Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18)

by Modesitt, L. E. , Jr.

  “You acted without orders, the commander tells me.”

  “I did. It seemed foolish to wait for orders when the Heldyans were destroying the duke’s property and killing my rankers. As for the fourth attack, I didn’t think the duke would mind the effort to keep his people from being slaughtered, particularly since Subcommander Ascaar had his hands full, Subcommander Drusyn was too far away to reach the piers, and since I’d left a company to hold the breach in the wall against no known Heldyan attackers.”

  “You acted rather effectively.” Rhamuel smiles. “More so than I even expected.”

  “I just used some misdirection, and their mages, or wizards, did the rest.”

  The arms-commander nods.

  Lerial shrugs, deciding the less he says, the better. When Rhamuel does not speak, he adds, “I have to say that I worry about all those armsmen headed downriver.”

  “So do I, but I would appreciate your not saying much about that for the next day or so.”

  Lerial nods in return, then takes another biscuit, and another swallow of the lager, both of which seem to be helping his vision and his throbbing head.

  “You can heal some, I understand.”

  “A little,” Lerial replies. “That was what I was doing before I came here. I could only do a little. Perhaps more … later.”

  “I thought that might be delaying you. Healing must run in the blood.”

  “That’s possible. My aunt and my mother are both healers, as I told you earlier. It’s too early to tell how good a healer Amaira will be, but it’s clear she has some ability.”

  After a silence, Rhamuel says, “So far as I have been able to determine, the only mages with the Heldyan forces were those with the armsmen who attacked Lubana. Do you know anything other than that?”

  Lerial shakes his head. “There were two mages with that force. One was a chaos-wizard, and the other was an earth-mage. At least, the ground shook before the wall collapsed.” He pauses briefly. “Commander Sammyl told me you have no mages, although there are some in Swartheld.”

  “A very few. My great-grandsire was less than fond of mages, and their services do not come cheaply. He also blamed the Great Fire on them, although I doubt they were the cause. So we must do what we can without mages. You say that you couldn’t tell more than you did about Khesyn’s mages?”

  Lerial does not press the fact that Rhamuel has not really addressed the matter. “That was the only thing I felt—that and the chaos-blasts. I’m assuming that there were two mages, because I’ve never heard of those talents being held by the same magus … and if they were, I don’t know that Khesyn would hazard that talented a wizard on an almost casual attack.” Lerial uses the word “casual” in hopes of drawing out Rhamuel.

  “What makes you think it was casual?”

  “The fact that they really didn’t pursue it. Once they ran into trouble, they left. The attackers who landed north of Luba had to be forced back. At least, it looked that way from the piers.” As he finishes those words, Lerial realizes that what he has said is only half true. The hunting-park attack was casual, but he doesn’t know that about the attack on Lubana, not since he destroyed most of the attackers.

  Rhamuel shakes his head. “All four attacks were designed with a deliberate purpose in mind.”

  A deliberate purpose? What about two … or three? “Which was?”

  “What do you think it was?” counters Rhamuel.

  “To embarrass you, in order to have you replaced.”

  Rhamuel laughs, if ruefully. “That’s certainly the first thing that crossed my mind, but I wonder if I’m taking that too personally.”

  Given what appears to be happening in Swartheld? Lerial smiles. “It also could be to make sure you keep at least a battalion or two of Afritan Guards in the south to weaken your defenses of Swartheld.”

  “That is also possible.”

  Lerial nods and waits.

  “You know,” Rhamuel says casually, “my brother is rather fond of Lubana. I’ve never understood why, but he is. I’d much prefer the hunting lodge at Chaendyl—that’s in the wooded hills west of Swartheld—or even the villa at Lake Reomer.”

  “Thank you,” says Lerial, giving a double meaning to the words, “I wouldn’t have known where either of those are.”

  “I thought not.” The arms-commander purses his lips. “I shouldn’t keep you longer, and I do need to go over a few matters with Sammyl and Subcommander Valatyr.”

  “I wouldn’t want to keep you from that,” Lerial replies. “I did appreciate the lager and the biscuits … very much.”

