As carefully as he can, despite his blurring vision and aching head, he extends his senses to the middle of the covered flatboats that serve as the makeshift pier, then begins just a small order-chaos separation of the planks in the bottom of one of the flatboats … as well as a tiny order-chaos separation in the leading flatboat.
Chaos and steam erupt from the middle of the pier, then race in both directions, with flame and more steam. Squinting to try to make out whether the destruction he has wreaked has been adequate to accomplish his goal, Lerial finds himself even more light-headed … and weaving back and forth in the saddle.
“Ser?”
Fheldar’s voice seems all too far away, so far that Lerial can barely hear him.
“Send a messenger to the subcommander … that we’ve destroyed the pier and a flatboat … that … will make … landing reinforcements … more difficult.” As he speaks, Lerial is aware that each word requires more effort. “Archers … need … to target men wading … ashore…”
Why so hard to speak…?
And then there is just blackness …
XXX
Lerial wakes stretched on a pallet lying in a large room that smells of wood … and more wood. His head is throbbing and his vision blurry, when what he can see is not blocked by sharp flashes of light. A young Mirror Lancer ranker sits beside him on a stool.
“Here’s some lager, ser,” says the ranker, whose name Lerial cannot remember, although he knows it … and knows he does.
Lerial slowly gathers himself into a sitting position, takes the water bottle, and begins to drink the lager. The first sips are hard because his mouth is so dry. After several sips, and then somewhat larger swallows, the throbbing drops from being excruciating to merely exceedingly painful.
“What time is it?”
“Second glass of the afternoon, ser.”
“Did everyone get clear?”
“Yes, ser. Squad Leader Fheldar had us take care of the Heldyans who remained, then withdrew.” The ranker’s lips turn almost sardonic.
Lerial wonders about that, and is about to ask when he realizes that, for some reason, his hip, the part right under his knife, feels warm, almost as if it were sunburned. That thought leaves his mind as he sees Fheldar walk through the doorway of the lumber or timber factorage, or cabinetry shop.
“Good to see that you’re still with us, ser.” The senior squad leader gestures to the ranker, who backs away. Then Fheldar continues, “Begging your pardon, ser … but … if you won’t think of yourself … would you think about what would happen if I have to report to Duke Kiedron that you got yourself killed in Afrit? Or who would defend Cigoerne against that bastard Khesyn?”
“I thought I was being careful, Fheldar. I misjudged. How many men did we lose?”
“Six dead, eight wounded. One likely won’t make it.” Fheldar’s mouth twists into a disgusted expression. “Ser…”
“What is it?”
“The Heldyans retook everything we cleared out. Less than a company of the Afritans advanced, and then they withdrew after a single blast of chaos. Just a little blast, and it didn’t even come close.”
“Was there more chaos-fire after that?”
“No, ser. And the Afritans didn’t even try another advance.”
“At least the Heldyans couldn’t land any more mounted forces.” Lerial pauses. “Could they?”
“No, ser. But they did get another company of foot ashore. The Afritan archers picked off a few of them wading in from deeper water.”
Lerial takes another, deeper, swallow of the lager.
Fheldar extends a small loaf of bread. “Didn’t have any biscuits. Thought you might need something to eat.”
“Thank you.” Lerial has no doubts that he does, especially before meeting with whoever is in charge of the Afritan forces—which he intends to do. “I just hope the Heldyans don’t come to know my weaknesses as well as you do.”
“What you do takes a lot of food. I’ve never seen a fat mage or wizard, and you all eat a lot.”
“Would you find out who the majer in charge of the battalion that didn’t follow up is … and where he is?”
“Yes, ser. I can do that.”
It is a good half glass later when Lerial meets with Majer Fhaet at an empty shop that once likely held a coppersmith or tinsmith. Fhaet is a slightly rotund and fresh-faced blond officer.
“Overcaptain Lerial … How gracious of you to let me know of your presence.”
“I was perhaps too interested in stopping the Heldyans from overrunning you. I had hoped that the captain I had informed would relay my intentions.”
