Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (53 page)

“We won. If you can call it that. The Afritan Guard lost more than a third of their men, maybe half killed, half wounded, The Heldyans … I don’t know. I’d judge that a battalion or two of theirs survived. There are some things you ought to know before the commander shows up. Fheldar threw himself in front of you, ser. Squad Leader Dhoraat, grabbed your reins … and followed your orders. He led Eighth Company through the gap in the western hill and then south. By the time we re-formed … well, the Afritans had matters mostly in hand,” Kusyl says dryly. “They should have. We … you, really, ser, took out almost five battalions, maybe more, and that pretty much left the rest of them disorganized.” The undercaptain grins. “Majer Paelwyr drove his battalion right through the gaps we made and cut down the battalion guarding their commanders. Most of them didn’t survive, I heard.” The grin fades.

“What else?”

“Subcommander Drusyn was killed.”

That
surprises Lerial, given that Drusyn has avoided leading from the front. “How did that happen?”

“No one I’ve talked to knows. If they do, they aren’t saying. Majer Paelwyr … he was the one who told me. He came to see about you, less than a glass ago.”

“What did he say?”

“He just said it was strange. The commander said anyone could get killed in battle.” Kusyl turns to the ranker. “Erekstone … I’ll call you when we’re done.”

Erekstone inclines his head. “Yes, ser. I’ll be outside.”

Kusyl waits until the door is closed. “We brought you here because it was closer. It’s the older junior officer’s quarters. After I heard from Paelwyr, I brought in some of the men as guards as well, and decided it’d be better if you stayed here. The Afritan company officers like what you did. The ones with sense, anyway.”

“Paelwyr must have indicated something…”

“All he said was that we’d done well putting you here. That was all he had to say.”

Lerial has never been certain about Drusyn, and where the subcommander’s loyalties really lay, but it’s more than clear that, regardless of the outcome of the battle, matters in Afrit are far from settled. “What about the Subcommander Ascaar and what happened in Shaelt? Do you know?”

“No, ser. We haven’t heard anything.”

Lerial suddenly feels drowsy … or exhausted, and his eyes are too heavy to keep open. Much as he wants to know more, much as he tries to open his mouth to ask about whether anyone has heard about the arms-commander, all he can do is yawn … and try to keep his eyes open … except he cannot.

XXXVII

When he wakes again in the dawn of oneday, Lerial starts to rise … and realizes that while his headache is now only a dull ache, his chest and upper arms are stiff and very, very sore … and the blistering burn on his hip is both painful and itchy. He also can barely order-sense, just a blurry feel for a pair of Lancers guarding the door of the small chamber.
Better than last night, anyway.

Slowly, very slowly, he sits up.

In the dim light filtering through the closed shutters he can see his uniform laid out across a chair. He frowns. Hadn’t Kusyl said something about his uniform being charred?

A pitcher and a bowl are set on the narrow table desk, along with a small towel and soap and his personal gear. He stands and moves to the table desk, where he washes up and shaves, very carefully, given that his face is still warm, and tender, and the mirror reveals that his skin remains reddened. The ends of the hair on his sideburns, what is left of them, are frizzy, and he uses the razor to trim the flame-crisped ends away, as well as he can.

Next he eases into the uniform. Even sitting and bending to pull on his boots is painful. When he touches the knife sheath, he is surprised to find, although the leather has darkened almost to black, it is still flexible and the tooled “L” is now silver.
Using order … or are the silver and black a reminder of all the deaths?
He does have to move the sheath farther back on his belt so that it doesn’t rub against the dressing over the blistered spot on his hip … which is still tender and painful.

Once he is dressed, except for his visor cap, he sits there for a moment, his eyes surveying the room. On one of the two shelves designed to hold clothes he sees another uniform, but the shade is wrong. When he stands and walks over to the shelves, he can see that the front of the shirt and the trousers are a dark brown, and the fabric gives and crumbles in places as he fingers it. Sitting on the shelf is his cap. The fabric around the Lancer device also looks charred.
It will have to do for now.

“Ser? Are you all right?” calls one of the lancers acting as a guard.

“I’m doing well enough to get along. If one of you wouldn’t mind sending for the undercaptains, I’d like to talk to them.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial sits down on the edge of the bed to wait, but he doesn’t wait long before there is a rap on the door.

