They only ride about a kay before turning west on a dirt lane. Less than two hundred yards from the shore road, the scout reins up. “You can see how they’re set up from here, ser. They’ve lined up companies from the shore to the hill over there.” The scout points. “The hamlet—that’s where their headquarters are. Leastwise, that’s where everyone rides to.”
The hamlet is a rough clumping of perhaps a score of cots on the west side of the shore road, set on a flat to the north of a small creek that flows under a bridge crossing the shore road and into the bay. Surprisingly, there are few reeds or marsh grasses where the creek joins the bay. Recently turned fields, now covered with rows of tents, extend more than a kay west of the road before giving way to a sparsely grassed slope rising to a long ridge that roughly parallels the shoreline. Almost due west, and just a shade north of the hamlet, there is a dip in the ridge that would afford an easier passage than riding over the ridge. Lerial can see men and mounts posted there, as well as lookouts on the ridge on both sides of the low point. He takes out one of the sheets of paper and uses a grease marker to sketch the Heldyan camp and the brook and other key features of the terrain.
“What’s beyond the ridge? Can we ride far enough that way to get a glimpse of the land there?”
“Yes, ser. Not much there. Ground’s not too rough, but not much grass and more than a few thornbushes, the low prickly kind.”
As they ride westward along the higher ground on the south side of the creek, Lerial studies the west end of the fields, trying to memorize them so that he can add them to his map. A low grassy swale separates the fields from the gradual slope of the ridge, which is sandier and less grassy than Lerial had originally thought. The swale is almost, but not quite, a natural moat, but Lerial doesn’t see that it would be that much of a barrier to the lancers, especially if they could surprise the Heldyans. On the other hand, the slope up from the creek to the north flat is steeper than it first looked, although the creek is also narrower, no more than a yard across and likely less than a half yard deep, from what Lerial can see.
After half a kay or so, the scout again reins up where the lane turns to the southwest to parallel the swale. Lerial can see that the creek flows northward in the center of the swale until it reaches a point some hundred yards northwest of him where it turns, almost abruptly, to the east and toward the bay. Absently, he wonders when the creek was diverted
“You can just see part of the back of the ridge from here,” says the scout. “You want to go farther?”
Lerial doesn’t answer, but studies the back of the ridge, taking out his crude map and sketching in more details. The part he can see has what might pass for a forest, a mixture of dryland pines and tree cactuses that seems to stretch almost a kay, perhaps a third of a kay south of the low point in the ridge and two-thirds of a kay north.
“Is there a trail through that low point?”
“No, ser. Maybe a footpath, but it’s steep between the first ridge and the second one back.”
“How do you get around those trees?” asks Lerial, thinking about Dhresyl’s comments about scouts.
“There’s a trail just below the top of the next ridge. Must go a good five kays before it runs into the shore road. Wouldn’t want to ride the last kay though. Heldyans have patrols there.”
“Where does it go to the south?”
“There’s another lane off the shore road.”
“Good.” Lerial nods. “You can show us that on the way back. I think I’ve seen enough.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial can sense a certain puzzlement from the scout, but that’s fine with him. The fewer people who can guess exactly what he is thinking, the better.
A glass later, Lerial is meeting with acting commander Dhresyl and Drusyn in a tiny room adjoining a small chamber off the south end of what had been the auxiliary troopers’ mess hall. The larger of the two small chambers clearly serves as both headquarters and the senior officers’ mess since the destruction of the headquarters and main messing buildings.
Dhresyl is scarcely imposing physically—stoop-shouldered and slight of build, with short shaggy brown hair and a receding hairline—but his eyes are an intense hazel-yellow that reminds Lerial of a predatory vulcrow, and his voice is firm, but somehow mellow as he continues his briefing. “… been rotating battalions holding the hills overlooking shore road a mille to the north … saw no sense in having everyone out there when we can be there in less than a glass…”
“How far between your battalions and their advance forces?” asks Drusyn.
