“I’d thought about that with my companies.”
“That would be good.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
“You know as much as I do at the moment. If I hear anything back while you’re at headquarters, I’ll let you know.” Rhamuel pauses, then adds, “Refreshments in the family salon at sixth glass, and dinner will follow.”
The two leave the dining room, and Lerial returns to his quarters to inform Polidaar, where he informs the squad that the entire half squad should accompany him to headquarters. If anything is about to happen, he doesn’t want any company shorthanded. Interestingly enough, Rhamuel has detailed only two Afritan Guards as escorts.
Because the townspeople are getting used to us being here … or because he feels he needs more protection? That’s the question Lerial ponders as he rides into the old Swartheld Post.
As has been the case for the past few days, Kusyl, Strauxyn, and Fheldar are waiting for him, although none say anything as he dismounts in front of the still half-empty ancient stables. He draws them aside. “We may be seeing some problems in the next day or so. Kusyl, I’d like to take all of Twenty-third Company on a tour this morning. Strauxyn, Fheldar, I’d like your companies ready to ride out at any time. Mounts saddled, but stabled for now. There’s something…” Lerial almost shakes his head. There isn’t that much he can point to, except a strange bank of fog and no ships to speak of in the harbor.
“Ser? Are we in danger?” asks Kusyl bluntly.
“Not from Duke Atroyan or the arms-commander, but I’m worried that Duke Khesyn may be on the verge of attacking. The harbor is empty, and it’s never been this empty. We know most of Khesyn’s forces are near Estheld. I’m concerned about what he may do.”
“Why don’t we just leave?” asks Fheldar.
“If necessary, we will. But the duke has said we’ll be able to leave by sixday, and I’d rather not create problems if we don’t have to.” Lerial knows he is stretching what Rhamuel has told him, but the last thing he wants to convey to his company leaders is the ambivalence and instability of the duke. That will serve no one well.
“Ser…” ventures Kusyl, “this is smelling like old fish. Again.”
Lerial manages a laugh. “You’re surprised? Do we ever get any assignments that don’t?”
His words and tone get resigned and sardonic expressions from the three.
“Our task is to deal with those fish. Again.” He grins. “Kusyl, how long before you can have your men out and ready to ride?”
“Third of a glass. Maybe less.”
“Do it.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Fheldar, Strauxyn, wait until Twenty-third is out of the courtyard. Then do what you need to do to have your men ready to ride out, if necessary.” After a moment, Lerial adds, “Or to defend the post, if that seems wiser.”
“Yes, ser.”
It is indeed less than a glass later when Lerial and Twenty-third Company, escorted by a rather nervous Jhacub and a half squad of Afritan Guards, ride out through the post gates, headed north along the shore road.
“Ser … might I ask why you and the arms-commander have everyone in readiness?” asks Jhacub, riding on Lerial’s left, while Kusyl rides on his right.
“Because we don’t like what we’re seeing, or not seeing. The number of ships in the harbor has dwindled, and there have been far too many merchanters porting in Estheld. We don’t know where ten Heldyan battalions are.” Except we really don’t know where any of them are.
“I see, ser.”
Jhacub’s tone suggests that he doesn’t see at all, but Lerial doesn’t answer.
When they reach a point where Lerial can see the harbor, he immediately scans the piers that had held more than a score of vessels three days earlier. Now they are four, and two look to be preparing to cast off. Is a storm coming? He looks eastward across the bay toward Estheld, but he can only see a foggy mist that shrouds the shore. There are gaps in the mist or fog, as if the morning sun is burning it off, but those gaps are not wide enough or deep enough for him to make out either Estheld or the piers, although, given the distance, he doubts that he could discern much in any case. Other than the area around Estheld, he can see no signs of clouds or fog anywhere else.
No matter what Rhamuel has said, the fog around Estheld bothers him.
“Have you ever seen the harbor this empty, Jhacub?”
“No, ser.”
“Look across the bay to Estheld. Can you tell me why the only place that has any fog at all is there?”
