L. Modesitt - Cyador’s Heirs

“Ser…”

Nothing he can likely do will save Korlyn from that kind of wound. Yet … he might …

He wants to shake his head, because the last thing he wants is the Meroweyans to reform and rally to destroy the Verdyn Lancers. If that should occur … he doesn’t have time to think about that. He has to act. While second company may be tired, the mounts aren’t. He looks to Korlyn. “I’ll be back,” he says, knowing that he will not see the squad leader alive again. “Second company! Mount up! Now!”

“Ser?” calls Bhurl.

“We have to stop them from re-forming…” Lerial doesn’t need to explain. “Mount up! Now! On me!” He is already trotting back to where the mounts are. “Moraris! Mount the archers and hold them here!”

“Mount up!” echoes Fhentaar.

“Squad one! Mount up! On me!” Lerial yells again.

Lerial chafes at the time it takes before the first three squads are moving around the end of the trenches with three squads abreast in a five-man front. Before them lies a confusion of fallen men, patches of burning grass, and swirls of gray and black smoke. Although he has not heard any commands, the two squads from first company have already joined the fray around where the Meroweyan wizards were, and where, from the diminished chaos shield he senses, one still is. While fifth company is attacking from the west and first from the east, even with blurred vision Lerial can see that the Meroweyans are beginning to re-form in the middle … and that is where he leads second company.

“Sabres ready!” Lerial orders, belatedly, hoping that the Lancers have anticipated him and, with a quick glance around and behind him, seeing that some have not and are struggling to draw weapons. With that observation, a single thought crosses his mind. Is this really a good idea? Bad idea or not, he and second company are committed, and he scans the still somewhat disorganized Meroweyan horse troopers less than fifty yards away.

The very emergence of another company from the swirling smoke prompts some of the Meroweyans to turn their horses and attempt to flee, but most spur their mounts toward second company, if in a ragged and very uneven line, with gaps here and there. Before Lerial almost knows it, a tall Meroweyan rider waving a very long blade, or so it seems to Lerial, is bearing down on him.

Lerial flattens himself under the wild cut, then uses a thrusting slash, guided more by order-sense than vision, into the brown-uniformed horse trooper’s shoulder, half yanking, half slipping his sabre away from the wounded man and using it almost as a short lance against the next trooper-who does not even see it coming. After that, he barely manages to block a side cut from another Meroweyan, and has to lean to one side in the saddle, almost unbalancing himself before managing to regain balance and initiative.

While he is alternately attacking and defending himself, he can sense that the chaos shield is moving away-toward the south, back toward Merowey, and there is nothing he can do about it. Not yet. All he can do is cut, thrust, parry, duck, twist … whatever it takes to avoid getting hit, reacting to what his order-senses tell him is likely coming.

Then … suddenly, it seems, there is no one left to fight, and second company is near the trees on the south side of the meadow, not all that far from the road that leads south back to empty or destroyed hamlets … and to Merowey.

Much as Lerial has tried to cut through the disorganized Meroweyan forces quickly, the small band of Meroweyans that surround the chaos wizard are close to a kay south of the meadow.

“Second company! Re-form! On me! Second squad forward.” Lerial has to repeat the command several times. Although it seems as though it takes glasses before the company is in a column heading south, with Bhurl riding beside him, second squad behind, followed by first squad, and then third squad, he doubts that it has taken more than a fifth of a glass.

He sets the pace at a walk, a good walk, but running the horses won’t help. The Meroweyans have run theirs, and they are already slowing. But he cannot allow the Meroweyans to escape, even if his head continues to throb and his vision to blur.

That he knows, even if he could not explain why that is so.

In less than a fraction of a glass after Lerial begins the pursuit of the remaining Meroweyan forces, he realizes that no one, especially Altyrn, will know what he is doing. He should have thought of that, but it is hard to think of everything. Especially when your head feels like it’s splitting. For a moment, he looks to find Korlyn, then realizes, with a sinking feeling, that he will not see that round cheerful face again.

He looks to the second squad leader, who has been riding silently beside him. “Bhurl? Is there anyone with us who is only slightly wounded? Someone who could carry a message back to Majer Altyrn?”

“Yes, ser. Jharem could. Slash on his arm. Insisted he could still fight.”

“Have him come forward.”

In a few moments, a fresh-faced Lancer with his left sleeve cut away and a dressing bound around his arm eases his mount up beside Lerial. Lerial cannot help but think how young he looks … and almost smiles when he thinks that Jharem is still probably older than he is.

“Ser? I can still ride.”

“I know. That’s what I need you to do. Majer Altyrn doesn’t know where second company is. He needs to know that. You’re to ride back and find him. Avoid any Meroweyans. The message is more important. Tell the majer that second company is pursuing the last company of Meroweyans. Also tell him that there is one chaos wizard with them.”

“That’s all, ser?”

“That’s all. That’s what he needs to know.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial watches for a moment, as well as he can, as the young Lancer turns his mount and rides back along the shoulder of the forest road.

“He’s a good Lancer, ser,” Bhurl remarks. “He’ll do fine.” After a moment, he says, “Ser … how long…?”

“Until we catch them. That’s why we’re not straining the mounts. They’re only about a kay ahead of us.”

“You know that, ser?”

Lerial nods, his eyes taking in the hoofprints on the road … and a wad of bloody cloth on the shoulder. He looks for other signs that might indicate the state of those they pursue, but there are only the tracks on the road, the occasional burned-out isolated stead dwelling … and the continuing quiet in the surrounding woods, as if the smoke and violence had silenced the birds-even the usually raucous traitor birds-and even the insects.

As Lerial rides, trying to ignore the air of unreality created by the alternation of seemingly untouched woods with burned-out hamlets or those clearly damaged just out of vengeance or spite, his thoughts go back to the wounded Korlyn, and the plea in the young man’s eyes. Maybe … just maybe …

He shakes his head. You can’t second-guess everything … and there will be a greater cost if you don’t stop that wizard from returning to Nubyat. Still … he has the feeling that he will always recall the expression on Korlyn’s face.

Lerial takes a deep breath … only to find himself thinking about all that has happened … and Alaynara, who had understood him, almost just by looking at him. What can you say to her father that’s not trite and meaningless … or incredibly presumptuous?

Inadvertently, he finds himself shaking his head once more.

“Ser?” asks Bhurl, riding beside him.

“Just … just the … the waste of it all,” he finally says, unwilling to say exactly what troubles him.

“Yes, ser. Seems like Duke Casseon’d been better not to force himself on people minding their own business.”