Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “Do you think they’ll attack this evening?” asks Lerial.

  “I’d be surprised. They lost some of those riders because the ground was soft. Every glass the wind holds it dries out the ground and trees more. Tonight … well … it’s going to be a long night,” says Altyrn.

  By eighth glass in the evening, the first firebolt strikes the edge of the already burned area east of the road-gate, and Lerial goes to find Altyrn.

  “I can try to stop them,” he says.

  “Which ones? How will you keep up? The chaos-fire you saw to the east isn’t the only place they’ll fire. They’ve already moved on. Their mages rode up behind a company, threw some fire and withdrew.”

  Lerial understands all too well, especially after riding on the tortuous paths of the Verd. If second company leaves the Verd, Lerial will likely be immediately outnumbered and forced to withdraw. “So what do we do?”

  “Wait. The Verd is still damp, and the elders can minimize the spread. If Casseon’s men do attack in the darkness, they’ll risk taking huge losses among the trees. They’ll likely attack in force tomorrow.” Altyrn snorts. “If they attack tonight, I’ll have you awakened, never fear. For now, try to get some rest. You’ll have plenty to do tomorrow.”

  Even before Lerial returns to the tent, he can smell the acrid odor of burning wood and vegetation, but he can see no fire, not even a dull red glow.

  As he stands there, a short and broad-shouldered figure approaches. “Ser?”

  He recognizes her. “Yes, Head Archer?”

  “Do you know where we will be riding tomorrow?” Alaynara’s voice is low for a woman, but pleasant.

  “Wherever the majer sends us. That will depend on where the Meroweyans are and what they’re doing.”

  “You know you’re not what anyone thought?”

  What anyone thought? “You mean by ‘anyone’ the people of the Verd? Or the Verdyn Lancers?”

  “Both. It’s not as though the Lancers and the people are different.” Her smile is somehow sad, Lerial thinks.

  “Sometimes, those who are younger don’t see things the same as those who are older.”

  “Especially when the younger ones are fighting and dying. Is that what you mean?”

  “I have thought that. What did you mean by my being different? That I’m fighting instead of merely being here and conferring with the elders?”

  “Mostly. But you also saved Haermish when it might have killed you.”

  Her words embarrass Lerial, and he quickly replies, “I did what I could … and it was after we got back.”

  “You like to think of yourself as practical, don’t you?”

  “I try.” He almost laughs, thinking how that description would have amused his father.

  “Practicality has to include who we are.”

  “That’s why you’re fighting,” he points out.

  “I thought you would understand. The majer does. I hope your father does also. Good night, ser.” With a polite nod, Alaynara slips away into the darkness.

  For a time, Lerial stands there. Did she seek you out just to make that point? Why? You’re not even the heir.

  In a way, Alaynara reminds him of Emerya, the same sort of combination of caring and practicality … and that reminds him of Amaira … and Ryalah, and he wonders how they are both doing … and that makes him wonder if Alaynara will end up like Emerya. He is still pondering what Alaynara had wanted when he stretches out on his blanket.

  That acrid odor is stronger when he wakes as the sky is beginning to lighten the next morning. He glances at Altyrn’s bedroll, which is already rolled up and wonders if the majer ever sleeps. When he looks outside, he can see that the cooler wind has brought scattered clouds, not thin ones, but the puffy kind that may well turn into thunderstorms by afternoon.

  After checking with the second company duty ranker, he is relieved to know that there have been no more attacks during the night, not after ninth glass, anyway, and that the fires caused by the white wizards have largely died out. Because of the efforts of the elders?

  Lerial eats quickly and goes to find Altyrn, whom he finds standing in the narrow opening of the outer road gate. The lines of smoke from cookfires and the fact that there are no forces obviously mustering suggest that they do not plan on an early attack.

  The majer turns to Lerial. “Close to midday. They’ve widened the gap east of here. I could be wrong, but I think they’ll attack there in force without their wizards.”

  “Ser?”

