Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “Did you eat, ser?”

  “I did.”

  Lerial can sense the truth of that and says, “Good. If you don’t mind my saying it, I do worry about you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Lerial eases himself into a rickety straight-backed chair and waits.

  After a time, Altyrn does speak. “In one of the old books—I wish so many had not been lost in the fall of Cyad … One of the greatest privileges of being the head of the Palace Guard was the ability to borrow books from the Malachite Library. I learned so much there.” Altyrn shakes his head. “What was I saying? Oh … about Lorn and Alyiakal. One book said that even when Lorn was old and looked feeble that his technique with either blade or order and chaos was so superb that no one dared stand against him. He was so able that he could use the strength of his opponents against them. There were similar words about Alyiakal. So many, especially the young, believe strength and power are everything. Some strength and power are necessary for success, but technique makes the difference. Technique is not just important. In the end, it is what decides what will be.” A wry smile crosses his face, and he adds, “If you have the weapons and the men.” He pauses briefly. “I’m going to take a walk. I’ll be back later.” With that, Altyrn rises and leaves.

  Lerial sits for a time, thinking, but the majer’s words continue to ring in his ears. If Altyrn is right, then Lerial should be able to improve his technique with order so that he can handle much stronger chaos mages. Should? Not if you don’t work on it. He looks into the fire burning in the hearth. How fine a line of order can you formulate? He pauses, recalling that he had experienced one other problem. And how fast can you do it well?

  After several moments, with a sigh, he stands and goes outside to the woodpile, where he looks for the greenest wood. He finally selects three modest lengths that look and feel less seasoned, both to his eyes and order-senses, and carries them back into the dwelling, where he eases them onto the hot coals, then steps back. He hopes what he has planned will work.

  After several moments there is a spark, but Lerial cannot even see it, much less sense it.

  He concentrates more intently, and by the time several more sparks have popped, he is able to find them quickly, but it takes almost a third of a glass before he is able to find each instantly.

  Next comes making a pattern quickly to trap them.

  More than a glass later, Lerial feels exhausted, but he is finally managing to catch each spark—a tiny bit of flame and chaos—within a tiny “cage” of order.

  The door opens, and Lerial turns to see Shaskyn and Kusyl enter.

  “What are you doing?” asks Kusyl.

  “Practicing technique,” replies Lerial blandly. “What have you been doing?”

  “Scrounging through the dwellings, trying to find weapons.”

  Lerial should have thought of that, he realizes. “Did you?”

  “Not a one,” admits Shaskyn.

  With that admission, Lerial feels somewhat less guilty. Somewhat.

  “Technique?” presses Kusyl.

  “For trying to divert those chaos-bolts. Fire is sort of like chaos … and it’s less dangerous to try new things with fire.”

  “I can see that. I think.” Kusyl nods. “I wish you well. I’m turning in.”

  “Me, too,” adds Shaskyn.

  Once they have left the main room, Lerial goes out to the woodpile, where he gathers more green wood, then returns to the fire and adds another two lengths of what he has brought in. For all of his resolve, after but a few more attempts, his eyes are blurring, and he knows he can do no more. He just watches the fire until it burns down more and he can safely bank it.

  Then he heads for his bed, such as it is, and discovers that Altyrn is already asleep. You never even heard him come back in.

  Before long, he, too, is asleep.

  LXVII

  Lerial wakes early on fourday with his eyes burning and their corners filled with sleep encrustations. The still air in the bedroom holds the acridity of wood smoke. Because Altryn is still asleep, snoring lightly, Lerial eases out of the small bedroom, carrying his boots and personal gear, and into the main chamber of the dwelling, where he finishes dressing as quietly as possible. Then he makes his way outside. The entire sky is hazy and reddish to the east, where the sun lurks below the horizon. To the west, the smoky haze is far thicker, and Lerial wonders just how much of the Verd has burned … or is still in flames.

  He sees smoke coming from the chimney of the dwelling being used as the kitchen for second and fifth companies, and he catches a whiff of something being baked or cooked, but that odor is largely overwhelmed by that of wood smoke.

