Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (52 page)

Almost half a glass passes before the Mirror Lancers arrive and take positions on the east side of the hill, out of direct sight of the Heldyans. Then Lerial meets with Fheldar, Kusyl, and Strauxyn once again.

“We’re going to stay put here until we see how things are going,” he begins. “I’m judging that the Heldyans will bring up their cavalry to take this rise first, so that they can flank the Afritans … or keep Drusyn’s battalions from flanking them. By being out here, we’re in a strong position because we’re uphill, but I suspect that they’ll think that we don’t have enough forces to hold the ridge.” Lerial grins raggedly. “And they’re right. We don’t. But that’s not what I have in mind…” He goes on to explain.

Once he has finished, the companies move into the tight formation Lerial wants, all out of easy sight except for the First Squad of Eighth Company. Then the company officers dispatch scouts … and Lerial waits and watches. He feels as though time is dragging, yet he knows less than a glass has passed when he sees one of Strauxyn’s scouts riding swiftly toward him.

The scout reins up. “Ser … there are two mounted battalions moving down the shore road … and there’s more dust behind them.”

“Are they lancers or heavy mounted cavalry?” Lerial doesn’t totally trust Dhresyl’s scouts.

“Heavy cavalry, ser. Round shields and long blades.”

“Good. Thank you. Take a position just at the end of the rise. Halfway down. Let me know if you see anything else that might be unexpected. If you don’t see anything like that, once the Heldyans are close enough for archers, rejoin your company.”

“Yes, ser.”

Before long, Lerial can see the Heldyan main force beginning to move. Half appear to be moving to take the road; the other half, led by a shield wall, are marching due south down the slope to the creek, and presumably up it toward Ninth and Tenth Battalion, contrary to what Dhresyl has expected. The total mass of armsmen moving forward must comprise close to ten battalions—and that doesn’t include the mounted companies or any archers.
Khesyn must have been transporting troopers for more than a week … and kept it up over the last few days.
Just the number of trips and the presumed cost of transport must have been staggering.
Except the trip is fairly short.
Still …

Horn signals from the direction of the Harbor Post suggest that Dhresyl is already bringing up reinforcements, although Lerial cannot see past Drusyn’s forces to determine where Dhresyl is sending the reserve battalions.

The lead Heldyan battalion moves off the shore road to take that part of the western side of the rise that offers the most gradual approach to Lerial and First Squad.

“Eighth Company! On First Squad,” Lerial orders.

“Eighth Company! Forward!” Even before the order is completely out of Fheldar’s mouth, the remainder of Eighth Company moves forward and rejoins First Squad. Eleventh and Twenty-third Companies also move forward, so that Eleventh Company is flanking Eighth on the right, if slightly back, and Twenty-third on the left, also back.

The Heldyan advance quickens, and the second Heldyan battalion speeds up even more, but does not take the slope but moves along the road, as if to cut off any possibility of the Mirror Lancers riding down to the road and withdrawing. Lerial doesn’t even have to use order-senses to see that the third mounted Heldyan battalion is swinging more to the east, so that the three will eventually form a solid line, designed to sweep over the small Mirror Lancer force and then flank Dhresyl’s main body.

Lerial glances south. Drusyn’s forces remain planted firmly in place.
Good!
Then he looks back at the lancers, checking their spacing—each company set in a tight ten-man front, essentially almost a square. His eyes go back to the advancing Heldyan mounted battalions. Forcing himself to be patient, he waits … and waits … until the lead riders are barely more than fifty yards from the front rank of Eighth Company.

“Mirror Lancers! Charge!” Lerial drops back into the middle of the first rank as Eighth Company levels its lances and heads downhill directly toward the middle of the Heldyan cavalry. He hopes that they are far enough from the main forces that the Heldyan mages will not immediately direct their attention to what is happening on the flank.

Lerial hears a command he does not understand—except that its meaning is clear, because the Heldyans immediately raise and brace their shields, angling them so that they can try to slide the lances rather than take a full direct impact. When he is less than ten yards from the wide line of Heldyan cavalry, he shouts a single-word order. “Flank!” Then he turns the gelding at an angle left … and downhill, while raising order-shields wide enough to cover himself and two riders on each side.