“No, ser.”
“Smellier and deader fish,” murmurs Kusyl under his breath, but just loud enough that Lerial can hear his words.
Lerial turns his eyes upon the merchanters’ buildings facing the harbor. They do not look abandoned, although there are not nearly so many people or wagons on the street or sidewalks as he has seen before. Still … that is most likely because there are so few ships in the harbor. When they ride past the side road leading up to the Harbor Post of the Afritan Guard, Lerial studies the gates and walls, but can discern no difference in the gate sentries. Nor does he see anyone posted on the lookout tower facing the harbor.
“We’ll ride across the point.” Lerial hopes that, once north of the short peninsula, he will be able to see any ships that may have left Estheld earlier, although he has doubts that most masters would set to sea through a fog. He glances at the Afritan squad leader. Jhacub looks as much puzzled as worried.
There is no fog immediately north of the point, either at sea or over the shore, but as Twenty-third Company reaches that section of the road that affords a clear view along the shore to the northwest, Lerial immediately sees another band of fog and mist that begins some distance to the northwest, just along the shore of the bay, possibly four kays or so ahead. The mist or fog is thick enough that Lerial cannot even make out Maesoryk’s tile factorage and kilns, or the long pier there. The fog appears to be less than two kays wide, half over the water, and half on land.
That can’t be natural, and no matter what Rhamuel says, neither is that fog shrouding Estheld.
Due north, to the east and north of the isolated band of fog, Lerial sees a merchanter, all sails set, moving almost due east as if headed for a port farther east, Dolari or Sanclar, or perhaps even Atla.
But why so far north? Because he can’t pick up the winds as well closer to land?
Lerial looks at the band of fog and the clear air around it. Then he turns to Kusyl. “What do you think of that fog up there?”
“I’m not a sailor, ser, but I never saw anything like that.”
“What do you think, Jhacub?”
“No, ser. I haven’t seen anything like that.”
“We’ll keep riding.” Lerial leans toward Kusyl and says in a lower voice. “I may order you to ready arms.”
“Yes, ser.”
They continue riding for close to a half glass when Lerial begins to sense an imbalance in order and chaos forces ahead, although he cannot see anything but fog and mist, which now appear more like a wall with a clearly defined border that is less than a kay away.
“Never seen anything like that, ser,” says Kusyl.
Lerial looks to Jhacub.
“No, ser. That’s no fog I’ve ever seen.”
Lerial can order-sense shapes at the long pier, most likely ships, with the form of deep-sea vessels, suggesting very much what he fears—that Khesyn has used merchant vessels to transport troopers to the pier. But he cannot be certain, and he needs to have a better idea of what they might be facing. “We need to get closer. Keep riding.”
As he probes beyond the mist and fog, he can sense men forming up as only trained troopers would, and beginning to move southward. There must be at least a battalion forming up, since he can make out three separate formations and others moving into position. He immediately renews and strengthens his shields. While he can sense chaos-shields, the blurring effect means that he cannot tell how m
any wizards there might be or exactly where they are.
“There are armsmen in that fog,” he says quietly to Kusyl.
“Can you tell how many, ser?” asks Kusyl.
“At least a battalion. Likely more.” Lerial glances toward the mist, less than three hundred yards away, although he doesn’t think all of the shorter distance is because he and his men have covered it. The mist is also creeping toward them.. No sense in coming closer. “Company halt!”
Jhacub glances from Kusyl to Lerial and back to the undercaptain, but does not speak. Neither does Kusyl.
Lerial can sense horses being walked from one of the vessels down the long pier toward the shore. How long have they been transporting men and mounts? While he doesn’t know that much about shipping horses, he does know that even the largest merchanters can carry only fifty to a hundred mounts. Maybe a few more if they’re only going short distances. But still … to come up with enough mounts for a single battalion would require five or six ships, or a number of trips by fewer vessels.