Lerial refrains from commenting, allowing Dhresyl to answer the question.
“About a kay and a half. They’re set up in that hamlet. It’s so small it doesn’t have a name. They’re keeping something like two battalions in reserve at the tileworks. Might be three.”
“And they’ve made no advances south of the hamlet?” presses Drusyn.
“No. Not a one.”
“Have they sent scouts or small forces south and west as though they might make an encircling move?” asks Lerial.
“I’ve worried about that. I’ve kept more than a company, squads and single scouts, patrolling to the west, and even to the north. I wanted to see if they’d invested Baiet. They haven’t. Not as of yesterday.”
“And you think that they’ll attack tomorrow because they built large cookfires today?” Drusyn’s voice is skeptical.
“Tomorrow or the next day. You don’t want to be fixing warm meals when you’re on the march. They also haven’t landed any more men and mounts in the last two days, and there aren’t any merchanters tied up at the tileworks pier.”
“Did your scouts find out anything about the merchanters porting there?”
Dhresyl shakes his head. “For the most part, the scouts couldn’t get that close. Those few they could spy had canvas over their names and ports and flew no colors.”
“So they were likely hired and possibly not even from Hamor,” says Drusyn.
“Hired, but some might be from Hamor,” suggests Lerial. “If all names were covered, how could we tell?”
“Sailors talk, sooner or later,” replies Dhresyl. “If they were Hamorian, someone would find out. If they’re outlanders, with their names covered and no colors, even if they ported here later and talked in the inns or taverns, if they spoke other than Hamorian, who would understand?”
“Why would outlanders do that?”
“For golds and a chance to ruin Afritan traders at the same time,” Dhresyl points out.
Lerial understands that. And you should have thought about sailors talking. You’ve listened to lancers talking often enough. Is his slowness because he’s tired and the last days have been long? He can only hope that is the reason.
After several more questions from Drusyn, more about billeting and messing, there is little more to be discussed, and Lerial and Drusyn leave the temporary headquarters. Once outside, he glances at the evening sky. It is clear, with no sign of rain. Even his order-senses suggest that the next few days will be fair … and that also suggests Dhresyl is correct about the coming attack.
“Do you know why Commander Sammyl and the arms-commander decided to put Dhresyl in overall command?” asks Drusyn in a low voice once they are well away from Dhresyl and the mess chamber.
“No, I don’t. They didn’t ask me. I hope you don’t take offense, but they shouldn’t have. I’ve seen your battalions fight, and they’ve been effective both times,” when Fhaet didn’t get in the way, “but I know nothing about any of the other subcommanders besides you and Ascaar.”
“I can see that, but Dhresyl…”
“He’s junior to you and doesn’t have any more experience?” says Lerial gently.
“That’s … the best way of putting it.”
“I have no idea on what they made their decision,” Lerial says, and that is certainly truthful.
“Well … we’ll see how well he does in the days ahead.” Drusyn’s voice ho
lds a certain forced cheer.
“That’s true for all of us,” replies Lerial. “Speaking of the days ahead, I need to meet with my captains and pass on what Dhresyl told us.”
“Me, too.” With a nod, Drusyn turns toward the northwest corner of the Harbor Post, walking steadily toward the tents that shelter his battalions.
Lerial turns toward the small barracks.
Over the next tenth of a glass, he gathers Fheldar, Strauxyn, and Kusyl into the cramped narrow space that barely holds a bunk, a table desk, and the four of them. He relays all that he has learned from Dhresyl, then asks, “Have any of you heard anything?”
Strauxyn shakes his head.
“I had my squad leaders nose around,” says Kusyl. “What they heard seems pretty much like you heard from the subcommander. There was one thing, though. We saw lots of chaos when we ran into the Heldyans up north. No one here has seen any. The Afritan battalions don’t even have anyone who passes for a hedge wizard, begging your pardon, ser. The Afritans have to know they’re facing chaos … and there are no mages.”
