Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (54 page)

Because they’re less of a danger than Heldyan traders and a ruthless duke.
Lerial just smiles.

“You won’t … get away with this,” mutters the wounded majer. “You think we’re all that the duke has … you’re wrong.”

“Were we wrong at Luba? Or South Point? Or here?”

“Anyone can be lucky a few times. Especially against…” The majer breaks off his words, shaking his head.

“Against what?”

The Heldyan officer offers a ragged smile, but does not speak.

“A few times?” presses Lerial. “What happened to your battalion?”

The majer does not answer, but tightens his lips.

“Even if Duke Khesyn can scrape together another ten battalions, what difference will that make?” Lerial tries to look honestly puzzled.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“It won’t make any difference. He’s sent almost twenty against us … and how many of you do you think are still alive?”

The majer does not answer, his expression between a glower and a smirk.

“There might be two Heldyan battalions remaining, mostly of wounded men. Three at the outside.”

“… butchers…”

“You were trying to do the same,” Dhresyl points out.

“You’ll see … you will.” The majer turns his head to the wall.

Neither Lerial nor Dhresyl can get another word out of the Heldyan officer, and after another tenth of a glass, they leave. Lerial knows that he didn’t handle the majer that well. But he is tired … and sore … and he has the feeling that whatever Khesyn has planned isn’t over yet, even though it would seem as though it should be.

He says nothing as they walk back to the space serving as the commander’s study, again shadowed by Kusyl and Strauxyn.

Once they are alone with the door closed, Dhresyl looks at Lerial. “Your officers are rather protective.”

It’s a good thing they are.
“They’re very good … and very loyal.”

“I can see that.” Dhresyl purses his lips, then shakes his head. “I don’t think the majer was bluffing.”

“I don’t think so, either. Do we have any word on whether there are merchanters moored or anchored off Estheld?”

“We don’t.” Dhresyl frowns. “You think Khesyn will try another attack?

“He just might. You might want to find out about the merchanters. In the meantime, I’ll be moving the Mirror Lancers back to the Afritan Guard headquarters. That will give you more space to deal with any Heldyan prisoners and to begin repairs to the post.”

“After what you’ve been through … do you think…”

“I’m certainly well enough to ride for a glass, and you don’t need to worry about the additional burden of another three companies. Oh … and if that false healer shows up again … you might want to hold him and try to find out who hired him.”

“He won’t show his face.”

“Most likely not … but you never know. We’ll be leaving as soon as we can.”

“That might take some doing.”

“We’ll manage.” Lerial smiles politely. “Until later.”
Whenever that may be.
He turns and opens the door.

XXXVIII

As Dhresyl has predicted, it takes Lerial and the Mirror Lancers almost two glasses to get themselves out through the gates of Harbor Post and just on the paved road down to the shore road that will take them to Afritan Guard headquarters. Much of that delay is caused by the need to ready the wagons for the wounded, since Lerial is not about to leave them at the Harbor Post. Lerial himself rides at the head of Eighth Company, with the First Squad leader Dhoraat.

Once Lerial can see—since he still cannot order-sense more than a few yards away—that Twenty-third Company is away from the post, he looks to Dhoraat, the First Squad leader. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you for getting me out of the mess I created. I do appreciate it. So will my family.”

“I couldn’t do any less, ser. Any of the men would have done it. I was just the closest.”

“That may be, but you did do it, and if it had been anyone else, I’d thank them as well. But it wasn’t. It was you, and I’m most grateful.”

Dhoraat inclines his head slightly, then asks, as if not wanting to dwell on his own acts, “Do you think the Heldyans will attack again?”

“They will if they can. I’m hoping that Commander Sammyl and the arms-commander may know more.”
And I’d really like to know if Ascaar was able to defeat or at least repulse the attackers at Shaelt.
Lerial glances ahead along the right side of the road, where he can see scores of bodies in the gray-blue colors of Heldya. Already, the flies, especially the red flies, are beginning to circle the corpses, but Lerial does not see any burial details … or anything that looks like a pyre. With as many deaths as Dhresyl has reported, something needs to be done … and fairly quickly.
Another suggestion for Sammyl … or Rhamuel … assuming Rhamuel hasn’t taken a turn for the worse.
Both to the south of the stream and to the north of where he rides, he can also see figures searching the bodies of the fallen, most likely locals seeking anything of value overlooked by the Afritan Guards who have doubtless already looted the fallen.