  “Good morning, ser.”

  Lerial turns to see Alaynara, the head archer of fourth squad, standing at the corner of the dwelling. “Good morning. How are your archers?”

  “They’re fine. We don’t have any shafts. Not many, anyway.” She tosses her head slightly, not enough to move her short reddish brown hair.

  Lerial answers the unspoken question. “We’re supposed to get more this afternoon. It’s not likely we’ll fight today.” He pauses, then says lightly, “I’m not promising.”

  Alaynara’s distant expression softens. “You weren’t allowed to be a child long, were you, ser?”

  The question takes Lerial so aback that he does not answer for a moment. “I suppose not. What matters now…” He struggles for a moment. “What matters now is that others will have a chance to be children when they should be.”

  Abruptly, Alaynara looks away. “I’m sorry, ser. I didn’t mean…”

  “No offense was meant, and I didn’t take any.” He manages a smile. “If you and your archers can find any more arrows or anything else that will stop Meroweyans, I’d be obliged if you’d let me know.”

  “We’ve been looking. We’ve found a few shafts that might do in a pinch.”

  “Good.”

  “Thank you, ser.” She takes a step back, then turns.

  Lerial watches as she walks north, most likely toward the dwelling that holds the archers, wondering what prompted her question. That you look so young for what you’re doing? He isn’t about to ask. That might invite a familiarity he cannot afford.

  For some reason, her question raises an entire series of questions—those he has not thought about for a time. What is Lephi doing? Is he riding routine patrols or are the Mirror Lancers in the southeast of the duchy fighting pitched battles with the Heldyans? Or do the feint-and-pursue skirmishes continue? Is his father still spending most of his time in the north, keeping the Afritans from sacking Penecca? Have the Afritan forces backed off? Or have they begun full-scale attacks? And how are Emerya, Amaira, and Ryalah faring?

  This far from Cigoerne, how will you ever know?

  He takes a deep breath, knowing he will get no answers, not soon, and perhaps not for seasons, if it is that long before he can return to Cigoerne.

  After mentally going over what he should do, Lerial checks with his squad leaders, eats quickly, and then walks along the lane, testing his order-senses. He is relieved to discover that he can discern objects and individuals almost a kay away. You might have most of your skill back by tomorrow. Except he’d been able to sense more than three kays before being felled. Or in a few days … maybe. He also knows that the Meroweyans aren’t likely to stop attacking while he recovers.

  He tries to think about weapons … and ponders whether they might try making spears or javelins. There is certainly enough wood around. Finally, he returns to Altyrn who is back at his table in the dwelling.

  “Ser, I’ve been thinking … What about spears or javelins?”

  Altyrn looks up from the square of paper on which he has been sketching a map or battle plan of some sort. “That’s a good idea. I’ve had some of the men working on that … and on some old-style spear-throwers. I thought about lead spear points, but the Verdyn don’t use lead. They say it’s a poison. So we’ll have to do with sharpe
ned tips.” The majer grins. “Don’t look so discouraged. I do have a little experience. In fact, I should have thought of throwing spears earlier, but we’ve been so used to lances it didn’t occur to me. We also weren’t expecting an army of four thousand men.”

  Lerial is glad that the majer used the word “we,” but he still feels stupid. What else should he have thought of … and hasn’t?

  “If you or your squad leaders or rankers have any other ideas, please let me know.” Altyrn shakes his head. “I’m about out of ideas.”

  “Yes, ser.” Lerial understands what Altyrn hasn’t said—that any “new” weapons need to be the kind that they can use from a distance because they don’t have rankers to spare. He leaves the majer to his battle plan, if that is what it is.

  Lerial meets once more with all his squad leaders and asks for their thoughts on weapons or traps that they can make easily that won’t take excessive effort and will be effective.

  “Slings, maybe, ser,” suggests Bhurl, but before Lerial can reply, the squad leader shakes his head. “They’re effective, but it takes time to learn how to do it … and you need the right kind of stones, too.”

