Cyador’s Heirs (17 page)

“Where are you going?”

He turns to see Aylana and Tyrna walking toward the villa from the cocoonery, although it is properly no longer that, since all the worms have spun their cocoons, and now all those involved are extracting the strands from the cocoons and turning them into proper silk thread. “Your father and I are riding over to the Mirror Lancer post in a bit. How is the threading going?”

“It’s boring,” declares Aylana, offering an exaggerated sigh. “I’d rather gather rotten apricots.”

“You’ll be gathering overripe olives in a day or two,” interjects the majer, who has ridden into the unwalled courtyard from the south. “Those few that there are.”

From that, it dawns on Lerial just how long the majer has been working on his lands … and that he had to have been doing some of it while he was still heading the Lancers … or Maeroja did.

Both girls make faces at their father’s words.

Lerial represses a grin, then immediately mounts and rides to join the majer, watching as the two girls hurry into the villa. “They do have opinions.”

“They’ll have to learn when to express them and when not to,” replies Altyrn. “Fairly soon. Almost no men like women who appear strong-willed, but there are some who like honest opinions in private.” He turns his mount toward the lane leading to the main road and the Lancer post.

The two are on the road before Altyrn asks, “Did you meet Captain Graessyr? Or Undercaptain Shastan?”

“No, ser. We rode straight to Kinaar.”

“They’re both altage, through and through, for all that Shastan is the son of a local grower. Graessyr’s mother is from altage stock, but don’t ask about his father.”

“Yes, sir.” Lerial understands both what Altyrn means and why Graessyr has been posted in Teilyn.

“They’d take a charge single-handedly to save you or your father. One of your responsibilities will always be to avoid putting officers in such a situation. You need to be able to handle a blade well enough so that it is absolutely clear to your Lancers that you do not need special protection. Do you know why?”

“Because we don’t have enough Lancers and any that are protecting me cannot be used to deal with raiders or attackers. That weakens the force.” Lerial remembers that from something Lephi had said.

Altyrn nods. “It also gives them confidence to see that you know something about the business of arms.” He does not say more, and before long, they are riding up to the open gates of the brick-walled post.

“Good morning, Majer,” calls out one of the guards from his shaded post beside the gate.

“Good morning, Seimyrt. Is the captain around?”

“He’s in his study … or somewhere in headquarters.”

“Good. We’ll find him.”

“Headquarters” turns out to be a small yellow brick structure in the middle of the walls, directly across from the stables before which Altyrn reins up. Lerial ties his mount next to the majer’s horse, and the two walk across the brick pavement.

Two rankers nod and murmur “ser,” as they cross paths with Lerial and Altyrn.

The majer responds with a nod and a smile.

The interior of the headquarters building is simple. Behind the entry door is a large room, empty except for a table-desk at one end, behind which is seated a squad leader who stands as Altyrn enters. There are two half-open doors in the wall at the end of the room.

“He’s in his study, ser.”

“Thank you.” Altyrn makes a gesture that takes in the space around them. “This is where the officers brief their men. The officers’ studies are behind those doors.” He strides toward the door on the right, opens it full, and motions for Lerial to step inside, then enters and closes the door.

“Can’t stay away from here, can you, Majer?” The black-haired captain stands as he speaks.

“You’re not rid of me yet.” Altyrn grins, then eases to one side, leaving a clear path to the table-desk. “I don’t believe you’ve met Lord Lerial.”

Lerial takes the hint and steps forward. “I’m pleased to meet you, ser.”

“And I you.” Graessyr smiles pleasantly. “Your father said you would be staying at the majer’s. You’ve been there quite a while.”

“I’ve had much to learn, ser.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Altyrn says, moving forward slightly. “As I told you the other day, I think that Lerial needs to spar with someone a bit younger than me … someone with more energy.”

The captain laughs, a raucous barking sound that lasts but a few moments. Then he shakes his head. “I’ll spar with him, but don’t give me those words that suggest you’re a tired old man. I see how hard you work.”

Altyrn cannot hide the faintest hint of a smile. “He does need to spar with someone besides me.”

