“Thank you. We’ll be as quick as we can. How steep is the stone wall beyond the grass?”
“Little more than half a cubit. You’ll have to walk your mounts down over that.” Smathyl pauses, then says, “You’re one of the hidden black ones, aren’t you, ser? Not that it’d be any of my business…”
“I can do a few things … some healing, and I can sense the clouds and the weather a little.” Lerial smiles wryly. “Just enough to get myself in trouble.”
“Anyone who tries to do what’s right usually does. That’s why so few of power remain good.”
Lerial is still thinking about that when the “thornbush” rolls aside and a section of the massive trunk of the tree beyond it swings back, revealing a space just big enough and tall enough for one Lancer to ride through, if by ducking his head.
“Go ahead, Captain.” Smathyl gestures.
Lerial cannot sense anyone out on the open grassland, nor can he see anyone through that opening. So he urges the gelding forward and lowers his head. As he rides through, he sees that there are two smaller trees, if substantial in themselves, around which a false trunk has been constructed, so that they appear to be two forks out of the base trunk.
The stone wall is more like a cubit high, and Lerial guides the gelding over it slowly, then calls back. “Watch the drop at the end of the green grass! Pass it back!”
Before long, second company is formed back into squads with a four-file formation riding westward but keeping close to the trees, with a single scout some fifty yards ahead. Lerial keeps checking the map against what he sees and what he order-senses. The breeze out of the north is warmer than it has been, but it is spring, Lerial reminds himself, and there could be a shift and another cold south wind at any time.
Half a glass later, close to midday, the ranker scout rides around a large bulge in the forest, then halts, signals, and heads back toward second company … in a great hurry at a canter, if not a gallop.
Lerial frowns. He has not sensed anyone, except a mist like chaos. A mist like chaos? A chaos concealment! He bites back what he almost exclaims.
The scout reins up. “They’re coming this way, ser, two companies, maybe three, and it’s like they knew we were coming.”
“How far?”
“Two hundred yards, ser! Maybe less.”
Withdraw … or fight? If second company immediately flees … that suggests that the company is alone … and invites further pursuit. “All squads!” orders Lerial. “Line out on first squad! Five front! Ready bows!”
The other three squads have barely formed a line when the Meroweyan riders emerge from around the trees to the west. There are a good three companies, and the lead squads carry spears, not quite so long as the mirror lances that Lerial’s company does not have, but long enough.
Lerial waits … watching as the Meroweyan horse thunders toward his single company, waiting, judging. At just over a hundred yards, he commands, “Fire at will!”
With the shorter distance, the archers and Lancers only lift their shafts slightly, so that any that might pass between the oncoming riders can possibly hit riders behind. All the shafts are concentrated on the leading squads, and at first, only a mount or two goes down. Then one rider swerves, and two others collide with him … and more shafts fly.
Lerial is about to order an instant withdrawal when he senses the concealment mist vanish. Almost simultaneously, a modest chaos-bolt arches over the oncoming riders, now less than fifty yards from Lerial, directly toward first squad.
Lerial immediately tries the best order pattern he has, hoping that this time, the order returning will go where he wants it—and well away from him. As he clamps the order-pattern around the chaos-bolt, a feeling of ugliness, almost like filth or sowshit, grasps him.
WHUMPPPHYT! The chaos-bolt explodes—or starts to—midway between the two forces—and then a brilliant line of golden red sears back behind the attackers. Chaos-fire flares in their rear, far more than the chaos-bolt could have contained. But, with the explosion and the dissolution of the order pattern, the ugliness is gone.
Then … a barrier of hazy silver black, like a low wall no more than two yards high, appears just in front of the first line of Meroweyan spearmen. The entire first line hits the barrier and piles up for a moment … before the hazy silver black vanishes, as if it had never been, leaving a tangle of men and mounts, and then a huge gust of hot air smashes into first squad, and most probably, the rest of second company.
Lerial is almost torn from his saddle, but manages to keep his seat. He glances around, seeing that two or three rankers are barely hanging on to their mounts.
“Second company! Withdraw! To the rear! Now!” Lerial can sense that, while the attack has been blunted, the armsmen in the Meroweyan rear, at last on both flanks, can easily swing around the mess his very temporary shields have created, and they far outnumber his company, not to mention that they are better armed for riding down his semitrained rankers, already likely short on arrows.
As second company reverses direction and Lerial urges the gelding back toward the rear of first squad, now the front, he keeps pressing his order-senses. What he notices immediately is that there is no sense of chaos amid the Meroweyan force. Either he has disabled or killed the white wizard … or he has shielded himself, and there is no way to tell. After several moments more, it is also clear to Lerial that the confusion created by Lerial and second company is apparently enough to stop any immediate pursuit.
Even so, Lerial does not slow the company to a slow walk until they have put a good kay between themselves and the Meroweyans. Unfortunately, after riding another half kay, Lerial can sense yet another difficulty. Not that far ahead—perhaps a kay and a half—is the other Meroweyan group that Smathyl has mentioned … and the last thing Lerial wants to do is get trapped between both forces—especially since the force they are approaching has a strong white wizard and since Lerial still feels somewhat shaky after his last encounter with a wizard.
