s a bad pair of breaks, lancer, but you’ll be fine.”

The next three men have various breaks, one in his foot, another of his forearm, and the third of his collarbone, but those breaks are clean. He forces a cheerful smile as he nears the last archer. Even from yards away, he can sense there is nothing he can do. The man is moaning softly, likely because he has not the breath to scream. His chest is partly crushed, and bloody spittle oozes from his mouth. Lerial touches his forearm lightly, then moves on.

He can only offer some healing to three more of the recently arrived wounded before his vision blurs and he begins to feel weak. After that he walks to the gelding, where he takes several swallows of watered lager before mounting and riding toward the duke’s country house, still accompanied by two Eighth Company rankers. Ignoring protocol, he reins up at the main entrance and dismounts, handing the gelding’s reins to one of the rankers.

His steps are slow as he walks to the center door.

One of the Afritan Guards, in a crimson dress uniform, steps forward. “Ser…”

Lerial looks at the ranker, who steps back, then walks to the door and opens it. Once inside, he makes his way to Rhamuel’s study.

The guard posted there opens the study door. “He’s expecting you, ser.”

“Thank you.” Lerial walks into the immaculate study, belatedly aware of the streaks of blood on the sleeves of his uniform jacket and on his green trousers.

Rhamuel stands from where he has been seated at the conference table, on which is a single map. Belatedly, both Valatyr and Sammyl stand as well. The arms-commander says quietly, “I’ll send for you when I’m done.”

Valatyr nods to Rhamuel, then moves toward Lerial, nodding and offering a quick smile as he passes. Sammyl does not move.

“Later, Commander,” Rhamuel says quietly.

Sammyl stiffens, then nods, and walks swiftly from the study, not only avoiding Lerial, but not even looking in Lerial’s direction.

Rhamuel gestures to the table, then reseats himself.

Lerial as much as sinks into the chair as seats himself.

“Commander Sammyl observed that you appeared reluctant to hasten here.” Rhamuel’s voice is pleasant.

“I needed to check on my wounded,” Lerial replies.

“You and your family are most assiduous in that.”

“It is necessary. We need as many officers and rankers as possible. We have far fewer people than any other duchy in Hamor.”

“I thought that might be the case. I told my orderly to bring some lager and biscuits once you arrived. While we wait for them, I won’t ask questions. I will tell you what seems to have happened. You doubtless know some of it.” A crooked smile appears and then vanishes. “The first attackers landed on a spur of land south of the hunting park. They formed behind a shield wall, advanced some, repulsed an attack by Subcommander Drusyn’s halberdmen, then withdrew. The second attack went past Lubana and landed downstream and north of Luba. The Heldyans had several companies on the road before Subcommander Ascaar’s forces arrived and were able to push them back to the river, but they fought hard and withdrew largely in good order. You presumably know about the third and fourth attacks.”

Rhamuel motions, and a ranker moves from the study door to the conference table, setting a silver tray between Lerial and the arms-commander. On it are a single beaker, a pitcher, and a platter of what look to be butter biscuits. The ranker immediately bows and departs.

“Please help yourself.”

Lerial does, if not before using his order-senses to check the pitcher and the platter for the chaos that might reveal poison or the like, first half filling the beaker and taking a long swallow, and then taking a biscuit and eating it. He takes a second welcome swallow of lager and looks at Rhamuel. “I was aware of the third and fourth attacks.”

“You acted without orders, the commander tells me.”

“I did. It seemed foolish to wait for orders when the Heldyans were destroying the duke’s property and killing my rankers. As for the fourth attack, I didn’t think the duke would mind the effort to keep his people from being slaughtered, particularly since Subcommander Ascaar had his hands full, Subcommander Drusyn was too far away to reach the piers, and since I’d left a company to hold the breach in the wall against no known Heldyan attackers.”

“You acted rather effectively.” Rhamuel smiles. “More so than I even expected.”

“I just used some misdirection, and their mages, or wizards, did the rest.”

The arms-commander nods.

Lerial shrugs, deciding the less he says, the better. When Rhamuel does not speak, he adds, “I have to say that I worry about all those armsmen headed downriver.”

“So do I, but I would appreciate your not saying much about that for the next day or so.”

Lerial nods in return, then takes another biscuit, and another swallow of the lager, both of which seem to be helping his vision and his throbbing head.

“You can heal some, I understand.”

“A little,” Lerial replies. “That was what I was doing before I came here. I could only do a little. Perhaps more … later.”

“I thought that might be delaying you. Healing must run in the blood.”

“That’s possible. My aunt and my mother are both healers, as I told you earlier. It’s too early to tell how good a healer Amaira will be, but it’s clear she has some ability.”

After a silence, Rhamuel says, “So far as I have been able to determine, the only mages with the Heldyan forces were those with the armsmen who attacked Lubana. Do you know anything other than that?”

Lerial shakes his head. “There were two mages with that force. One was a chaos-wizard, and the other was an earth-mage. At least, the ground shook before the wall collapsed.” He pauses briefly. “Commander Sammyl told me you have no mages, although there are some in Swartheld.”

“A very few. My great-grandsire was less than fond of mages, and their services do not come cheaply. He also blamed the Great Fire on them, although I doubt they were the cause. So we must do what we can without mages. You say that you couldn’t tell more than you did about Khesyn’s mages?”

Lerial does not press the fact that Rhamuel has not really addressed the matter. “That was the only thing I felt—that and the chaos-blasts. I’m assuming that there were two mages, because I’ve never heard of those talents being held by the same magus … and if they were, I don’t know that Khesyn would hazard that talented a wizard on an almost casual attack.” Lerial uses the word “casual” in hopes of drawing out Rhamuel.

“What makes you think it was casual?”

“The fact that they really didn’t pursue it. Once they ran into trouble, they left. The attackers who landed north of Luba had to be forced back. At least, it looked that way from the piers.” As he finishes those words, Lerial realizes that what he has said is only half true. The hunting-park attack was casual, but he doesn’t know that about the attack on Lubana, not since he destroyed most of the attackers.

Rhamuel shakes his head. “All four attacks were designed with a deliberate purpose in mind.”

A deliberate purpose? What about two … or three?
“Which was?”

“What do you think it was?” counters Rhamuel.

“To embarrass you, in order to have you replaced.”

Rhamuel laughs, if ruefully. “That’s certainly the first thing that crossed my mind, but I wonder if I’m taking that too personally.”

Given what appears to be happening in Swartheld?
Lerial smiles. “It also could be to make sure you keep at least a battalion or two of Afritan Guards in the south to weaken your defenses of Swartheld.”

“That is also possible.”

Lerial nods and waits.

“You know,” Rhamuel says casually, “my brother is rather fond of Lubana. I’ve never understood why, but he is. I’d much prefer the hunting lodge at Chaendyl—that’s in the wooded hills west of Swartheld—or even the villa at Lake Reomer.”

“Thank you,” says Lerial, giving a double meaning to the words, “I wouldn’t have known where either of those are.”

“I thought not.” The arms-commander purses his lips. “I shouldn’t keep you longer, and I do need to go over a few matters with Sammyl and Subcommander Valatyr.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you from that,” Lerial replies. “I did appreciate the lager and the biscuits … very much.”

“I thought you might, and you’re very welcome.”

As Lerial leaves the study, he recognizes, once more, that even the arms-commander of Afrit must watch every word, even in the privacy of his own spaces. But he is indeed grateful for the refreshments, since he feels strong enough to go back and do some healing on at least another wounded ranker or two, possibly three.

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.