“That’s something I can accept. Blunted blades and padding or wands?”

“Let’s try blunted blades and padding. He hasn’t done that.” The majer grins. “Might be because I don’t have either.” He pauses. “One other thing. Lerial has a letter for his sire. Could you send it with the next dispatch rider?”

“We can do that.”

Lerial takes out the sealed missive and hands it to the captain. “Thank you, ser.”

“That’s not a problem. Might as well get started.” Graessyr slips from behind the desk with an easy grace, for all that he is not only broad but more than half a head taller than Lerial, and leads the way from the study, and headquarters, to the armory.

In less than a quarter of a glass, Lerial is wearing what amounts to padded armor, with plates sewn into the padding in strategic places. The padding is thick enough that he is sweating even before he thinks of picking up the blunted blade that Altyrn has set on the wooden bench.

He reaches out and grasps the blade, lifting and turning it. It feels lighter than the wand he has been using in sparring with the majer … and yet it doesn’t.

“You shouldn’t have a problem with that,” Altyrn says.

“Is that why…?”

The majer nods. “Let’s go.”

The captain is waiting outside at the edge of the sparring circle, marked in black bricks and wider than the circles at the Palace, Lerial notes.

“Yes, it is wider,” Altyrn says. “That makes it harder.”

Everything here in Teilyn is harder. Why should this be any different?
Lerial takes a position inside the edge of the circle opposite Graessyr.

“No leg cuts,” Altyrn orders. “You make the first attack, Lerial.”

Lerial prefers to have others move first so that he can observe and gain an idea of what they have in mind, but then Altyrn knows that. He moves forward, careful to watch the captain with both eyes and order-senses.

Graessyr keeps his blade slightly lower than the majer does, but Lerial suspects that is only because Lerial is shorter, and the difference in height would make it easier for him to attack the majer’s legs, even though there will be no leg cuts—not with blades, blunted as they are.

Lerial feints, but the captain only shifts his sabre slightly. Then Lerial begins what he hopes looks like a feint, but is actually an attack.

The captain’s blade flicks almost effortlessly to deflect Lerial’s thrust, and Lerial has to dance aside and retreat, then finds himself defending against a sabre that seems to come from everywhere for the next moments … until he begins to get a sense from the order flows of what the captain’s intentions are. Even so, Lerial finds himself on the defensive most of the time, taking hits on the padded armor, and blows he knows have been pulled.

He keeps working, though, and feels that, after a time, he is getting better at defending, and he actually manages a partial strike on the captain before he’s forced back into fighting defensively.

“That’s enough,” Altyrn finally calls out.

Lerial steps back, but keeps his blade up until he is well away from the captain.

“Good!” says Graessyr, lowering his blade. “Stay in the habit of keeping your blade ready until you’re sure that you don’t need it.” He hands his blade to Altyrn. “You can take this. I need to get out of the padding before I boil myself.”

Lerial feels the same way, but walks to the bench beside the armory door, where he lays the blade before beginning to struggle out of the damp and heavy padded armor.

“I can see the majer’s been working you hard,” observes the captain from beside Lerial as he also pulls off his own padding. “You’ve got the basics down well, and they’re smooth, but you have to back off too much when something you don’t recognize comes at you…”

Lerial listens as Graessyr explains. He tries not to move too much, despite the feeling that his legs could cramp any moment, and the stinging in his eyes from the sweat that still flows down his brow and face. When the captain finishes his comments, Lerial nods and says, “Thank you, ser.”

“You’re more than welcome.” Graessyr smiles at the majer. “Every day this time?”

Every day?
Lerial manages not to wince.

“That would be best, I think,” says Altyrn.

“Next time, he should have a go with Shastan. He’s got some tricks that I don’t.”

“Good.” Altyrn nods and turns to Lerial. “Rack the padding and the blade, and then join me at the stable. We need to get back to Kinaar.”

“Yes, ser.”

By the time Lerial has racked and put away the padded armor and blunted blade and made his way back to the stable, he has begun to cool down slightly. He also feels bruises in places he has not noticed before, but he mounts easily and rides across the courtyard toward the gates beside the majer.