He turns to Korlyn. “We’re going to have to head farther southeast. There’s another large Meroweyan force ahead.” He pauses. “How many shafts do most of the men have? Get me a rough count, if you would … and from the other squad leaders.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial keeps surveying the shaded spots under the trees at the edge of the Verd as well as the open grasslands with their scattered clumps of bushes, but he can sense only the two groups of Meroweyans and some scouts for both.
Before long Korlyn returns. “No more than four shafts each, ser. Some only have three.”
“Then we’re going to have to take a longer ride than we planned.”
“Yes, ser.”
“On me!” Lerial commands as he turns the gelding more to the southeast.
Once they are farther away from the Verd and the effect of the tall trees, Lerial feels that the wind has also begun to pick up. When he looks more intently to the northwest, he can see dark clouds, and the clouds appear to be moving swiftly across the far reaches of the woods toward them, with the haze beneath suggesting rain. While the rain, if it continues, will hamper the wizard in his efforts to burn through the tree-walls of the Verd, Lerial really doesn’t want to be caught in the open in the middle of a rainstorm … not that he will have much choice, it appears, given the need to avoid the Meroweyans.
The Meroweyans also apparently see the oncoming rain, and while it is possible that the white wizard may sense second company, the three companies or so of horsemen ride more quickly back westward. Even so, by the time Lerial and his company circle around the Meroweyans and finally locate the wayguides and the second narrow entrance to the Verd, the rain has been falling steadily for almost a glass, and Lerial and all the rankers are soaked through and through.
By then, the rain has also penetrated the forest canopy and falls from the leaves on all the riders as they make their slow way along yet another narrow, turning, twisting, and seemingly endless passage through the Verd, back to
ward their encampment.
It is well after sunset, or would have been, had the clouds not covered any trace of sun, by the time Lerial settles second company—and after discovering that one of the rankers in first company had broken his arm when the backlash gust of wind had unhorsed him. Lerial has finished a cold and oily meal whose contents he could not have described and is standing just inside a damp tent he understands he will be sharing with Altyrn, although he has not yet seen the majer.
Is there any way you could retain or manipulate that order split from a chaos-bolt? The problem is that it all comes at once, and he has no experience in dealing with that much order or chaos. He is still pondering over that when Altyrn walks stolidly through the rain and into the tent, where he gently brushes the water off the oiled leather jacket he wears.
“What happened?”
“We were attacked even before we could even attempt a fixed ambush…” Lerial goes on to relate the details, finishing up with, “… and then we rode back along a very wet and narrow passage through the Verd, getting even more soaked before we got here.”
“You managed to inflict some casualties. Do you have any idea how many?”
“Maybe two squads worth, between the injuries at that temporary order barrier and the ones brought down by arrows.” Lerial shrugs. “We didn’t stay to find out.”
“You’re likely hurting them more with what you’re doing to their mages,” muses Altyrn. “They burned two more gaps in the trunk wall before the elders could get the rain to strengthen.”
“They’re weather-mages? Why do they need us—”
Altyrn sighs. Loudly. “Didn’t you hear me? They’re not that strong, or not that strong without risking their lives. They can make it rain harder … or less … but they can’t create the storms.”
That makes sense, unfortunately.
“The damage the Merowyan wizards did was enough. They have three gaps big enough to put a company at a time through.” The majer turns and looks out into the dimness beyond the tent. “The rain will help for a few days after it lets up, but then they’ll burn another one or two. After that, there won’t be any way to keep them out.”
“How did Juist do?” asks Lerial, not only wanting to know, but also to change the subject.
“About the same as second company. Kusyl didn’t even get close. They were waiting for fourth company as well. He lost eight men. Between the three of you, we cost them another company today.”
Lerial understands all too well what the majer isn’t saying—that they still face overwhelming odds.
LX
The rain keeps falling sixday evening. It is still coming down on sevenday morning, and from what Lerial can sense in the clouds and in the flow of order and chaos, it will continue for at least several glasses, because he can find no change in the clouds to the northwest, which is from where the light winds are blowing. He still wonders just how the elders had managed to increase the rain.
After dealing with muster and making sure his men are as dry as possible, and having to admit to Alaynara that he does not know whether more arrows will be forthcoming or when, Lerial spends the morning experimenting with various order-patterns, using the lodestone at times, and not at others. He is discovering that, for whatever reason, most likely practice, he is more able to summon free order … but he has difficulty in doing much with it. To him, order is more like a flow of liquid, like water, except, unlike water, he has no container with which to hold it, so that he can direct it to some extent, but unless he concentrates—hard—on containing it, it flows from his patterns like water running through his fingers, or oozing from cupped hands.
The other matter that concerns him is the feeling of ugliness or uncleanness that he felt when he had redirected the chaos-bolt. He has always been slightly uncomfortable with chaos, a feeling he had almost not recognized, but the ugliness … even sitting on his blanket in the tent, he shivers slightly to think about it. Was that because you were dealing with more chaos … or more closely? That brings to mind his aunt’s caution about always making sure order lies between him and any use of chaos. But you were using order and not trying to influence the chaos directly.