“I’ve asked about that,” Lerial replies. “I’ve been told that mages are rare in Afrit. The few that there are work for the wealthy merchanters.”
“They can’t spare them to defend Afrit?” asks Kusyl. “Doesn’t seem that bright to me.”
Fheldar nods.
That raises another question that Lerial does not ask. If the Heldyans have mages and have had them for a time, and the Afritans don’t, then why have they waited so long to attack Afrit? Or is it just because it has taken Khesyn this long to unite his land and raise enough armsmen? Lerial has another thought. Have all the attacks on Cigoerne been just a way of giving the Heldyans experience and training to deal with Afrit? He finally says, “I can’t answer that, not really, but I’d guess that Khesyn has been planning this for a very long time, and he didn’t want to attack Afrit until he was certain that he wouldn’t have trouble with the Tourlegyn nomads and all their clans. From what I know, that’s the only thing that makes any sense.” And even that doesn’t make that much sense.
“Doesn’t matter, one way or another,” says Kusyl. “They got mages and wizards, and the Afritans want the overcaptain and us to deal with them.”
“And if we don’t here,” adds Lerial, “we’ll end up doing it again outside Cigoerne before long.”
Kusyl offers a patently false long and doleful face. “More summer-old dead fish.”
Even Lerial has to smile, if only for a moment.
After the three leave, he hopes he is not making a mistake by not telling the undercaptains the fundamental problem created by Dhresyl’s and Rhamuel’s defensive strategy … and the reason for his scouting trip. If we wait until they hit us with four chaos-mages or more … He shakes his head, recalling how he and Twenty-third Company had been forced to withdraw from even the initial invasion force. And if they’ve added more mages … You definitely need to talk to Dhresyl … early tomorrow.
Somehow he needs to persuade the commander to allow him to do what he has in mind. Whether he can or not, he will have to do it, or risk death or an ignominious retreat in a huge pitched battle. But persuading Dhresyl would be better. Much better.
XXXIV
Lerial is up before dawn on sevenday, finishing sketching out a clearer version of the map of the Heldyan camp he had made the night before. Then, before he heads to the senior officers’ mess for breakfast, Lerial walks across the large courtyard to the east side, where he studies the ruins of the main mess hall and the headquarters building some fifty yards west of the mess. He frowns. Although the undercaptains he encountered the night before insisted that the explosions began in the mess-hall kitchens, Lerial cannot see how that explosion could possibly have destroyed the headquarters building. With a nod, he turns and makes his way to the makeshift officers’ mess. Since there is a vacant chair beside Dhresyl, in fact, several on each side, Lerial takes the one to the commander’s right.
“Good morning, Overcaptain.”
“Good morning, ser. Are there any reports yet?”
“Only that there were no cookfires this morning. The Heldyans haven’t formed up … or hadn’t less than a fifth of a glass ago.”
“Speaking of fires, do you know what caused the explosion here?”
“It had to be cammabark. I’d guess it was brought into the post in barrels, labeled as flour or something else, and put in the kitchen near the ovens so the heat would dry it out … and then it would have only taken a single flame, maybe even just a candle beside a barrel…”
“It couldn’t have been labeled as flour,” muses Lerial.
Both wait as a ranker places platters in front of them, containing some form of eggs, cheese and thin slivers of what Lerial hopes is ham.
“Lager, if you have it?” Lerial requests.
“Yes, ser.”
Once the ranker has moved away, Dhresyl asks, “Why don’t you think the barrels were labeled as flour?”
“Flour dust can explode. The cooks would know that. They’d only keep what they needed.” Lerial pauses. “Most cooks wouldn’t keep anything close to the ovens unless they were going to use it soon.”
“There’s not much else that comes in barrels—mutton, some dried beef, pickled root vegetables, dried fruit, but we only get a few barrels of that—too costly, you know.”