Although Lerial cannot see more than glimpses of the site of yesterday’s battle, those few patches of ground he can see through the scattered trees and above a low stone wall and the shoulder of the shore road are little more than blackened ground. Thin wisps of grayish white smoke drift upward from the site of Lerial’s use of order-chaos separation, soon lost in the thin high haze of a spring day that already seems more like a day in early summer.

Several companies of Afritan Guards are posted at the east end of the hamlet where the Heldyans had encamped, some still mounted, others on foot. Lerial doubts they will find much of use, except for the neatly bundled tents.
But you could be wrong.
He also puzzles over the Heldyan majer’s cryptic references and half statements.
Against whom?
But if the majer is suggesting that Khesyn did not send his best troops … why wouldn’t Khesyn? Why would he send less than the best?
It doesn’t make sense.
Yet Lerial could sense a hint of truth … or at least that the majer believes what he almost said was true.

At the end of the road down from the Harbor Post, Lerial leads the lancers south on the shore road, back toward Swartheld, and for all his musing, he cannot come up with a reason why Khesyn would not have sent his best troopers.

Even before Lerial reaches the north end of the harbor, and the beginning of the merchanting district, he sees people walking the streets, going about whatever they are doing as if there had not been a massive battle less than four kays to the north. There are even a few vessels tied up at the piers, if far fewer than there had been an eightday before. All of the merchanting buildings appear open and unshuttered, and Lerial cannot help but recall the scathing observations of the wounded Heldyan majer. Even the small cloth factorage near the Afritan Guard headquarters is open.

The troopers guarding the gates at headquarters look surprised, if only briefly, as they see Lerial and the Mirror Lancers approaching.

Captain Dhallyn, again, is the first officer to come out to meet Lerial once he reins up outside the headquarters building. “Overcaptain, ser … ah…”

“We’ll be here for a time, I suspect. Harbor Post was getting overcrowded, what with Heldyan prisoners and the companies from South Post. I’ll be leaving in a few moments with one squad to head to the palace to meet with Commander Sammyl and the arms-commander. How is he? Do you know? We haven’t heard anything.”

“Undercaptain Norstaan sent word yesterday that the arms-commander was doing well, but that he’s likely not leaving the palace for a time yet.”

Meaning that he still can’t walk or ride, most likely.
“Have you heard any word about Subcommander Ascaar?”

“No, ser. Only that he had engaged the Heldyans at Shaelt.”

Once Lerial is convinced that nothing is amiss at the headquarters, he immediately leaves the post, accompanied by the Fourth Squad from Eighth Company—the one that has suffered the fewest losses out of all three companies. Again, on the way to the palace, he notices that very little is different from when he had first arrived in Swartheld.
You’d think that there might be some change when there was a battle less than ten kays north of here, especially after an explosion at the palace.

The one thing that has changed is that there are more Afritan Guards stationed at both the inner and the outer gates to the palace. As Lerial turns to ride to the stables, he notices a platform built of stones, obviously from the rubble of the damaged section of the palace, and the hint of soot and ashes on top of the stones.
A private memorial to Atroyan and Natroyor?

Something was probably necessary, given the heat. Still, Lerial worries. Also, Dhallyn must have dispatched a messenger immediately, because Lerial has barely reined up outside the inside west entrance to the palace when Norstaan hurries to meet him.

“Good morning, ser.”

“Good morning, Norstaan. Are Commander Sammyl and the arms-commander in the same chambers as before?”

“Yes, ser. They’re expecting you.”

“I take it Captain Dhallyn sent a messenger.”

Norstaan looks puzzled for a moment. “No, ser. Commander Dhresyl did. He told the commander that you were returning to Afritan Guard headquarters.”

Lerial nods.
You should have thought of that. Dhresyl wouldn’t want Sammyl surprised.
He dismounts and hands the gelding’s reins to the ranker beside Fhuraan, the squad leader. “I need to see them.”