“Ser? It’s Kusyl. Strauxyn’s with me.”

“Come on in.”

Kusyl enters, followed by Strauxyn, who closes the door.

“You look better this morning,” offers the older undercaptain.

“I’d hate to think I’d look worse,” Lerial replies dryly. “What else has happened since then? Oh … I’ve lost track of time. What glass…?”

“A bit past half after sixth glass,” says Strauxyn.

“Not much new. Then, they don’t tell undercaptains much,” adds Kusyl. “There is one thing. Last night … there was a healer who said the arms-commander had sent him.” The undercaptain shakes his head. “Didn’t feel right. I said you had your own healer. He made some fuss about coming all the way from the palace.”

“What did he do then?”

“He kept insisting, and the more he insisted, the more it seemed wrong. Then … he left, all huffy. I tried to find Commander Dhresyl, but he wasn’t around. Then the healer wasn’t around, either.”

Despite the heat of his face, Lerial feels a chill go down his spine. “What did he look like?”

“Thin fellow. Black hair.”

Lerial thinks back. The only healer in the palace had been Jaermyd, and he was more square-faced and gray-haired.
And Norstaan had said there were few true healers in Swartheld.
“You did right. There’s no black-haired healer at the palace. Was this before or after I woke up?”

“Before, ser. Maybe half a glass.”

“How would anyone from the palace even have known by then,” muses Lerial. “Maybe they could have. When did you get me here, and when did Commander Dhresyl find out about me?”

“He didn’t get back to the post until almost second glass of the afternoon.”

Lerial shakes his head. There’s really no way to tell, not with what he knows so far, but it’s clear that someone seems out to remove any officer with any ability.
Will they remove Dhresyl as well … or do they intend that he remain in command?
All that raises even more questions.

“Before I make any decisions, I need to see Commander Dhresyl…”

“We’ll escort you. The post isn’t exactly organized,” says Kusyl.

“Not in any way you could see,” adds Strauxyn. “Almost makes you wonder how they managed to beat the Heldyans.”

“Are we sure they did?” asks Lerial, almost sardonically.

“They did.” Kusyl snorts. “Bodies everywhere. Think they did it to get any coins the Heldyans had.”

Lerial manages not to wince.
Is everything in Afrit about coins?
“We might as well head out.”

When they leave the officers’ quarters and emerge into the wide courtyard of the post, Lerial is flanked by the undercaptains. They are bombarded by the cacophony, a mixture of moans, groans, horses and wagons moving, other sounds, all punctuated by occasional orders and a vague feeling of death, although Lerial cannot sense the silver-gray mists.
That might be for the best right now.

“Quieter now,” says Kusyl. “Last night…” He shakes his head.

The three walk quickly to the senior officers’ mess. When Lerial enters the chamber, the odors of overcooked meat and burned cheese strike him, almost turning his stomach. He hasn’t even considered that it is breakfast time. The second thing is how the four majers in the mess look at the three of them, but do not quite meet his eyes, before looking away.

Lerial crosses the end of the room, avoiding the lower end of the long table, and opens the door to the small chamber off the mess.

“What is it?” Dhresyl looks up, clearly irritated, as Lerial steps inside. Lerial glances back at the undercaptains.

“We’ll wait, ser,” says Kusyl.

Lerial closes the door and then takes the chair across the desk from Kusyl.

“That healer must have done you some good,” offers Dhresyl. “But, you still look like shit.” Lerial is surprised that the commander is that blunt, but it’s a sign of just how tired the man is.

“Where did you find him?”

“I didn’t. I was having enough trouble just trying to straighten out the battalions and arrange for the Heldyan prisoners. He said the arms-commander had sent him. I figured any healer might help.”

From Dhresyl’s appearance, harried look, and reaction, Lerial doubts that the false healer was the commander’s doing. “Are there any Heldyan forces unaccounted for?”

“It depends on what you mean. We’ve gathered up close to a thousand captives, mostly wounded. Some likely won’t make it. It’s been a mess. We’re not equipped for taking prisoners. The damage to the post makes it worst, but we can’t leave them loose. Heldya’s too close. One mounted group—almost a battalion—turned north right after whatever it was you did. By the time we could do anything about it, they’d boarded the merchanters at the tileworks pier and sailed off. They made for Estheld. They did leave almost three hundred decent mounts behind.”

