Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “You’re more than welcome.” Graessyr smiles at the majer. “Every day this time?”

  Every day? Lerial manages not to wince.

  “That would be best, I think,” says Altyrn.

  “Next time, he should have a go with Shastan. He’s got some tricks that I don’t.”

  “Good.” Altyrn nods and turns to Lerial. “Rack the padding and the blade, and then join me at the stable. We need to get back to Kinaar.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  By the time Lerial has racked and put away the padded armor and blunted blade and made his way back to the stable, he has begun to cool down slightly. He also feels bruises in places he has not noticed before, but he mounts easily and rides across the courtyard toward the gates beside the majer.

  Altyrn does not comment on the sparring until he and Lerial are mounted and a good hundred yards south of the post gates. Then he turns in the saddle. “When you see something you recognize, your defense and reactions are excellent. When you don’t, you’re awkward enough that you could get spitted.”

  Wouldn’t anyone? Lerial manages to nod.

  “You don’t have any instincts with the blade. You’ve probably got more of the healer blood in you than is good for combat. I thought as much, but that’s one reason why I wanted to watch you with someone else. We’ll have to do something about that.”

  “What would that be, ser?”

  “You’ll have to spar with a lot of different Lancers. The more different men you’re against, the more comfortable you’ll be with a blade, even if you run up against something you’ve never seen before.”

  Lerial has a sinking feeling that he never realized just what it would take to become good enough with a blade in order to be able to hold his own against Lephi … or anyone else with skill, for that matter.

  “You didn’t think it was going to be easy, did you?” asks Altyrn genially. “Why do you think I’ve worked you so hard in the fields?”

  “I did think that, ser. I did.” He also realizes that he couldn’t have even held a blade against the captain for more than a small fraction of a glass if Altyrn hadn’t required him to spar with the heavier wooden wand.

  He just wonders what else lies before him and what else will be required of him.

  XVI

  The next two eightdays are, if anything, harder than those that preceded them, with fieldwork following the morning sparring sessions with Captain Graessyr or Undercaptain Shastan … or one or two of the more experienced Mirror Lancer squad leaders. All of them have more energy than Majer Altyrn, but, from what Lerial experiences, none has the technique of the former commander of the Mirror Lancers. Even so, Lerial finds that he still does not respond well to any new move, or at least not as well as the majer would like. Then, after Lerial is truly exhausted, Altyrn requires more study and thought. With most of the crops in, Lerial has doubts whether there is that much heavy fieldwork remaining, but then concludes, morosely, after being required to dredge and clean irrigation ditches, that it is more than likely the majer will always have something else planned … something requiring enough brute force that he won’t even have the comfort of Rojana’s presence, not that he has had that comfort for the better part of a season.

  On a mild midmorning on the next to last fiveday of harvest, under overcast skies that promise a cooler day than any recently, Lerial is riding from Kinaar to the Lancer post with Altyrn, wondering with whom he might be paired. He has sparred often with Captain Graessyr and Undercaptain Shastan, both of whom have more energy than Altyrn, but who lack the seemingly effortless polish of Altyrn’s technique.

  “Once harvest is over, I’ll have time to give you some instruction with a lance,” Altyrn says conversationally.

  For a moment, Lerial isn’t certain what to say. “Lances? Do the Lancers use them much anymore?” For all that his father’s troopers bear the name of Lancers, Lerial has only seen them with lances on a few ceremonial occasions in Cigoerne. In fact, he cannot remember exactly when the last time might have been.

  “There are times when they’re most useful,” replies the majer.

  Lerial nods, although he has his doubts, then asks, “What about firelances? Have you ever used one?”

  “Years ago, before the Accursed Forest destroyed Cyador.”

  “I thought my grandmother brought some with her.”

  “She did. They lasted about a year after we took over Cigoerne. They served their purpose. The lances we use now are more durable, and they’re especially useful against raiders. That’s because a Lancer can strike while staying beyond the range of those curved blades they use.”

  “Aren’t the Meroweyans the only ones who have curved blades?”

  “Some of the Heldyan raiders from the south have them, too. You’ll never carry a lance on a patrol. Officers don’t. But you need to know something about them so that you don’t give a stupid order.”

  All too often Altyrn mentions the necessity for Lerial not to give stupid orders, as if he is ever going to give many orders, not if his father and Lephi have much to say about it.

  In moments it seems, although it is more like a quarter glass, Lerial is once more donning the padded armor and picking up the blunted blade that has become all too familiar to him over the past eightdays. Although Lerial feels that he equips himself quickly, Undercaptain Shastan is already waiting for him. The officer is taller than Graessyr, not a small man by any stretch, and broader, with big hands and feet. In the past, Lerial has been hard-pressed just to avoid being struck too often.

  “Let’s see what you can do.” Shastan’s words carry a note of amusement, as if the sparring is a game whose conclusion is foregone.

  Almost foregone, thinks Lerial as he raises the blade and moves into the circle to meet the undercaptain. Shastan’s blade flicks out, casually, and Lerial slips the half feint–half attack, moving not to his right, but his left, trying to catch the undercaptain by moving to his strength, rather than away. Shastan moves with Lerial, coming back with a cut that Lerial has to parry backhanded, then scramble to his right.