  “I thought you might, and you’re very welcome.”

  As Lerial leaves the study, he recognizes, once more, that even the arms-commander of Afrit must watch every word, even in the privacy of his own spaces. But he is indeed grateful for the refreshments, since he feels strong enough to go back and do some healing on at least another wounded ranker or two, possibly three.

  XIII

  Four of the wounded lancers die before midnight on twoday. Although Lerial’s efforts at healing seem to be working with those he has been able to help, and while those with less chaos in their wounds and broken bones also appear to be improving—at least, they were when he left, late in the evening—Lerial is still worrying in the gray dawn light as he goes to meet with his officers … well before breakfast and the morning meeting that will follow, and which he dreads. He knows that he did not handle the battle before the wall well. He should have gathered all his forces within the wall, let the wall take the brunt of the initial attack, and then struck back with his own abilities. He is more pleased with the second battle, although his timing could have been better.

  For all the maneuvers you’ve conducted, and the handful of skirmishes with raiders, you haven’t fought a pitched battle in almost five years. That thought does not console him. Nor does the fact that he and his men likely would have taken far higher casualties, or even been slaughtered, without his order-chaos abilities. Maybe not Kusyl’s company, no thanks to you.

  The tents holding the various Afritan Guard companies are largely quiet as he walks down the open space that serves as an avenue of sorts. Two Afritan rankers, handling guard duties, nod politely and step back. Lerial returns the nod and continues on, trying to use his order senses to see what they may say to each other.

  “… the one … tell by the red hair…”

  “… rode out of the rubble and killed all the Heldyan bastards?”

  “… same … doesn’t pay to cross Mirror Lancers…”

  Lerial only wishes that were true. Duke Khesyn has been crossing Cigoerne for years, what with his raids and his occasional attempts to block river trade.

  When he reaches the Cigoernean tents, Fheldar and the two undercaptains are waiting.

  “How are the wounded?” Lerial asks immediately.

  “There are some…” begins Strauxyn.

  “Let me deal with them first. Come along.” Lerial leads the way to the tent holding most of the wounded, where Kusyl points out a young ranker from Twenty-third Company.

  “Nothing that I can see,” says Kusyl. “Just … something.”

  Lerial studies the young man, who feels warmer than he should, with both eyes and order-senses, the latter likely to be more accurate in the grayness before dawn. There is more wound chaos than there should be in the wound—a thrust into the upper chest, at an angle, not even to the bone. Lerial can sense a small object there, surrounded by wound chaos.

  Can you use order, maybe with a touch of chaos, to get that out? His brow is covered with sweat within several moments, but he finally removes part of the dressing and uses the tip of his belt knife, touched with order. The knife, a pulse of order, and the tiniest touch of chaos result in a narrow sliver of something that feels ugly on the tip of the knife, and some pus on the skin around the wound.

  “Have them clean the skin with clear spirits and re-dress the wound.” Lerial follows Strauxyn to the end of the
tent to a ranker moaning in his sleep. His left leg and forearm are splinted.

  “He seems to be moaning more than the others…”

  Lerial uses his order-senses to probe gently, then shakes his head. “He should be all right. Broken bones, especially where he has them, can be very painful.”

  He applies a touch of order to two other wounded rankers, then leaves the tent, followed by the other three, and makes his way to the officers’ tent. Once there, he asks, “What have you heard, if anything?”

  “Not much,” replies Kusyl. “None of the junior officers know any more than we do. I’ve had my squad leaders asking some of the Afritan squad leaders. They took more casualties than we did. Well … their lead companies did. Some of the companies that were at the hunting park didn’t even fight before the Heldyans backed off.”

  “The ones that met the Heldyans north of us all fought,” adds Fheldar. “All took casualties. Maybe one, two men in ten.”

  Two battalions, ten companies—that’s more than a hundred casualties, perhaps two hundred. Lerial frowns. That suggests that Luba was indeed a target, rather than a feint. But why? The ironworks are more than ten kays away. Or does that just confirm that the attacks were made to put Rhamuel at a disadvantage … as he intimated? And with whom? It has to be with more than his brother … doesn’t it? “It appears as though we had the fewest casualties.”