The ranker returns with Lerial’s lager, then departs. Lerial takes a swallow, sets down the beaker, and says, “The headquarters building couldn’t have been that badly damaged from an explosion in the kitchens.”
“No … and that’s troubling. Both Commander Nythalt and Subcommander Mhorig were there, and, of course, Cythern and Varndyr, for the morning commanders’ meeting. I should have been, but the scouts were briefing me on the fog and the fact that they insisted merchanters were porting north at the tileworks. That was so unusual that I took some time to arrange for another scouting party. That made me late. I was just leaving the front gates when everything exploded.”
“So who else was missing, from the battalion commanders, I mean, besides you?”
“Subcommander Shaerthyn. He had violent flux.”
How convenient.
Before Lerial can say more, Dhresyl goes on, “He’s so ill that his consort fears he may not live. I visited him yesterday. He’s in great pain. There’s some thought he was poisoned.”
“Poisoned? How? Does anyone know?”
“He and his consort went to a consorting ceremony last threeday evening. I remember thinking that threeday was an odd day for that…”
Lerial agrees. Almost all consortings are on sixday or sevenday. He takes another bite of the egg, cheese, and ham. It’s hot and passable.
“… and he sent word that he was ill the next morning. He’s been worse every day.”
“Is Commander Shaerthyn considered a good field commander?”
Dhresyl takes a swallow of greenberry juice and nods. “Perhaps not as good as Ascaar, but good. Certainly better than I am.”
Dhresyl’s last words surprise Lerial, but he manages to reply, “You’re being modest, I’m sure.”
“I wouldn’t call myself a poor field commander, but outstanding?” Dhresyl shakes his head. “I’m better with logistics.”
“And now you find yourself in command?”
“I’d relinquish command to Ascaar, if he were here, but he’s not.”
Almost the entire command structure wiped out, with the known most effective field commander poisoned, the duke and his family largely wiped out, and the only two survivors are Rhamuel through quick action and luck and Dhresyl through sheer chance. Lerial is staggered by the apparent combination of advance planning and treachery behind the Heldyan invasion.
Dhresyl takes another swallow of greenberry. “Not much we can do about what’s already happened. I’ve asked Commander Sammyl to send for Subcommander Ascaar and his battalions.”
“He only has one at Shaelt. The other is still at Luba,” Leria
l says.
“Another battalion will help, but Ascaar will help more. Right now, Drusyn is the only battalion commander with any experience at all…”
Again, Lerial hears the implications behind Dhresyl’s words.
“… and you have more battle experience than any commander in all of Afrit.”
“What do you plan for today?” Lerial asks, afraid that another officer will intrude before he can get to the point he needs to make, although he has not pushed, because he is trying to make the matter come up in the course of conversation.
“If they attack, reinforce the battalions in position south of them.” Dhresyl raises his eyebrows. “The way you ask that … Do you have another idea?”
So much for indirection and subtlety. “I was thinking about an attack from the west.”
“Any attack in force from there would leave too few battalions between them and the city.”
“I wasn’t thinking about an attack in force,” Lerial replies. “Just one strong enough that they couldn’t afford to ignore it.”
Dhresyl frowns.
“That would give them pause, perhaps more,” Lerial suggests.
“You think that will delay them?”
“If we can surprise them even a little, we might cause them unanticipated losses. Or, as you say, it might delay them. I think it’s worth the effort, and we might be able to do some damage with an attack from a direction that they don’t expect.”
“What sort of attack?”
“Mounted, with lances. The Mirror Lancers aren’t a large enough force by themselves, though, for enough of an effect.”
“I couldn’t divert more than a battalion, and there are only a few trained in lances.”
Lerial can sense that Dhresyl believes that little support will cause Lerial to reconsider his recommendation. “That should do it, I would think.”
After a momentary pause, Dhresyl replies, “It would have to be one of Drusyn’s or Majer Paelwyr’s Fourteenth.”
“I’ve not met Majer Paelwyr.” Lerial keeps his voice even.
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