Then out of the mist marches a shield wall, with pikemen immediately behind, the iron-tipped points of their pikes extending two to three yards in front of the shieldmen. Then comes a line of armsmen, with a smaller shields on one arm, and long blades. Behind them are archers.
“Ready arms! Now!”
“Arms ready!”
“Jhacub! Send two of your men to headquarters! Tell the arms-commander we’ve got several battalions of Heldyans here! They must have come by merchant ships, and they’ve got chaos-wizards who created the fog.” Lerial turns. “Kusyl! Send one man with them. He’s to tell the other two companies to be ready to ride upon further word.”
“Yes, ser!”
“Yes, ser!” Jhacub replies after Kusyl.
From out of the mist comes a midsized chaos-bolt, arching over the advancing Heldyans in their tan or light-brown uniforms.
With a triple fine-line order-coil, Lerial almost instinctively redirects the bolt back across the shield and pike front so that the chaos-fire turns close to fifty Heldyans into grayish ash … and the inevitable silvered death mist sweeps over Lerial. That has barely passed him when two more chaos-bolts flare directly toward him.
This time, he uses a stronger order-coil and merges the two and sends them back toward the nearest chaos-blurred shield. The shield shudders—that Lerial can sense—and then collapses as a pillar of fire rises above the mist. Another set of firebolts—this time three—streaks toward him and Twenty-third Company.
How many strong chaos-wizards do they have? Even as he merges and redirects the three toward another shielded Heldyan wizard, and senses that shield collapse and another pillar of fire rise, Lerial has strong doubts as to how long he can keep throwing back chaos-bolts.
There are no more chaos-bolts, but more shieldmen and pikemen appear, with more archers, and shafts begin to fly.
Lerial manages to throw up quick wide shields, but doing that will soon exhaust him. Expansive shields have always been difficult and tiring for him. He can also sense more Heldyans arriving, at least a company of Heldyan heavy cavalry, with long blades and round shields … if they’re the typical Heldyan cavalry, not that he has ever seen them except at a distance, but the majer had been clear on that.
He waits until the road and the shoulders on both sides are filled with Heldyans before he concentrates on order-chaos-separating small sections of ground almost under the feet of the front lines. As the deadly pattern of power crisscrosses the front line of the Heldyans, Lerial calls out, “Kusyl—there are at least three battalions forming up. Maybe more, and I can’t handle both the archers and the chaos-mages. Withdraw now!”
“Twenty-third Company! Withdraw now!”
The lancers execute a swift turn and ride back south, away from the Heldyan force. Lerial keeps looking over his shoulder, but all he sees is a narrow wasteland of blackened earth, ashes and bodies, possibly close to a battalion of fallen Heldyans. He can also see that the fog and mist is beginning to dissipate, most likely because the Heldyans see no point in maintaining it now that Afrit knows that they have landed a considerable force.
Lerial hates to be forced into a withdrawal, but his men are badly outnumbered, and so is he. And it’s not even your land you’re defending. But that thought bothers him, because, in a way, defending Afrit is defending Cigoerne. From what he has just experienced, for Cigoerne to face Heldya alone would be insane.
As they ride south along the shore road toward Swartheld, Lerial keeps looking back, but there is no pursuit. He has to squint to do even that, given the headache he has and the flashes of light across his eyes. Just from that short skirmish? Except, he realizes, he’s never had to deal with that many strong mages before. Nor has he tried to merge and return such powerful chaos-bolts so quickly … and then undertake even a limited line of order-chaos separation … and having to separate order and chaos from dirt is far harder than with wood or other materials. Except for iron!
By the time they have covered another two kays, enough of the mist has dispersed that Lerial can make out, if vaguely, that there are at least three deep-sea vessels, and possibly more, tied up at the long pier. Even if there are five or six, they can’t have unloaded all those troopers in just one trip.
Ahead of them, Lerial hears a sound, a booming echo, and he looks toward the point, where thick gray and black smoke rises from the far side, billowing skyward. “Jhacub, where is that from?”
