L. Modesitt - Cyador’s Heirs

“It’s returning, but I can only sense things for a hundred yards or so.”

“Let’s hope you improve more in the next day or so.”

“What happened here, ser? What about the people?”

“Everyone’s left,” says Altyrn. “By the order of the High Council.”

“Left? The Meroweyans are a day away.”

“The people know what will happen. Word has spread faster than the fire.”

“They hadn’t even gotten around to burning Nevnarnia when we left,” replies Lerial.

“We’re fighting in more than one place. I had to send Juist and Denieryn farther west. The part of the Meroweyan force that split off there has already burned two hamlets, and they’re advancing on Truyver. It’s good-sized town as Verdheln towns go. The people there will fight. Not well, most likely, but well enough, with Juist to guide them, to whittle away a few more companies.”

“What about us? What do you have planned for tomorrow?”

“If the Meroweyans stay in Nevnarnia for a day or two, we’ll wait and prepare for their attack here. The local people will harass them from the woods. If they move out tomorrow, then we’ll withdraw.”

“Because we’re short on war arrows, fire arrows, and oil?”

“Short?” Altyrn snorts. “First and fourth company don’t have any of those, not to speak of. I’ve got some who have experience as fletchers working on something that might pass for fire arrows. Local youths are bringing in spent arrows and arrowheads. The elders have promised more oil by late tomorrow…”

Lerial also understands what Altyrn is not saying-that hand-to-hand fighting with sabres is unwise against an enemy that outnumbers them seven to one … although it might only be close to five to one by now.

“They’ve also promised more shovels and mattocks.” Altyrn looks down at his maps.

“If you need anything from me, ser, just let me know.”

“I will.”

Lerial finds a bedroom and leaves the bed for the majer, while creating a makeshift bed for himself against one wall. Then he goes back to second company and takes inventory of all the weapons, discovering that his archers have only one or two war arrows each, and only a handful of fire arrows, and no oil. The three Lancer squads have less than a score of shafts among them. Unlike Altyrn’s company, none of Lerial’s rankers have any real experience in crafting shafts or fletching them.

There is a hot meal, of sorts, that night, something with the consistency of stew and the various items sliced as if they had been meant for a casserole, but what they might have been, other than some sort of meat, cheese, and root vegetables, Lerial cannot tell. It doesn’t matter. He eats it all.

After he finishes, he makes his way back to the dwelling serving as officers’ quarters, where he finds Altyrn in the main room. The leather map case is folded closed, and there is a small fire in the blackened hearth.

“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.

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.”