“Yes, ser. The commander thought you would. Will you and your squad be staying at the palace?”

“I think that’s unlikely, but I won’t know until after I meet with the arms-commander. They could use a bite to eat and water for the mounts.”

“We’ll take care of it, ser.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh … do you know if that dispatch reached Subcommander Ascaar?”

“No, ser. Might be a day or two…”

Lerial nods.

Norstaan gestures, and an Afritan Guard ranker walks toward them. “Seilyn will escort you, ser.”

Fhuraan gestures, in turn, and two older rankers immediately dismount and join Lerial.

Norstaan blinks, but says nothing.

“Everyone will feel better this way,” Lerial says blandly.
Especially you, since you can’t hold shields for more than a moment or so.

“Ser … it was Commander Sammyl’s order that everyone have an escort.”

“And I do.” Lerial smiles. “Shall we go?”

The Afritan trooper leads the way, and the two lancers flank Lerial. When they reach the guards outside the sitting room, all three remain in the corridor as Lerial enters.

“How is the arms-commander?” asks Lerial, looking at Sammyl, who has stood as Lerial enters the sitting room.

“Tired of being confined to a bed or a star-fired chair!” comes Rhamuel’s voice from where he is seated at a table desk in the corner of the sitting room, one that has been added to the chamber.

Lerial turns. “How are you feeling?”

“I’d feel better if my leg hurt.”

“So would I,” admits Lerial, walking toward Rhamuel and studying him. From his limited order-senses, the arms-commander seems to be better. Even the knot of chaos at the end of his backbone seems smaller … but not that much smaller. There is no trace of wound chaos around the break in his leg.

“You look worse for the wear,” Rhamuel observes.

“The last few days have been hard.” Lerial pauses. “I noticed a stone platform…”

“We had to have a memorial for Atroyan and Natroyor … It’s been five days. I sent word to Haesychya, but she declined, saying that her father needed her. He’s still not well.”

“You didn’t attend?”

“I did. Norstaan found an old sedan chair, and they carted me down. I had all the officers I could find witness the memorial, but I’ve held off sending out any proclamations yet.”

Lerial isn’t certain of the wisdom of that, but then, refraining from making public pronouncements while the Heldyans are still attacking might be for the best. “Have you heard anything from Ascaar?”

Sammyl shakes his head.

“That’s not good.”

“His second dispatch said that there were three Heldyan battalions—all foot.”

“Were they well trained?” asks Lerial. “Or did Ascaar say?”

“He did say that they weren’t the best of Khesyn’s forces, but the numbers made it difficult. He didn’t say much more, except that he had the better position, if he could hold it.”

“We can’t do anything about that yet,” says Rhamuel.

“Did you send a healer to the Harbor Post last night?”

Immediate puzzled looks cross both men’s faces.

“No, why?” asks Rhamuel.

“One showed up, claiming the palace sent him, then vanished when my men tried to question him.” Lerial watches Sammyl closely, with both eyes and order-senses, but the commander seems as disconcerted as Rhamuel.

“Trying to get to you, then?” asks the arms-commander.

“It would seem so. I was still unconscious then.”

“Unconscious?” asks Sammyl.

“The last part of the battle was harder than I’d thought it would be.”
And that’s an understatement.

Rhamuel shakes his head. “It just keeps getting worse.” He offers a brief and sardonic smile. “Dwelling on that won’t resolve it. Tell us what happened in the north—as you saw it, and how you ended up unconscious.”

The way the arms-commander has phrased his inquiry tells Lerial that Rhamuel has his doubts about whatever Dhresyl has already reported.

“The Mirror Lancers and I made the first attack on sevenday…” Lerial describes what he and the Lancers did on both days. The only matter about which he is less than forthcoming is how he dealt with the chaos-wizards, merely saying that he was able to turn their chaos back on them and continuing, “I wasn’t completely successful, because some of it came back at me and part of the Mirror Lancers. The blow knocked me out, and I lost one officer and fifty men, with fifteen wounded. My squad leaders and undercaptains had to finish the fight.”