Altyrn does not comment on the sparring until he and Lerial are mounted and a good hundred yards south of the post gates. Then he turns in the saddle. “When you see something you recognize, your defense and reactions are excellent. When you don’t, you’re awkward enough that you could get spitted.”

Wouldn’t anyone?
Lerial manages to nod.

“You don’t have any instincts with the blade. You’ve probably got more of the healer blood in you than is good for combat. I thought as much, but that’s one reason why I wanted to watch you with someone else. We’ll have to do something about that.”

“What would that be, ser?”

“You’ll have to spar with a lot of different Lancers. The more different men you’re against, the more comfortable you’ll be with a blade, even if you run up against something you’ve never seen before.”

Lerial has a sinking feeling that he never realized just what it would take to become good enough with a blade in order to be able to hold his own against Lephi … or anyone else with skill, for that matter.

“You didn’t think it was going to be easy, did you?” asks Altyrn genially. “Why do you think I’ve worked you so hard in the fields?”

“I did think that, ser. I did.” He also realizes that he couldn’t have even held a blade against the captain for more than a small fraction of a glass if Altyrn hadn’t required him to spar with the heavier wooden wand.

He just wonders what else lies before him and what else will be required of him.

XVI

The next two eightdays are, if anything, harder than those that preceded them, with fieldwork following the morning sparring sessions with Captain Graessyr or Undercaptain Shastan … or one or two of the more experienced Mirror Lancer squad leaders. All of them have more energy than Majer Altyrn, but, from what Lerial experiences, none has the technique of the former commander of the Mirror Lancers. Even so, Lerial finds that he still does not respond well to any new move, or at least not as well as the majer would like. Then, after Lerial is truly exhausted, Altyrn requires more study and thought. With most of the crops in, Lerial has doubts whether there is that much heavy fieldwork remaining, but then concludes, morosely, after being required to dredge and clean irrigation ditches, that it is more than likely the majer will always have something else planned … something requiring enough brute force that he won’t even have the comfort of Rojana’s presence, not that he has had that comfort for the better part of a season.

On a mild midmorning on the next to last fiveday of harvest, under overcast skies that promise a cooler day than any recently, Lerial is riding from Kinaar to the Lancer post with Altyrn, wondering with whom he might be paired. He has sparred often with Captain Graessyr and Undercaptain Shastan, both of whom have more energy than Altyrn, but who lack the seemingly effortless polish of Altyrn’s technique.

“Once harvest is over, I’ll have time to give you some instruction with a lance,” Altyrn says conversationally.

For a moment, Lerial isn’t certain what to say. “Lances? Do the Lancers use them much anymore?” For all that his father’s troopers bear the name of Lancers, Lerial has only seen them with lances on a few ceremonial occasions in Cigoerne. In fact, he cannot remember exactly when the last time might have been.

“There are times when they’re most useful,” replies the majer.

Lerial nods, although he has his doubts, then asks, “What about firelances? Have you ever used one?”

“Years ago, before the Accursed Forest destroyed Cyador.”

“I thought my grandmother brought some with her.”

“She did. They lasted about a year after we took over Cigoerne. They served their purpose. The lances we use now are more durable, and they’re especially useful against raiders. That’s because a Lancer can strike while staying beyond the range of those curved blades they use.”

“Aren’t the Meroweyans the only ones who have curved blades?”

“Some of the Heldyan raiders from the south have them, too. You’ll never carry a lance on a patrol. Officers don’t. But you need to know something about them so that you don’t give a stupid order.”

All too often Altyrn mentions the necessity for Lerial not to give stupid orders, as if he is ever going to give many orders, not if his father and Lephi have much to say about it.

In moments it seems, although it is more like a quarter glass, Lerial is once more donning the padded armor and picking up the blunted blade that has become all too familiar to him over the past eightdays. Although Lerial feels that he equips himself quickly, Undercaptain Shastan is already waiting for him. The officer is taller than Graessyr, not a small man by any stretch, and broader, with big hands and feet. In the past, Lerial has been hard-pressed just to avoid being struck too often.