“That … that looks to be near the Harbor Post…” stammers the Afritan squad leader.
Now that he thinks of it, Lerial realizes, it couldn’t be anything else. He massages his aching forehead, wondering what could have caused such an explosion and fire … and how extensive the damage and loss of life might be.
When he reaches the highest point on the road across the point, he again looks back, but sees no sign of pursuit. What he does see are more merchanters sailing toward the tileworks pier from the northwest. Frig! Then he looks to the southeast where he can finally see the upper levels of the Harbor Post. From what he can tell, only one section of the post has been damaged, but that part, perhaps a fifth of the entire structure, is little more than a heap of rubble.
“Jhacub! What part of the post was destroyed? What was there?”
“Those were the barracks, ser … and the mess hall and kitchen. Might have gotten part of the headquarters building. It’s hard to tell from here.”
If someone wanted to blow up the mess hall, why did it happen so late, after all the rankers had eaten? Destroying the barracks makes sense, because, although it is a working day, with six battalions there, there will be significant casualties. But why not at night, when everyone would be there?
“We’ll ride straight to the Afritan Guard headquarters,” Lerial declares. Harsh as that likely sounds to Jhacub, there is little his single company can do that those surviving cannot do as well … and he needs to find Rhamuel and let him know of the scope of the invasion from the north, although he doubts that is the only point of attack. They also need to work out what sort of defenses and strategy are possible and practical with what is left of the Afritan Guard.
When they pass the road leading to the Harbor Post, Lerial sees rankers leading some mounts outside the gates, and a large wagon team entering the post’s gates. He turns to Jhacub. “Send one of your men to inform whoever the senior officer is about the Heldyan forces to the north.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial watches as the Afritan Guard gallops toward the damaged post, then turns his attention to the merchanting section they are approaching. Not surprisingly, several of the large merchanting buildings are already shuttered and closed, and workers at the others are in the process of doing the same. There are only a few people on the streets, and most of them are moving swiftly.
Even before Lerial reaches the entry to the headquarters building, Dhallyn, the captain who had met them when they had first arrived in Swartheld, is hurrying out. “Lord Lerial! Th
ere have been two explosions here in Swartheld! Do you know what they are?”
Two? “I only know of one. Part of the Harbor Post is damaged, maybe a third of it. We didn’t stop to investigate, not with at least four battalions of Heldyans some five or six kays north of the point. Where’s the arms-commander?” Lerial glances past Dhallyn to see Strauxyn and Fheldar moving toward him at close to a run.
“He’d already left for the palace when we got word from you. The duke needed him immediately.”
“Was that before or after you got my message about the Heldyans?”
“After, ser. I already sent a guard to the palace to inform the arms-commander.”
“Good.” Lerial pauses, then asks, “Does anyone know why the duke wanted the arms-commander?”
“No. The message was brought by a palace courier,” replies Dhallyn. “That was all the messenger said.”
“Not by an Afritan Guard? Is that usual.”
Dhallyn looks puzzled. “Of course. Well … maybe half the time. Both bring the arms-commander messages.”
“Did the arms-commander say anything?”
“No, ser. He just shook his head.” The captain pauses. “You don’t know about the second explosion?”
“It had to be somewhere south of the Harbor Post, because we were coming back and were just north of the point when the explosion there happened, and we didn’t hear anything.”
Lerial is wondering exactly what he should do next when two Afritan Guards in the uniforms of Rhamuel’s personal company ride through the gates. Their mounts’ muzzles are flecked with foam.
“Part of the palace blew up! Where’s Lord Lerial? We have—” The ranker in the lead sees Lerial and turns his mount toward the overcaptain, riding around Twenty-third Company and reining up facing Lerial. “Lord Lerial, ser. Part of the palace exploded. The arms-commander is hurt, but he’s alive, and he can talk. He wants you there, ser. Undercaptain Norstaan sent word to Commander Nythalt and Commander Sammyl, but we’ve heard nothing from them.”
Heritage of Cyador Page 31