  The undercaptain starts a straight thrust … and Lerial dances to the side, but Shastan pivots quickly, with more grace than Lerial would have expected from a man so big, and his blade comes up and strikes Lerial’s with so much force that the entire blade shivers in his hand, and he can barely hang on … with the result that, although Shastan is open for a moment, by the time Lerial can regain full control of his sabre, that opportunity is gone.

  “You needed to slip or slide that,” comments the undercaptain, launching another attack. “Trying to block an attack squarely will wear you out even if you succeed.”

  Lerial tries an attack, and for a moment, Shastan retreats a step, but Lerial finds it hard to follow the order patterns when he is attacking, and he loses his concentration for a moment, then finds himself again on the defensive.

  His arm is getting tired when he sees Shastan overreach himself.

  Rather than take the obvious opening—too obvious—that the undercaptain has left him, Lerial feints as though he will, then drops not quite into a crouch and comes up under Shastan’s blade. Just as he is about to strike the Lancer officer on the thigh, Shastan makes a throwing motion, flinging sand and grit into Lerial’s eyes before he can close them. The combination of the burning and the blurring of his vision leaves Lerial largely blinded.

  Even so, through the stinging of the sand in his eyes, for a moment, Lerial almost lashes out, but instead, uses his order-preception to sense what his watering eyes cannot show him. As he can see more clearly, he still wants to lash out at the dirty trick. Never fight in a rage! The words that Altyrn has pounded into him cool him enough, and he concentrates on following Shastan’s movements as much through the order flows as through his still blurry vision. Somehow, he manages to ward off the officer’s attacks, both with the moves Altyrn has drilled into him and by circling toward Shastan’s left side.

  He keeps blinking, and finally h
is eyes clear, and he starts another attack.

  “That’s enough!” Altyrn calls out.

  Shastan backs away.

  After a moment, so does Lerial, but he does not lower the blunted sabre until he is outside the circle. Absently, he sees that Captain Graessyr has joined the majer.

  “You held a solid defense even when you could barely see,” observes Graessyr. “That’s good.”

  When I couldn’t see at all. “I just tried not to make any mistakes or give him an opening.”

  “Sometimes, that’s all you can do,” says the captain.

  Altyrn nods, then gestures for Lerial to head to the armory.

  Lerial nods, blots his forehead with the back of his left hand, and heads for the equipment storage room. Behind him, he catches a few words.

  “… not bad…”

  “… not for an officer trainee … he has to do better…”

  “… young still…”

  “… doesn’t matter … Afritans don’t care about age. Raiders don’t either.”

  Lerial frowns at the seriousness in both men’s voices, but he continues walking. He has just racked the padded armor and replaced the blunted sabre when Captain Graessyr enters the armory, holding a sealed envelope.

  “This arrived for you late last evening.” The captain extends the envelope.

  Lerial accepts the letter. “Thank you.” He will not open it until he is back at Kinaar and alone.

  “You’re doing well with the sabre,” adds Graessyr. “You’re holding your own against Shastan, and that’s not easy.”

  Need to do better than hold your own. “I’ll be happier when I can hold my own against you and the majer.”

  “That all depends on you, but you’ve made a good start.”

  “Thank you, ser.”

  Altyrn appears in the doorway. “Next eightday, you’ll start exercises in using that sabre from the saddle. That’s in addition to sparring.”

  Exercises? Not sparring?

  “Practicing bladework against another while mounted is too dangerous,” says the majer, adding after the briefest pause, “Even the Lancers don’t do it. It turned out that more of them were hurt in practice than on some patrols where they encountered raiders. The exercises will give you enough training.”

  “Especially with the majer directing you,” adds Graessyr, with a laugh. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “That you will,” replies Altyrn as the captain leaves the equipment chamber.

  Lerial and Altyrn walk without speaking to the stable.

  “Why did he throw that grit at my face?” asks Lerial, once they are in the saddle and well clear of the Mirror Lancer post.

  “I told him to,” Altyrn says.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  Lerial considers, if but for a moment, before replying, “To surprise me … to show me what could happen.”

  “That was part of it. It wasn’t the only reason.”

  “Oh … because I don’t always react well when I come up against something new?”

  “You’re getting a lot better at that. I thought you would with more experience.”

  “I was still angry.”

  “You will be for a while if you fight much. When men are losing or want a quick victory, they’ll try anything. You surprised me, though. You were deliberate, more than I expected.”

  “I surprised you, ser?”

  “You’re always well mannered, but beneath it all, you’re carrying a lot of anger…”

  You’d be angry, too, if your parents threw you out and stuck you two days’ ride away with almost no interest in what you were doing.

  “… but you held yourself in check.” Altyrn smiles. “That’s good, because I think anger runs in your family. Your grandfather was always angry. Might have been one of the reasons he brought down Cyador.”

  He brought down Cyador? “What?”