  “They have to know that you can’t or won’t throw chaos. But you can throw it back at them. They don’t need chaos to prevail. In fact, it could hurt them. So they’ll send the wizards elsewhere to burn other entries and let most of their armsmen push their way into the Verd.”

  “Shouldn’t second company go where they are?”

  “We don’t know—yet—where that might be. If the Meroweyans attack where it’s most likely, fifth and sixth company will be in the trees on both sides of the burned-out area, and they’ll be on foot with blades and bows. Third and fourth company will be behind them, but angling in, with half the squads on foot, and half mounted. Their battle line will be the unburned brush and trees. First and second companies will be the farthest back, and mounted, but in the middle of the assault. If we get word as to where the white wizards are, I’ll pull second company to ride to where the wizards are. Juist and Kusyl can pull back and in and to cover first company on both sides.”

  “When do you want us in position?”

  “Unless I order otherwise, start moving into place in a glass.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Slightly more than a glass later, Lerial stands at the edge of the burned-out section of the Verd, looking out across a charred and ash-covered waste where only the blackened trunks and lower limbs of the most massive trees remain, jutting into a sky half-filled with white and gray clouds. The burned area is close to four hundred yards wide at the former edge, where even the stoutest trunks have been blasted away by chaos-fire, those ancient and massive trunks that Lerial had once believed could withstand almost anything—anything but fire. The fire-cleared area stretches back a good three hundred yards, but narrows to slightly more than two hundred yards wide where Lerial stands, beside a tree whose lower leaves are gone, but not those in the canopy. Lerial can see the purpose behind the Meroweyan chaos-attack, because the trees are much farther apart farther inside the Verd, separated by as much as five to eight yards behind Lerial. In other areas, he knows, the trees and underbrush are almost impassible, suggesting that the Meroweyans either have had spies posing as traders and scouting the Verd for a time or the white wizards are very accurate in sensing the areas with fewer trees.

  Lerial glances southward, but does not see any Meroweyan forces. The wind is gusting at times, and each gusts shifts fine ash. Even with the wind, the sun is much stronger, early in spring as it is, and Lerial wears his jacket unfastened as he stands beside the gelding, wondering if the wayguides or the elders or the scouts will be able to locate the remaining white wizards. How many did they bring? He’s fairly certain that he has killed two, possibly three. Are there that many strong white wizards in Merowey? Or does Duke Casseon prefer to keep the stronger ones busy and at a distance? Or both? The latter possibility is definitely disturbing, but there’s little he can do about that now … or possibly ever.

  Out of the corner of his eye he sees movement, and he reaches out with his order senses, recognizing Altyrn and another rider. He turns and sees that with the majer is an older man in brown, most likely a wayguide—and that suggests that second company is needed elsewhere. Rather than guess, he just waits as Altyrn reins up and merely says, “Yes, ser?”

  “You can guess, I’m certain, Captain. This time they’ve moved some three kays east. That’s where they threw firebolts earlier, but not enough to totally break through. Reksyl, here, will guide you as close as he can. If it’s a feint, I’d appreciate your returning as soon as possible
. But you know that,” says Altyrn. “If there is a chaos wizard there, anything you can do would be appreciated, especially to the armsmen with him.”

  “I understand, ser.” In short, use the chaos, if you can, to reduce the number of Meroweyans we have to fight.

  “I’m sure you do.” Altyrn nods brusquely, then says to the wayguide. “Thank you.” He turns his mount.

  Lerial calls out, “Second company! Mount up! Back to the road. First squad to the east. Double file!” Then he mounts and nods to the wayguide. “If you would, Reksyl.”

  “This way, ser.”

  Lerial keeps glancing back, but the squads are following, and behind them, he can see first company shifting position. In less than a fifth of a glass second company is riding eastward at a fast walk. The “road” is more like a path wide enough for two mounts abreast, and the grass at each side extends only a cubit or so out from the packed earth before giving way to underbrush and trees. Lerial feels as though he is riding through a gray-green tunnel, mostly gray, because only the green tips of the new leaves have begun to show and there are not that many evergreens in the Verd. Even the birds are hushed, as if they sense a storm of some sort, even though the rankers are largely quiet.