  Fhentaar and Korlyn each mention javelins, and Moraris just shakes his head, and says, “The farther a weapon reaches, the more time it takes to make it.”

  “And usually the more iron,” replies Lerial.

  Less than a half glass later, just before eighth glass, he is still thinking the matter over when he notices that the majer, accompanied by a squad from first company, rides out. Scouting for another battle site?

  Over the course of the late morning and midday, the smoke and acrid odor from the west abate somewhat, but the sky remains hazy in all directions, most likely because the air barely moves, with only an occasional light breeze from the north that quickly dies away.

  Lerial goes back to the fire in the dwelling, practicing variations in catching and diverting chaos-fire, and trying to do so according to the precepts of his aunt Emerya. He has to admit that he feels less tired working that way, but it takes more concentration, especially at first. After more than a glass, he leaves the fire and walks outside. He is still standing there when Altyrn rides back up and dismounts.

  “Where are we fighting next, ser?” ventures Lerial.

  “If we get the choice … if we do, there’s a bridge over a fairly deep stream some three kays east of here. If we remove the bridge we could make it hard for them to cross.”

  “If we get more arrows.”

  “There are two wagons on their way. We passed them coming back.”

  “Do you know how many arrows?”

  “Enough for ten to fifteen shafts for each ranker. Just for the companies here. That’s a rough estimate. Some of the heads are a bit battered, and they might not fly true, but … there are a lot of Meroweyans.”

  After a time, Lerial leaves Altyrn and walks south along the lane, thinking … and trying to sense both the order and chaos around him. When he finally turns back, it is likely close to fourth glass, and he believes his order-chaos discernment is sharper. As he nears the dwelling serving as officers’ quarters he sees that Altyrn is sitting on the narrow front porch, talking to Kusyl.

  The majer gestures for Lerial to join them. “I hoped you’d be back before long. Practicing again?”

  Lerial nods.

  “You were earlier, too. I could tell. That main room is like an oven.” Altyrn smiles. “That’s why we’re out here.”

  “Ser…,” ventures Kusyl. “There’s a ranker. He’s got a messenger sash.”

  Lerial turns and watches as the rider slows and asks something of a group of rankers sitting in the shade. One of the rankers points southward toward the three officers on the porch.

  The messenger urges his mount forward. When he reaches the dwelling, he rides right up to the porch and dismounts, hurrying to Altyrn. His brown uniform is dusty, his eyes reddish and twitching, and his voice hoarse as he says, “Dispatch from Undercaptain Juist, ser. He said it was urgent.”

  “Thank you. When did you leave him … and where?”

  “The east side of Truyver, ser. Eighth glass last night. I took two mounts. Had to come the long way.”

  “If you’d stand by.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Altyrn reads the short dispatch quickly. “Juist and Denieryn have pulled back. Juist reports that they each lost close to a squad. The locals did everything they could. Some flung crocks of burning oil, and they put pit traps everywhere. Juist thinks they wounded or killed more than three companies of Meroweyans. The Meroweyans killed scores of men, women, and even some youths. They bombarded Truyver with firebolts. The entire town and much of the surrounding forest are in flames.” He hands the sheet to Lerial. “Read it. Did I miss anything?”

  Lerial scans the short sentences, then starts to hand the dispatch to Kusyl. The former squad leader shakes his head, and Lerial realizes that one of the reasons that the man was likely never promoted to undercaptain was that he cannot read or write—or not well. Lerial hands the paper back to the majer. “You said everything that he wrote.”

  The majer turns to the messenger. “Tell me what you saw, if you would.”

  “Ser…?”

  “What you saw. The undercaptain only wrote what happened. We need to hear what you saw and went through.”