Still … he has only been using one coil of order, unlike the earlier patterns where he has employed several lines of order. What if you use just two thinner order lines in the coil shape?
He sets to work trying to duplicate that. After a half glass he is sweating slightly, despite the slight chill, but he has finally managed to create the small pattern the way he wants it.
He nods happily. Then another thought crosses his mind. What would happen if you wrapped that order pattern around the lodestone?
Lerial smiles as he does so—but his mouth drops open as the lodestone, pouch and all, rips itself from his hands and slams into the scabbard of his sabre, lying on the blanket beside him. The lodestone holds to the iron of the blade even through the hardened leather, and it takes a great effort by Lerial to pry it loose. Holding the lodestone tightly and well away from the sheathed sabre, he studies the dark oblong with his order-senses. Somehow, the pattern he has created has become part of the lodestone itself, amplifying the natural order-lines of the stone.
If you did that to any piece of iron … would it do that? Lerial shakes his head. To make iron act like a lodestone … at the moment, he can think of no reason to do so, but he will keep that in mind.
“If I might ask, Lerial … what are you doing?” Altyrn stands just inside the tent, shaking rain from his oilskin jacket.
“Working on trying to get better control of firebolts. Why?”
“Because you were surrounded by something like a silver-black haze.” The majer smiles almost slyly. “I recall something you said about not being an ordermage…”
“I’m not. I’ve had a little instruction, and can do some healing. Other than that, I’ve figured out a few things, but I can’t predict the weather, or change it. I can’t erect shields against either order or chaos; I can only sometimes shift where chaos goes … and that’s dangerous. You’ve seen that.”
“I have.” Altyrn nods. “I’ve also seen you destroy two chaos wizards, and you can conceal your entire company from sight.”
“Only for a short time.”
“Many would consider all of those enough to name you an ordermage, Lerial. Your rankers already do.”
Lerial winces. “I’m not that good.”
“You may not yet be what you would consider a good ordermage, but you are an ordermage of sorts, and it’s foolish on your part to deny it. Denying what you are only weakens you … just as exaggerating what you are does. Strength lies in knowing who and what you are—your capabilities and your weaknesses.”
Lerial cannot dispute that, and he nods.
After a silence that seems long to Lerial, but probably lasts but a few moments, Altyrn says, “The rain is a mixed blessing. Their chaos mages can’t do that much, and that will allow the crafters here to make more arrows.”
“That would be good. My head archer was asking about that.”
“I will let you know as soon as I do.”
“Yes, ser.” Lerial pauses, then goes on. “I know that the rain will keep the fires from spreading, but you said they can’t do much.”
“It’s been forgotten, I think, but handling chaos in the rain can be very painful for those who do. At least, that was something I was told a long ways from here when I was a very junior officer.”
Lerial frowns for a moment. That’s something he has not heard. “Is there anything else that makes it hard for them?”
Altyrn laughs softly but harshly. “An even stronger ordermage. Or having to use chaos in the middle of the ocean or a large lake.” After another pause, he says, “I came to see if you had any sense of how long this rain will last.”
Lerial is about to protest, then reluctantly smiles. “Wait a moment … if you would.” He concentrates once more, letting his senses probe the clouds. As before, he can sense no immedia
te change … yet … the order flows seem slightly lighter and not quite so strong. He looks at the majer. “The rain might start to weaken in a few glasses, but I can’t tell if it will strengthen after that … or get stronger again.”
“I’ll see you in a few glasses then…” Altyrn gives Lerial a surprisingly boyish grin, “Captain and ordermage.” With that he turns and leaves the tent, walking through the rain toward the tent that holds Donnael, who has remained with the six companies for the last three days.
Lerial looks down at the lodestone he is still holding. What else can you try?
LXI
By eightday morning the rain has stopped. Only a thin haze remains, a combination of fog and mist that hovers in the forest canopy and higher. The wind has shifted to the southwest and turned cooler, but the Meroweyan forces do not look to move or break camp. Shortly after midafternoon, Altyrn sends out sixth company under Denieryn through the main southern road gate—still unbreached—to see what reaction that provokes. Three companies immediately charge, and fireballs fly. Sixth company loses almost a full squad to firebolts and two stragglers who are cut down by hard-riding Meroweyan horsemen, although archers stationed by the road gate bring down close to another squad of Meroweyan riders who pursue too closely.
“They were ready,” says Lerial after hearing from the majer what happened.
“They knew you weren’t there,” observes Altyrn.
“Do you want second company to try next?”
“You can’t do everything,” the majer replies.
That’s not exactly an answer. While that is Lerial’s first thought, he realizes that what the majer means is that if second company is the only one moving against the Meroweyans, sooner or later, the attackers will find a way to trap and outnumber second company … particularly since Lerial has no way to shield his position from the Meroweyan mages or wizards, given that, just as he can sense concentrations of chaos, they seem able to know where he is through the concentration of order he has, small as it is.
Cyador’s Heirs Page 44