“That is scarcely the usual procedure, for a captain to order a majer.”
These aren’t usual times. “You’re absolutely correct, Majer, but might I ask why, once it became obvious that we had cleared out the Heldyans, your men didn’t follow up?”
The majer does not meet Lerial’s eyes. “As I indicated, you never told me what you were doing, ser.”
“I told the captain of the company nearest to us.” As well as Subcommander Drusyn. But Lerial does not mention Drusyn, since that would only make Drusyn look bad, and matters with Drusyn are already touchy. Besides, Lerial has to admit, he should have talked matters over with the majer first. You really should have. Once again, his desire to resolve the situation before it worsened led him into acting, rather than talking, and his inexperience in dealing with fragmented and regimented command structures has complicated matters even further.
“I didn’t know that, ser … and the other captains said there was too much chaos-fire.”
Your other captains are idiots, then. Lerial manages not to blurt out those words. He also ignores the implication that the majer overruled the one captain and pulled his company back, while refusing to let the others advance. Instead, he massages his forehead, and then the back of his neck. “The area on the other side of the stone barricades was cleared. All they had to do was advance to the stones and use them for cover. The chaos-fire isn’t very effective against stone.”
“I listen to my captains, ser.”
Much as Lerial wants to strangle the majer, he nods. “Obviously, you do.” He smiles politely. “I will make sure you know the next time we have to clear out the Heldyans.” He pauses and adds. “For a second time. Good afternoon.” He does not wait for a response, but turns and leaves Fhaet.
“What did the majer say?” asks Strauxyn as Lerial walks toward his gelding.
“His captains felt it was too dangerous to advance, and he listens to his captains.” Lerial mounts, then looks at Fheldar, Strauxyn, and Kusyl. “We can’t do anything more this afternoon.” You can’t anyway, and there’s no sense in risking Mirror Lancers when the Afritan officers won’t risk their own men. “There’s obviously some confusion among the Afritan senior field officers. So I need to go talk to Subcommander Drusyn.”
* * *
A third of a glass later, after Lerial and the Mirror Lancers have made their way along back streets to the shore road and then back to Drusyn’s temporary headquarters, Lerial walks slowly into the factorage.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon. You’ve taken care of the chaos-mages?” Drusyn smiles warily.
“Two out of three, and we managed to destroy the temporary pier and two flatboats. After we had accomplished that, unfortunately some of that chaos came back and stunned me. Then there was a communications problem. Although we had cleared all the Heldyans from their forward line, and the last chaos-wizard was unable to attack, only one Afritan Guard captain followed up, and the battalion majer called back everyone.” Lerial shrugs. “So I didn’t feel like sacrificing my men without support … and the Heldyans have reoccupied their former lines.”
“Majer Fhaet reported that he did not have clear orders and that there was too much chaos flying.”
Already? Fhaet must have sent an urgent message with a fast horse and rider, Lerial realizes. That tempers his reply. “The majer is partl
y correct. I did not make our maneuvers clear to all your officers, but only to the captain of the nearest company. The majer is perhaps excessively cautious, since after I was stunned, there was only one single small chaos-bolt launched.”
“You did not return to the fight, later, then?”
“Subcommander…” Lerial takes a slow deep breath. “My head is splitting. I can barely see. The effect of trying to redirect chaos leaves few marks—unless one fails, and then there are no marks at all, just a pile of ashes. Attempting something that would have turned me into ashes would scarcely benefit either Afrit or Cigoerne. We did destroy a good battalion’s worth of Heldyans, the pier and two flatboats. Perhaps I’ve missed something, but I haven’t seen either much effort or much in the way of results from the Afritan Guard so far.”
“We do not have your skills.”
“That is true, but it is your land and your city.” Before Drusyn can say more, Lerial continues, knowing he has once again antagonized the subcommander. But you’re hurting and angry, and if it weren’t so critical in terms of stopping the Heldyans quickly, you wouldn’t even be here. Either in Afrit or Swartheld … or talking to Drusyn. “Tomorrow, weather permitting, we will attack again, with the goal of removing the last chaos-wizard here. If we are successful, you and your men will be totally responsible for dealing with the Heldyan armsmen.”