  “Some of the Afritans noticed that, too,” comments Fheldar. “And we fought two times.”

  “Keep listening. I’ll be back after the senior officers’ meeting and let you know what I find out. Is there anything else?”

  The three exchange glances. Finally, Kusyl speaks. “Not that we haven’t talked about.”

  “Then I’ll see you later.” Lerial walks swiftly back to Atroyan’s country house, but does not overhear any comments pertaining to himself or the Mirror Lancers.

  He slips into the private dining room, somewhat surprised that Majer Prenyl is the only officer there, and takes a seat at one end of the table.

  Prenyl immediately rises and walks over. “Ser?”

  “Yes?” replies Lerial pleasantly, wondering why Prenyl is addressing him and what adverse news the majer might be about to convey.

  “Ah … I just wanted to say that … some of us … we appreciate that you came to Lubana.” The major offers an embarrassed smile. “The Heldyans might not appreciate your presence, but some of us more junior officers do.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad we were able to help. I don’t think any of us want Duke Khesyn on this side of the river.”

  “No, ser.” Prenyl smiles again. “That’s all, ser. I won’t be keeping you.”

  Abruptly. Lerial understands. “Thank you very much.”

  “Not at all, ser.”

  After the majer retreats, Lerial nods, wondering exactly what words Sammyl will be using to minimize or otherwise imply less than favorable behavior on the part of the Mirror Lancers … or their commander.

  Ascaar sits down across from Lerial. “Saw you out early this morning.”

  “I was checking on the wounded.”

  “You didn’t have that many, did you?”

  “Not as you did, I hear, but we only have three companies, not ten. On a man-for-man basis, it’s likely not much different.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that.” Ascaar takes a swallow of lager, then adds, “Your three companies took out more Heldyans than our twenty.”

  “We were fortunate.” Lerial is tempted to confess some stupidity, but refrains, instead eating more of the warmish eggs scrambled with ham chunks. As he does, he sees Drusyn enter the officers’ mess and sit down with Subcommander Klassyn. Shortly, Sammyl and Valatyr enter and sit together, and Captain Waell joins Prenyl.

  “I don’t much believe in fortune.” Ascaar offers a sly smile. “Except as an ally to keep others from realizing you’re more skillful than they are.”

  “There are times when any ally is welcome.”

  “You were welcome, and then some, yesterday. I saw those boats coming in to the piers, but we couldn’t get there. Appreciate it. When the Heldyans saw they’d lost any chance of reinforcements, they backed off.”

  While Lerial has his doubts that the Heldyan withdrawal was entirely because of his effectiveness, he merely says, “I’m glad we could get there in time. It was a close thing.”

  “Close doesn’t matter … not unless it’s close on the wrong side.”

  Ascaar’s words are so sardonic that Lerial smiles in appreciation.

  The two finish and leave the private dining room, just behind Majer Prenyl, and make their way to the salon, where they wait by one of the wide windows.

  “Beats me as to why the duke’s sire ever built this place here,” offers Ascaar. “His consort didn’t like it, even died in childbirth right here when she bore the arms-commander’s younger brother. The present duke hasn’t been here in years, but I hear he always talks about how much he likes Lubana. Every once in a while, the arms-commander mentions it, too.”

  Lerial nods.

  Before long, Drusyn and Klassyn appear, and then Valatyr, although none of the others make a move to join Ascaar and Lerial.

  The officers all stiffen as Commander Sammyl enters the salon, although Sammyl immediately orders, “As you were. Take your seats.”