“What about Afritan Guard casualties?”

“They’re heavy. We’ve lost another two battalions, maybe more, what with deaths and wounds.” Dhresyl looks sadly at Lerial. “That’s nothing compared to the Heldyans. I’d judge there are more than six thousand bodies out there. More than half were your doing.”

“Would you have it the other way?” asks Lerial.

Dhresyl shakes his head.

“Have you heard from the arms-commander or Commander Sammyl? What about Ascaar?”

“Nothing yet this morning … or yesterday.”

“I heard Drusyn was killed.”

“Barbed arrow through the throat.”

Lerial frowns.

“My thought exactly. The Heldyans don’t use barbed arrows, and neither do we. It might have been poisoned as well, but they didn’t need that. He bled to death in moments. There were several fired. Two rankers in his personal guard also died, early this morning, apparently from the poison. They were wounded as well by barbed arrows.”

“Who…?”

“Whoever doesn’t want Afrit to have any effective commanders left alive. That’s all I can say. We’d have lost everything if you weren’t here.”

“They tried for me last night,” Lerial says.

This time Dhresyl is the one to frown. Finally, he asks, “The healer?”

“My men didn’t let him near me. His description doesn’t match the only healer at the palace.”

“Starshit…” Dhresyl shakes his head again, almost despondently. Then he looks up. “How did they know?”

“They didn’t. They just didn’t trust his looks. They felt better leaving me to one of our field healers.”

“You’re fortunate.”

Fortunate to have good and loyal undercaptains.
“I am.” After a moment, Lerial asks, “Do we have any Heldyan majers or subcommanders who are prisoners?”

“I’ve been asking that already. Right now, we’ve only found one majer. He’s got a broken leg and some broken fingers. There might be others, but…”

“With a thousand wounded … it may take a while…”

“Especially if they don’t want anyone to know.”

“I’d like to talk to the majer.”

“Would you mind if I listened in?”

“Not at all.” At this point, Lerial is inclined to believe that Dhresyl isn’t a part of the plot, although any form of treachery is beginning to appear possible in Afrit.

The commander stands. “He’s in a guarded chamber on the other side of the kitchens. It’s not far.”

Both Kusyl and Strauxyn follow the two as they walk through the kitchens. The guarded chamber turns out to be a windowless storeroom off a back corridor. Two Afritan rankers are posted outside the door.

“Sers, you want to talk to him?” asks the broader ranker.

Lerial wonders if the stocky and muscular man might have once been a loader capable of hoisting large flour barrels and the like.

Dhresyl nods.

The guard slides the timber out from the iron brackets that appear to have been bolted in place in the last few glasses, given the wood chips and scraps on the stone floor, then opens the door. The undercaptains and guards remain outside as Lerial and Dhresyl enter.

The Heldyan majer lies on a straw pallet, his back against the wall of the storeroom, a rough splint around his right leg. He glares at Dhresyl, but his eyes widen as he takes in Lerial’s uniform.

“What heavy cavalry battalion did you command, majer?” Lerial asks evenly.

“That’s something I’ll keep to myself.” The officer replies in Hamorian, but with an accent that is so thick that Lerial has to concentrate to understand his words.

“You can do that. It doesn’t matter. Most of your men are either dead or prisoners. It was a well-planned invasion, though. Very costly to Duke Khesyn in the end.”

“You didn’t have to slaughter my rankers.”

“You didn’t have to invade Afrit,” replies Dhresyl mildly.

“You didn’t have to invite it.”

“Invite it?” asks Dhresyl.

“All you Afritans care about is golds. You sell yourselves to the highest bidder.”

“So you come from a merchanter family yourself, then?” suggests Lerial.

“Keep that to myself.”

“You know the terms … better than a mere majer would,” Lerial pursues.

“A strong land doesn’t have to bribe its men to fight.”

“That’s a strange comment,” muses Lerial. “Especially since it appears that we’ve beaten you on all three attempts.”

“Can’t see why Cigoerne supports fat Afritan traders…”