  Lerial begins to sense the chaos to the southeast after they have ridden some two kays. While he is not totally certain, it feels a good kay away, perhaps slightly farther. He turns his head toward Reksyl. “How much farther?”

  “A bit more than a kay, ser.”

  Lerial nods.

  “You can sense them.” Reksyl’s words are more statement than question.

  “Somewhat…,” he admits.

  “You are the … youngest officer, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is a sad time when the youngest son of a ruler must ride into battle with so many men’s lives behind him.”

  “It is a sad time, when any ruler’s son must lead men into battle,” Lerial replies quietly.

  “That is true,” replies Reksyl. “That is not what I meant. It is not it at all. You are young to have killed so many.”

  Have you killed that many? How does he know?

  “I am not a powerful ordermage, as are you, but the white touch of death leaves a faint silver mist around those mages who have brought forth death.”

  “I’ve never seen that,” says Lerial.

  “None sees his own mist, and few ordermages are strong enough to bring death and still hold order with power.”

  Strong enough … or desperate enough? questions Lerial silently.

  As they ride closer to the burned-out area, Lerial uses his order-senses to discover the formation of the Meroweyan forces. From what he can tell, there are four companies, and one is moving forward, toward the small burned-out part of the Verd edge. The front line, no more than a twenty-man front, consists of men with overlarge shields. Behind them are riders, and the riders also bear the same kind of overlarge shields. Perhaps five yards separates the foot and mounted shield line from a company of horse troopers, and behind the horse troopers are several mounted figures, one of whom is surrounded by chaos—the chaos wizard who will doubtless begin the process of burning a wider gap in the tree trunks that have protected the Verd for so long.

  The other three companies are spaced equally far apart, roughly twenty yards of open grassland between each formation, and consist of four squads with two squads in front and two behind, each squad showing a five-man front. To Lerial’s senses, all three companies are “misted” in chaos, as if each protects a wizard who has created a chaos blur.

  But then, one wizard could have cast that mist, and how can you tell where he is? Or if he is anywhere close to any of the companies?

  Ahead, the wide path ends in a narrow clearing, no more than twelve yards deep and perhaps forty long, barely large enough to fit second company.

  “The grasslands lie a little more than a hundred yards to the southeast,” says the wayguide. “The trees are closer here than elsewhere, but there is enough space for a rider to pass until you reach the thornbushes. They do not begin until you are within fifty yards of the trunk-wall.”

  Lerial nods, considering. Then turns in the saddle to Korlyn. “I’m going to take second squad with me, closer to the Meroweyans. You’re in charge of the rest of the company. Keep them ready to charge—or withdraw immediately.” What Lerial doesn’t mention is arrows. Only the archers of fourth squad have any shafts left, and those amount to but two or three for each archer. He is holding fourth squad in reserve, to fire several quick volleys to slow a Meroweyn charge, if necessary and practical. He hopes it is not necessary.

  “Form up by squads. Five-man front! First squad on me!” Lerial rides to the west end of the clearing, making it easier for the company to re-form from the two-file column. While the squads are moving into position, he uses his order senses to check the Meroweyan advance. By now the shielded line of the Meroweyans is perhaps a hundred yards from the edge of the Verd.

  Lerial immediately rides over to Bhurl, the second squad leader. “Have second squad accompany me—now—through the trees to the edge of the burned space. Or as far as we can go,” he adds quickly, thinking about the thornbushes.

  “Yes, ser.” Bhurl turns. “You two! Flank the captain. Second squad! Forward!”

  Lerial waits only a few moments for the two rankers to join him before urging the gelding through the trees on the south side of the clearing. While there are small bushes amid the massive trunks, and occasionally smaller and lower trees, covering the first fifty cubits or so is not all that hard … not until he reaches the massive and tangled thornbushes that are almost as high as the gelding’s ears. He reins up a few yards short of the thorny mass.