When his shields sweep aside two Heldyans, Lerial manages not to be unhorsed by the impact pressure, but is forced to shrink the shields so that they barely cover himself and the gelding. Even so, the front ranks of Eighth Company shear across the southwestern corner of the Heldyan cavalry and keep moving toward the rear of the other cavalry battalion, still on the shore road.

Behind him, Lerial can sense that Eleventh and Twenty-third Companies have managed to rip at an angle across more ranks of the Heldyans and then close up, so that the Mirror Lancers are now a tight wedge charging into the side and rear of the second Heldyan cavalry battalion. Lerial urges the gelding forward, aiming for a slight gap between ranks, possibly a break between companies.

He can feel the pressure as he rides into that gap, and then fragments of silver mists as Eighth Company and the rest of the Mirror Lancers follow, cutting down Heldyan cavalrymen as they aim through the cavalry and toward the middle of the encampment that still holds the Heldyan reserves … and at least two chaos-mages or wizards. Lerial knows all too well that not all of those death mists are from Heldyans. He hopes that moving quickly will keep the losses to his own men from being too great.
But what else can you do?

From seemingly nowhere, a long blade slashes toward Lerial. He slides the heavier blade and backcuts as he passes, feeling that he has struck well, but not looking back, concentrating on where Eighth Company needs to go.

“Eighth Company! South on me!” He turns the gelding slightly, so that he is angling toward the westernmost point of the rear of the Heldyan reserves … or those that are mustered and actually moving toward the fighting.

Abruptly, a wave of chaos-flame flashes toward Eighth Company—and Lerial, who has been waiting for this, redirects it across the rear ranks of the Heldyan reserve foot battalions. Another more powerful chaos blast follows, and Lerial does the same.

Sensing what is likely to come next, he is already creating a multiorder line diversion and redirection pattern even before a line of brilliant gold chaos-fire sears directly at him.

The diversion sends it back at the chaos-mage. While the wizard’s shields hold, the chaos flares in all directions from him, incinerating likely well more than a company of Heldyan foot. Lerial is readying another diversion when the other mage strikes, this time with a probe that Lerial recognizes—an attempt to separate order and chaos right before Eighth Company.

Lerial clamps shields over the probe for a moment, then tries to locate the other mage, but can only find the diffuse sense of a shield. The other mage’s effort to shield himself breaks off the order-chaos separation effort, but the first mage sends more chaos at Lerial.

Again, Lerial redirects it—this time into the rear of the main body that has just engaged Dhresyl’s forces.

Then both mages aim chaos at Lerial. He manages another diversion, but some of the chaos evades his pattern and strikes his shields, leaving his hip burning.
Burning? Of course. The knife’s the anchor.
Sweat oozes from all over his body and dribbles down from his visor cap across his forehead, as well as down his neck in back. He can also sense that another Heldyan heavy cavalry force has turned from the shore road and gallops toward the Mirror Lancer rear.

You’re running out of time and space.

He is also breathing heavily, and his arms ache.

Yet another chaos-bolt flares toward him, and redirecting it is an effort … But more Heldyan foot are turned to ashes … and silver death mists flow.

You’re going to have to use order-chaos separation on at least one of those mages.
He’d prefer aiming at the stronger one, but Lerial still cannot locate him precisely.
Except … if they’re coordinating those attacks … they can’t be that far apart … and besides, it should be easier just a bit away from their shields.

He senses the slightly weaker mage ahead of him and to the south. Guessing that the stronger one must be more to his left, he begins to create a circle of order-chaos separation, trying to focus the flow of destruction to the south. A chaos-bolt splashes against his shields, and the burning pain from his hip is agonizing as he concentrates on the separation.

He can feel one of the mages trying to throw a shield around the order-chaos separation, followed by another shield from the other.

Too late, you slimy bastards!

A circular wall of silvered-golden-white sears skyward, so intense that Lerial can see nothing. Vain as he knows it must be, he extends his shields across the front of Eighth Company.

… and then … he feels them shredding and crumpling, with spears of red-dark chaos and black-silver order flaring toward him, bolts of power that jerk him back in the saddle and then slam him forward into an even darker blackness.

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?”