L. Modesitt - Cyador’s Heirs

“You took a while getting here,” observes Altyrn.

“It took a glass or so to get into position and then they slowed down … and then they attacked in a hurry, and we did what we could and barely managed to withdraw before we were overrun. They did have five companies, as you informed me.”

“The elders sensed a large chaos blast,” says Altyrn. “The rain began to fall so soon afterwards that they couldn’t tell any more.” He pauses. “We were worried.”

“You were right to be worried.” Lerial can’t help but glance around, although he knows that neither Shaskyn nor Kusyl are in the dwelling, most likely dispatched so that they will not overhear what Lerial has to report.

“You didn’t look to have lost many, if any.” Altyrn’s voice is cautious.

“Three. All archers, including the head archer. That’s a loss.”

Altyrn winces, almost in spite of himself, then says, “She is … was … Elder Klerryt’s daughter. How did that happen? He’ll want to know.”

The elder’s daughter? For a moment, Lerial is silent. “That firebolt … the one the elders felt. I managed to stop it, but … it exploded above the Meroweyans. I managed to channel most of it back at the white wizard, and some of it at the front companies of the Meroweyans, but one small bit flared back and hit the middle of the front line of fourth squad.”

“Frig…,” murmurs the majer.

Lerial knows exactly what he is thinking. With only three casualties, why did one have to be Alaynara? That might be because he had the same thought, almost continuously, for most of the ride back to Bherkhan … and he hadn’t even known that Alaynara was Klerryt’s daughter. He’d only known that she was intelligent and perceptive-especially perceptive.

“How did you set up your company?” Altyrn finally asks when Lerial does not volunteer more.

Lerial informs him and waits for the majer’s reply.

“For that position, that’s not a bad plan. How did you do as far as reducing the number of Meroweyans facing us?”

“We couldn’t stay to see. I miscalculated a little,” Lerial admits. “I waited too long to have first squad open fire, and we had to withdraw before third squad could loose their shafts. Still, the diverted chaos did take out the white wizard and most of a company. The arrows wounded or killed at least another squad, maybe two … but that’s a guess.”

Altyrn nods slowly. “There’s always the problem of timing. It’s something you’ll learn with experience.”

“What happened at the stream?”

“We had to withdraw when we ran out of javelins and arrows, but we didn’t face any chaos-fire.”

“The rain?” asks Lerial.

The majer nods, then goes on. “Without the support of the chaos-fire, they lost almost two companies. That was between what we could do at the bridge and what Kusyl’s fourth squad did to the companies trying to cross to the south.”

“That’s not bad,” says Lerial.

“Not bad, but not exactly all that good, either. Our three companies at the stream still lost more than a squad, mostly wounded, but most of the wounded won’t fight again this season … or this year. We’re whittling them down, but they’re also taking a toll on us.”

“It comes down to who can whittle better, then,” says Lerial tiredly.

“Or whether one side or the other can come up with a way to decimate the other without suffering equal casualties.” Altyrn looks at Lerial.

“I haven’t figured out how to do that, ser.” Not yet, anyway.

“One thing you should figure out,” replies Altyrn dryly, “is that you need to strip off that soaking uniform and wrap yourself in a warm blanket. Let the fire dry the uniform and your boots. There are some things we still need to go over, but they can wait until you do that.”

Lerial nods, then sits on an old straight-backed chair to pull off his boots. Even that minor chore leaves him feeling tired, but in a few moments he is indeed wrapped in a threadbare but warm and dry blanket that Altyrn has had waiting.

He cannot help but think about Alaynara … and about Altyrn’s indirect suggestion that somehow he needs to find a way to make more of a difference. He knows the majer is right, because the events of the past eightdays have made it more than clear that, when he cannot use order, he is anything but successful as a company commander.

But if there aren’t any white wizards around to provide chaos … what can you do?

He has to find a way … not only to save the people of the Verd … but to survive.

When Lerial wakes on a cloudy oneday with the rain still falling, if in more of a continual drizzle than a downpour, he is slightly stiff and sore, but otherwise he feels well enough physically, but he could have done without the nightmares about seeing second company being overrun because he hadn’t anticipated what the Meroweyans did in time to save his rankers and squad leaders. The fact that, in the dream, he had struggled unsuccessfully to use order didn’t help his state of mind. The dry uniform was welcome, but, as he dressed, he kept thinking about how poorly he had judged the speed of the Meroweyan advance-and that his order skills are almost useless in battle unless a chaos wizard attacks his company.

You have to do something about that. You have to.

“That’s a serious face you’ve got on, ser,” says Kusyl, moving from the back room to stand in front of the low fire.

“Yesterday was serious,” replies Lerial dryly.

“That was yesterday. Can’t do anything to change what happened.” Kusyl shrugs. “A man’ll go out of his mind thinking about what he might have done … should’ve done … could’ve done…”

That’s easy enough for you to say.

Kusyl turns to Lerial. “Might not be my place to say … but you got handed a sowshit stew, ser. Couldn’t be a duke’s son anywhere in Hamor, except here, standing there a few yards from men and wizards that’d love to kill you. Not you as an heir, just love to kill a Cigoernean officer. Thing is … you do what officers’re supposed to do. You’re going to frig it up at times. Everyone does. Doesn’t matter. Matters what you do tomorrow.” The undercaptain grins. “You think too much about yesterday, you won’t be ready for tomorrow.”

“He’s right about that, you know,” adds Altyrn, who shakes the rain from his oiled waterproof, standing just inside the door.

Lerial knows they’re both correct, but he has trouble not dwelling on the past. You always have, whether it was your father or Lephi. He doesn’t know from where that thought came, but it feels true, and he can’t help but express a slight sardonic smile. “I think you two have made your point.” He manages a grin.

“Good,” replies Altyrn. “There’s a fairly hot breakfast in the house next door. You might get over there before Shaskyn eats everything.”

“That’s a good idea,” says Lerial. The growling in his guts agrees with Altyrn’s suggestion. “I’m on my way.” He knows part of his hasty departure is because he is indeed hungry, but part is because he doesn’t want to talk about why he should put yesterday behind him, much as he knows he must.

Breakfast is indeed warm, and welcome, especially if he doesn’t deal with the thought of chopped ghano, mixed with acorn bread and some sort of eggs, all held together with the bluish cheese. After he eats, he checks with his squad leaders, goes over what arrows and weapons are left, and then reports to Altyrn.

The majer accepts his report and asks, “What are you going to do now? You can’t keep checking on your rankers every glass.”