  At least, the Meroweyans aren’t coming through here without clearing the way. Except he knows all too well that they will be clearing the way—unless he can stop them—with chaos-fire.

  “Form a line abreast, two deep, as best you can,” he orders.

  While the Verdyn Lancers are moving into position, Lerial again checks the position of the lead Meroweyan force, but, as he does, he senses the lightest of … something … tinged with chaos.

  Is that what a chaos-sensing probe feels like? That is his guess, but it is only a guess.

  The center company of Meroweyans halts roughly fifty yards from the edge of the Verd, or where that edge had been before being turned to ash and charcoaled tree trunks. The two trailing companies halt farther back, perhaps a hundred yards.

  “The closest Meroweyans are about a hundred yards away,” Lerial tells Bhurl.

  “You’ve got better eyes than me, ser,” replies the squad leader.

  A modest fireball arcs from the lead force toward the back of the burned-out area, or the thornbushes and trees at the beginning of the unburned woods.

  Lerial counters with a small pattern to redirect the firebolt back at the chaos wizard, but he can sense something, shields or the like, and the chaos-fire sprays away from the wizard. Lerial winces inside as he feels the silver-white blackness that Reksyl has said shows death. Although he cannot tell how many armsmen near the wizard have perished, he feels it is more than a single man, but not a large group.

  Two far larger firebolts arch north, not toward the edge of the Verd, but toward Lerial and second squad. Given the shields shown by the first mage, Lerial creates two patterns, but both are angle-linked to redirect the chaos back toward the westernmost wizard, the one Lerial feels, although he cannot say why, is the weakest of the three he faces.

  The wizard’s shields hold, but chaos flashes away from them, and a wave of silvered black-gray death flows from the Meroweyan company.

  Even before that chaos subsides completely, three firebolts—one from each Meroweyan wizard—sear toward Lerial.

  Lerial has to struggle to complete three coil patterns, and the fireballs fuse—sending flame into the trees and thornbushes less than thirty yards from him—before flaring back toward the westernmost wizard. The wizard’s
shields tremble, then fragment, and chaos fire splashes out across the entire Meroweyan company.

  “… flaming sowshit…” murmurs one of the rankers slightly behind but flanking him.

  Sweat runs down Lerial’s face, and his eyes sting from the small amount that flows into his eyes. He finds he is breathing hard … and that two more firebolts are headed toward him.

  It’s more than clear that he’s in a trap. But how … He doesn’t have time for such thoughts as he wrestles another pair of patterns into place.

  The two firebolts fuse, even closer to second squad, and more trees and thornbushes go up in near-instant flame, while heat washes over Lerial and the squad. But the patterns hold, and the redirected chaos-bolt flies toward the chaos wizard shielded by the easternmost company, the stops short of him and sheets in all directions. Another wave of gray-silvered whiteness rolls back toward Lerial, a wave unseen and unfelt by any in the Verdyn force, Lerial suspects, except himself and likely the wayguide, who waits at the back of the clearing.

  Another chaos-bolt flies toward Lerial, this one from the easternmost company, but only one. Again, he creates the diversion pattern, but almost as he finishes it, another comes from the closest chaos mage, the one Lerial feels is the strongest.

  Lerial can barely manage another diversion pattern, and the wizard’s shields shunt the redirected chaos back into the edges of the burned-out area, the corrosive fire disintegrating more of the massive trunk wall that had guarded the Verd for so many centuries. He can feel the trees and the thornbushes in front of him beginning to spin, and knows he cannot divert another chaos-bolt, even a few yards away.

  “Second squad!” he manages somehow. “Withdraw now!”

  He has to hang on to the gelding’s mane, just concentrating on staying in the saddle, as he turns his mount and urges him back through the trees as quickly as he can. He yells out, “Second company! Withdraw now! Now!”

  “Ser! Are you all right?” demands Korlyn.

  “Withdraw, frig it! We can’t do any more here.”

  “We haven’t taken any—”