  “That wasn’t what he meant. He wanted to rebuild Cyador, but he was impatient. He tried to do too many things at once. He wanted to build fireships. He wanted to push back the Accursed Forest. He wanted to reclaim the lands the barbarians had overrun. That was because the copper mines in the west were mined out, and Cyador needed the copper near Lornth. Everything he tried took longer than he thought it should. That made him angry. Then the wards that held back the Accursed Forest weakened, and more and more Magi’i were sent to contain the Forest. So were too many Lancers, and many died. The Lancers fighting in Lornth were defeated because there were too many barbarians and not enough Lancers. That angered your grandsire more, and he took the white wizards who were holding back the Accursed Forest and sent them to conquer the barbarians. That made the Forest stronger, and the dark angels called on it to help them. They destroyed most of the powerful Magi’i, and then there was no one to hold back the Accursed Forest when the dark angels called upon it to destroy Cyador.”

  Lerial is silent for a time. He knows that the dark angels and the Accursed Forest called upon the very earth and the seas to bring down Cyad and Cyador, but he has never heard the story told the way the majer tells it.

  “Mind you,” the majer goes on, “that’s not the way you should tell the story, but that’s the way it happened. You and your brother need to know what really happened. Trying to do too much too fast is bad enough. Doing too much too fast and doing in anger always leads to trouble. You can’t afford that.”

  What am I supposed to do? Wait until I’m as gray as you are?

  When the two rein up outside the stable back at Kinaar, the majer looks to Lerial. “I need to ride out to the woodlot. When I get back, we’ll have something to eat, and then we’ll ride up to a place on the Wooded Ridges. You need to do some thinking about how trees and hills lie and what to do in various places.” Altyrn smiles. “That way you can read your letter, and you won’t be thinking about it when you should be looking and listening.”

  “Ah … yes, ser.”

  The majer is riding off even before Lerial has finished dismounting. Since it will be a while before he rides out again, Lerial leads the gelding to his stall and unsaddles him, giving him a quick brushing. Then he makes his way to the villa and finds a corner well away from the fountains where he breaks the seal and opens the letter. The handwriting is not his father’s, but his mother’s.

  Dearest Lerial—

  I hope this finds you in health and enjoying life away from Cigoerne. Ryalah and I miss you. So does your aunt Emerya. She asked me to tell you not to forget your lessons, especially when you practice with wands.

  There have been more attacks by Heldyan armsmen coming across the Swarth River to the southeast of Narthyl, and your father has been gone from Cigoerne most of the time since you left …

  Lerial lowers the letter. He has been gone more than two seasons, and his father has been in Narthyl or south of it most of that time? That doesn’t sound good.

  … has sent word that he and the Mirror Lancers have been able to deal with the armsmen from the east without serious casualties so far. He has ordered Majer Phortyn to raise and begin to train another two companies. Lephi is riding more patrols now. Those are mostly to the west and south of Bartheld …

  Riding patrols and glorying in it, no doubt. Lerial forces himself to concentrate on the letter.

  … Your aunt has been conducting the tests for apprentice healers. She said that you have the talents for that, even if men are not usually healers. She also said that those Lancers who serve under you will be fortunate because you will be able to do field healing when the time comes.

  With all the hot weather we have had, the olives from our older lands are ripening sooner, and it is likely that the amount of oil pressed will be more than last year, and that is good, because food will be scarce in parts of Cigoerne …

  Lerial reads the rest of the letter impatiently, but all it contains is news about crops, weather, and the low state of the Swarth River. He frowns as he sees his mother’s initial at the bottom of t
he next to last page. Did she add something else?

  The last page is from Ryalah, each word painstakingly written.

  My dear brother—

  I miss you. I wish you were here. Amaira wishes you were here, too. We both think you should come home. Mother says you will. She says it will be a while.

  Your sister Ryalah

  Lerial can’t help but smile at the simple words. He also wonders just how long “a while” might turn out to be.

  XVII

  Over the next several eightdays, Lerial continues to receive sabre instruction and bruises from both Captain Graessyr and Undercaptain Shastan … followed by a glass or more of instruction and exercises in handling a sabre while mounted. The one matter about which he is certain is that he sleeps well, possibly because the nights are cooler, but mainly because he is worn out by dinner.

  At perhaps a half glass past midmorning on a cool but sunny fourday, when Lerial and Altyrn ride back to Kinaar from the Lancer post, Altyrn clears his throat, then says, “Tomorrow, we’re going to take a short journey west, for several days. You and me, and several Lancer rankers I’ve persuaded the captain to let accompany us.”

  “Is something the matter?” asks Lerial.

  “No. You need to know more about the Wooded Ridges and terrain than you can learn near Teilyn. I have some maps in the study I want you to learn this afternoon. Memorize as much as you can before dinner.”

  “No sabre practice on horseback, ser?”

  “You’ve had more than enough to know what to do if you get attacked. Your defense is better than most. It’s your attacks that are weak, but you’re not likely to be attacking much.”

  On this trip … or any time? Lerial suspects it is the latter, but there is little point in asking, because Altyrn would point out that, either way, it makes little difference, something that Lerial already knows.

  Once they are back at the villa, Lerial unsaddles the gelding, grooms him, sees to his water and feed, and then makes his way to his chamber. There he washes up and heads down to the lower level and the majer’s study.