“While you take another half day to … recover?” Drusyn doesn’t conceal the edge to his voice.
“No. So that the Mirror Lancers and I can ride north, hopefully before the four or more chaos-wizards that are moving toward the Harbor Post inflict too much damage on Subcommander Dhresyl’s forces—those remaining after the traitor-caused explosion that killed Commander Nythalt and injured or killed more than two battalions of Afritan Guards. You might not have heard, but I was with Twenty-third Company when we were the ones to discover the forces landing north of Swartheld at the tileworks. We managed to destroy a battalion of them, perhaps more, before they mustered four chaos-wizards and three more battalions, but that was enough to delay them a day or more.”
Drusyn’s mouth almost opens. He is silent for several moments. Then he says quietly, “You did not mention any of that.”
Even though his head is still pounding, if slightly more dully, Lerial offers a wry smile. “No. That’s another thing I forgot to mention, but I didn’t know you didn’t know. I’m not in your chain of command.” What Lerial feels he cannot mention is that he would have felt rather strange telling Norstaan and Rhamuel what to put in the arms-commander’s orders to his senior officers, and in all the confusion following the explosion at the palace and Rhamuel’s injuries, Lerial wonders what else he should have written or had conveyed … and whether conveying in writing what he did would have been a good idea in the first place—if he’d even have thought of it … which he hadn’t.
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Drusyn admits. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” replies Lerial. “I trust you can see that I’m not trying to avoid things or leave you in an impossible situation, but the arms-commander felt that if the Mirror Lancers and I could act quickly here and remove the worst threats, then you could contain and handle the Heldyans, while everyone else tries to stop the larger force to the north.”
“That makes sense…”
“But we didn’t spell it out. Part of that was because of the arms-commander’s injuries. Now that Commander Sammyl is there, communications should improve.” Not that you’re at all convinced of that.
“How badly is he injured?”
“He’s bruised all over, and his left leg is broken. He has no feeling in his legs and cannot move them. He’s well in control of himself,” at least when we left, “and is using the undamaged west part of the palace as his headquarters.”
“But … he is likely the heir … and if he is so damaged…”
“He may recover. Sometimes people do.” Most don’t, but that problem can wait. “But, if we don’t stop the Heldyans, it won’t matter who will succeed who as duke.”
“Not everyone is likely to feel that way,” Drusyn points out.
“Those who are more concerned about who rules might be the best ones to look at in search of the traitor who blew up the palace … and the Harbor Post.” And spreading that idea might put a damper on some of the maneuvering for power among the merchanters.
“You really don’t think…?”
“Who else? The only people who have the resources to do that are merchanters. Most likely whoever set it up corrupted someone in the palace and an officer in the Afritan Guard. In turn, they might have been promised great gains by Duke Khesyn if he is successful in conquering Afrit. Even if he is not, he’s weakened Afrit, and it costs him little.”
“You don’t have a high opinion of our merchanters, do you?”
Do you, really? “Not your merchanters … any merchanters, including those in Cigoerne. Merchanters are necessary. Most necessary, but trusting them blindly is unwise.”
“Then how would you trust them?”
“Only when they profit by our success,” replies Lerial dryly. After a moment, he goes on. “Perhaps we should plan out what will happen tomorrow morning so that there is no confusion as there was today.”
Drusyn nods.
As he moves toward the counter on which the maps are spread, Lerial can only hope he has mitigated the impact of his earlier words.
XXXI
After spending more than a glass working out details of what Lerial and the Mirror Lancers—and Drusyn’s Afritan Guards—would do on sixday, Lerial and the Lancers withdraw to South Post, where Drusyn has arranged for quarters and rations. For the rest of the day, through dinner, and even when he is falling asleep in a room in the officers’ quarters, the same thought keeps running through Lerial’s mind. You have to find a way to deal with that last chaos-wizard. Otherwise, Drusyn and his idiot majers will sit here until they lose. That thought is still there, stronger than ever, when he wakes and dresses on sixday, but he pushes it aside and gets on with readying himself and the three companies.