  By the time Sammyl reaches the end of the salon and turns, all the officers are seated and waiting. The commander offers a bleak smile. “Yesterday was interesting. I don’t like interesting days. Neither does the arms-commander. For your information, and so that everyone understands…” Sammyl pauses. “The verified Heldyan casualties consist of three hundred and twelve dead, sixty wounded, and one hundred prisoners. The prisoners were largely captured by Overcaptain Lerial’s companies. One disturbing matter is that at least one company, possibly more, of the attackers was made up of Tourlegyn warriors … even if they wore Heldyan blue. The number of Heldyans and Tourlegyns killed in the chaos-explosions here at Lubana and at the piers of Luba cannot be determined. The lookouts report that more than fifteen flatboats were destroyed, and most boats carried fifty armsmen. Those are, of course, estimates. The Heldyan death toll is likely less than that because a good three boats’ worth of advance troopers had vacated the boats at Luba before the explosions.”

  Captain Waell glances toward Lerial, his eyes wide.

  “Given the high death toll among the Heldyan attackers, the arms-commander has determined that an increased risk to Swartheld and the cities and towns north of here exists.” Sammyl pauses and takes a breath, as if for emphasis. “Therefore, Subcommander Drusyn and his battalions will depart for Swartheld on fiveday, saving the wounded, who will recover here. One of Subcommander Ascaar’s battalions—Sixteenth—will remain at Lubana, under Majer Chorazt, while the subcommander and Fifteenth Battalion will depart Lubana to return to Shaelt on sixday, again saving the wounded.”

  Trust Sammyl to place the blame for danger on you. Despite that thought, Lerial maintains a pleasant expression, if not a smiling one.

  “Whether Overcaptain Lerial’s companies will remain here is a matter being considered by the arms-commander, and, of course, is at the sufferance of Duke Kiedron. At present, scouts and lookouts have determined that only three flatboats remain at the piers in Vyada.” Sammyl pauses, then asks, “Do any of you have anything to add to what I’ve said? Or any questions?”

  When none of the other officers speak, Lerial smiles and says, “The only observation I might make is that there were no mounts whatever on any of the flatboats we encountered. Perhaps I am not well acquainted with Heldyan tactics as practiced north of Cigoerne, but in the south most Heldyan incursions have included some mounted units. I was wondering if either Subcommander Drusyn or Subcommander Ascaar encountered any mounted forces or saw any horses.”

  “An interesting observation, Overcaptain.” Sammyl glances at Drusyn.

  “We did not encounter any mounted units,” replies Drusyn. “They did not disembar
k all their flatboats. There may have been horses on some.”

  “Every last Heldyan got off the boats, and those that survived got back on,” says Ascaar flatly. “Not a horse in sight.”

  “Thank you, subcommanders,” Sammyl says so quickly that Lerial could not have replied, even had he been so minded, which he is not. “Now … I will be meeting separately with the battalion commanders shortly…” For the next quarter glass, Sammyl goes over such matters as possible changes to battalion departures from Lubana should the weather change, arrangements for the wounded once they recover or must be invalided out of service, and arrangements for rations for travel north.

  Finally, he smiles and says, “If there is nothing else, you all may return to your duties.”

  Lerial rises with the other officers, but does not hurry to leave the salon. Neither does Ascaar, and the two walk out together, leaving the salon empty, except for Captain Waell, who, as usual, directs a pair of rankers in rearranging the chairs and settees.

  Lerial notices that Sammyl and Valatyr are headed toward the private dining room, and he wonders what they might be discussing. So, as he and Ascaar reach the stairs to the upper levels on the north wing, he pauses. “Go ahead. I’ll see you later.”

  “Later it will be. Much later,” says Ascaar. “It appears as though I have more to do than I’d thought.” The older officer starts up the white marble steps.

  “Don’t we always?”

  Ascaar laughs.

  Lerial turns and heads back toward the main hall, pausing by an alcove that is mostly shadowed. When he is sure no one is around, he raises a concealment and then walks as quietly as he can toward the private dining chamber, slipping through the open archway and moving toward the far end of the table where Sammyl and Valatyr are sitting. Valatyr is seated so that he can observe the archway, but the subcommander shows no sign of having penetrated Lerial’s concealment.

  “… you think of the overcaptain’s observation?” asks Sammyl.

  “He’s very observant,” returns Valatyr.