  “Ser … we had trenches … good trenches … the Meroweyans threw firebolts … but the fire didn’t touch us. Our archers, they shot over the heads of the shields … into the men on foot. We ran out of shafts, and the shields came for us, and some of them got caught in the staked ditch. Their own wizards … they dropped fireballs into the ditch … killed some of their own to burn away the stakes … and then they charged. We pulled back and mounted … and the people they threw oil down on the attackers … that’s when they got to the center of town … the undercaptains had us charge one flank … They weren’t expecting it … we killed some … then there was fire everywhere. That’s what I saw … and there was this boy … and he was running, and he was all fire … and there were others … my mate, Fheric, there was a firebolt overhead, and it exploded and part of it went through his chest…”

  Lerial swallows quietly and listens until the messenger finishes.

  “Thank you,” Altyrn says quietly. “Just take care of your mount. Then go lie down in the main room. There’s water inside. We’ll wake you when it’s time for mess.”

  “Thank you, ser. You sure, ser?”

  “I’m very sure. You did well to get this here. There’s nothing else you need to do for now … except to get some rest.”

  “Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.”

  Once the messenger makes his way into the dwelling, Altyrn takes the dispatch, folds it, and slips it into the leather map folder, then looks to Kusyl. “Get Shaskyn. We need to go over the plan for tomorrow. Whenever they come, we’re likely to face firebolts first, rather than later.”

  Will you be able to handle them? Any of them? Lerial doesn’t know. He can only hope.

  LXVIII

  Fiveday morning finds Lerial and second company packing up once more and readying for another ride, another tactical withdrawal, in the majer’s words. When Lerial is certain his squads are ready, he rides over to join the other company commanders, just in time to hear Shaskyn speak.

  “We’re … just leaving, ser?” asks the fifth company acting undercaptain. “Now, ser, when…?”

  “There’s nothing we can do here,” replies Altyrn. “There are no defensible positions, and we’re outnumbered. It’s better to spend the time to prepare our next line of defense.”

  “Seems a shame,” murmurs Shaskyn.

  Kusyl nods, but adds, “We didn’t start this.”

  “Starting a war is always a bad idea,” replies Altyrn, “assuming you can ever figure out who really did.”

  Puzzled expressions cross the faces of both Kusyl and Shaskyn, and for a moment, Lerial doesn’t understand. Then he does, and he nods.


  In less than a third of a glass, second company is moving out, if slowly, because Altyrn has assigned Lerial as rearguard. The road, as before, is empty except for Altyrn’s forces, but there are enough fresh ruts and tracks to indicate that quite a few of the local people have fled, although Lerial suspects there may be many who live deeper in the woods and who are gambling that the Meroweyans will stay fairly close to the main road to Verdell. Lerial doesn’t doubt that, but he does think it will only be a matter of time before the fires set by the invaders will get out of control—if they haven’t already in the west where Juist and Denieryn are fighting. When that happens the fire will do to those who are in its path what the Meroweyans haven’t.

  Lerial also briefly ponders why the Meroweyans have not set more fires after razing Nevnarnia and Truyver. He shakes his head when he realizes that those advancing toward Verdell don’t want to end up being trapped by any fire they set, and that they would have to answer to Duke Casseon if they fired every hamlet and town because that would destroy much of the reason for even occupying the Verd. In addition, it is clear that the Meroweyans have waited to march on Ironwood until the fires set at Nevnarnia have died away … or been damped down by the elders.

  Once everyone is on the main road, the ride from Ironwood to the creek takes little more than a glass.

  The bridge is constructed of heavy timbers that join two mortar and stone bases set into the bank on each side. It is wide enough only for a single large wagon, or two horses abreast, but does have sturdy timber posts and railings on each side. The stream is modest, no more than six or seven yards across the water itself, and as Lerial rides across he looks down. The water is clear enough, but he can only see little more than a yard down, suggesting it is deep enough that crossing would be harder than it first appears. He also notices that there are no trees near either bank, although there are more than a few stumps, and all of the stumps are small.

  They cut back the trees often, every year possibly. Why? Lerial cannot conceive of what benefit that might convey, but he is certain that there must be one, because it is clear that the people of the Verd do nothing on whim or without a purpose that has been well considered.