By slightly before seventh glass, they leave South Post. When they reach the factorage that serves as Subcommander Drusyn’s command center, Lerial dismounts and makes his way inside.
“Good morning, Overcaptain,” says Drusyn cheerfully.
“The same to you. Has anything changed at South Point?”
“Not so far. The Heldyans haven’t landed any more men.” The subcommander frowns. “I did receive a dispatch from the arms-commander. They’re still bringing in men and mounts at the tileworks.”
“That’s good and bad. Good because they may not attack as soon as we feared, and bad…” Lerial shakes his head.
“Because they’ll have a massive force there when they do.”
After a moment, Lerial asks, “You have three battalions here?”
Drusyn nods. “Aerlyt’s Fourth Battalion is on the south side, and Fhaet’s Third is to the north and east of the point. Majer Knaak has Fifth in reserve, back slightly and between them.” He gestures to the maps on the counters. “I can show you.”
Lerial follows the subcommander to the counter.
“Third is here, Fourth here, and Fifth there.” Drusyn looks up.
“Have you given the majers written orders?” Lerial asks cautiously.
“No. Do you think that’s necessary?”
“I’d appreciate that. When there’s conflict and confusion, there are some officers who have a tendency to forget orders that they question.”
“I presume you’re referring to Majer Fhaet.”
“I apparently haven’t made the best impression on him,” Lerial says dryly, suspecting that his words are a massive understatement. “I’d prefer there not be any more confusion.”
“I can understand that. I’ll write up a brief order to all three majers and dispatch them by courier immediately.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“I appreciate your taking on chaos-mages.” Drusyn actually smiles, if for a moment.
Once Lerial leaves the subcommander, he decides to proceed deliberately, even as he worries about what the Heldyans on South Point may be doing. First, he moves the three companies to a back street out of sight of the attackers, but within easy striking distance, then takes three rankers with him to visit each of the battalion commanders, beginning with the reserve battalion.
His eyes study the high thin gray clouds, which will probably burn off by midmorning, but which will mean that the Mirror Lancers will not be riding into the sun. The air is still, damp, and heavy. The streets are deserted, although Lerial can sense people watching through the cracks in shuttered windows, and the echoes from the gelding’s hoofs on the stone pavement sound hollow. He sees a single smudge-gray cat sitting on a sand barrel. The cat looks back at Lerial evenly, and so regally that he smiles.
Once Lerial turns onto Spinners’ Lane, he has no trouble locating the Fifth Battalion command post, since the horses outside a café ahead are the only sign of any activity.
Lerial has barely reined up when Majer Knaak hurries off a narrow porch where he is meeting with his captains to see Lerial. “Good morning, Overcaptain. Amazing what you did yesterday.” He shakes his head. “Too bad we couldn’t take advantage of it.”
Lerial dismounts, ties the gelding to the end of the hitching rail, then turns to the majer. “There was a bit of confusion. That’s why I’m here. We’re going to try to remove the last of the chaos-mages to make matters easier. But it would be best if…” Lerial goes on to explain what he and Drusyn have planned.
When Lerial finishes, Knaak, a short man with black and gray hair, nods approvingly. “That sounds good to me. You know we’re in reserve, though.”
“I know, but I thought you should hear it from me.”
“Appreciate it.” Knaak offers a warm and open smile. “We wish you the best, and we’ll be ready if we’re needed.”
From there, Lerial makes his way to the Rusty Nail, a tavern one block off the river road on the south side of the point, less than a hundred yards from where Majer Aerlyt has positioned Fourth Battalion. While Aerlyt does not come out to meet Lerial, a junior squad leader does and escorts Lerial into a small side room, most likely a plaques or gaming room.
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