Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (61 page)

“Right now?” Sammyl shakes his head. “Three at the most. That doesn’t include Ascaar, but he has less than three full companies left after the last attack, and it would take him at least three days to get here, and at that speed, they wouldn’t be in the best shape to fight. I’ve already sent orders for him to join us at deliberate speed.”

“Including your Mirror Lancers and his companies,” Rhamuel says, “that’s four battalions. If you’re as effective as before…”

“We might … just might … defeat Khesyn again. Is that what you think?” asks Lerial.

“It’s better than the alternative.”

None of the three mentions the difficulties Afrit will face with only what likely would remain after such a battle.

By the second glass of the afternoon, the rain has diminished to intermittent showers, but showers driven by strong winds, and Lerial, wearing a borrowed oiled leather waterproof, rides with his squad from the palace to the Harbor Post. He leaves the squad under cover and walks with one of the seamen assigned to the galleys down a tunnel corridor that opens onto a boatyard above the pier.

He has barely stepped out of the tunnel when another Afritan Guard, wearing an oilskin jacket, moves toward him.

“Squad Leader Elphred, ser. Commander Dhresyl assigned me to your reconnaissance voyage.”

“You’re the galley master?”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial looks toward the shore end of the Harbor Post pier and then to the far end, where waves break over the stone, normally a good three to four yards above the surface of the water, swirling around the bollards, leaving them momentarily protruding from white-foamed waters. To his left and farther down the slope is the shallow-draft sailing galley, still in its launch cradle, clearly dragged farther up from the turbulent waves pounding the pier.

“Ser, there’s no way we can go out in this weather,” declares Elphred. “We’d get swamped before we got half a kay.”

“That’s clear enough,” replies Lerial. “Once the weather subsides, I will need the galley.”

“Yes, ser. We’ll stand by.” The squad leader gestures to the crew, who begin to winch the cradle even farther up the launching ramp.

“Thank you.”

In turn, Lerial uses his order-senses on the clouds. The actual storm center is too far away for him to sense, but it is clearly strong enough to create the winds that drive the waves against the piers. He is certainly not a sailor, but it stands to reason that if he cannot get out of Swartheld Harbor, it is most unlikely that any of Khesyn’s merchanters will be able to return to Estheld and load the armsmen.
If that’s even what Khesyn has in mind.
Lerial pauses.
But what else could he be planning?

He hurries out of the rain that is already beginning to diminish, although the waves have shown no sign of that yet, back through the tunnel toward the makeshift headquarters of the post. The intermittent rain has flowed off his borrowed oilskin jacket and dampened his trousers, not quite all the way through. By the time he has seated himself in the small chamber that serves as Dhresyl’s study, he hopes they will dry some before he ventures forth again.

“I understand you’re going to take the sail-galley to look at Estheld,” offers Dhresyl. “Isn’t that likely to expose you unduly?”

“So long as I don’t have to worry about high waves, I think we’ll be able to manage. I’d be interested to know how matters are coming here. The last time we talked, I wasn’t in the best of condition and you were busy trying to hold everything together.”

“We’re using the more able of the Heldyan prisoners to clear the rubble here in the post and we’ve begun some limited repairs. We’ve recovered as many weapons as we could from the areas where we fought, and we have the armorers repairing those that can be used. I’ve combined some companies and battalions so that those we have are closer to full strength…”

Lerial listens, intently and carefully.

When Dhresyl finally finishes, he just says, “… and that’s where we stand.” He does not ask anything about Lerial and the Mirror Lancers.

Lerial does not volunteer anything and politely takes his leave. While he waits to see if the weather and waves will moderate, he considers what Dhresyl has said and wonders why the commander’s words have left him vaguely disturbed. Certainly, everything Dhresyl is undertaking makes sense …

Then, after almost a glass of pondering and stewing, Lerial realizes what has troubled him. Everything that Dhresyl had said related to organization and logistics. There had not been a single word about what the commander might do if the Heldyans attacked again, or what preparations or plans he had made.

By the sixth glass of the afternoon, the winds out of the north are dying down and the waves are subsiding, but are still too rough for the sail-galleys to set out, not that doing so would help Lerial much, since the Harbor Post lookouts have informed Lerial that it appears likely that none of the merchanters that left Estheld to ride out the rough weather at sea have yet returned … or are even in sight.

Given that information, the fact that the waves are likely to remain high for at least several glasses more, and that a night voyage would be dangerous without allowing Lerial to accomplish much of what he has in mind, Lerial gathers his squad for the ride back to Afritan Guard headquarters. When they finally set out, the air is damp and cooler, and little remains of the clouds that had brought the earlier downpour. The high winds have dropped off to a stiff breeze, but the waves crashing against the piers of the main harbor are still high and strong enough that there seems to be more foam than water.

So much for using the mist and fog to get close to Estheld without being seen.

Lerial looks from the harbor toward the merchanter buildings, all shuttered tight for the night, wondering if any of the merchanters really care all that much about Afrit, or Swartheld, except as a base from which they can make more golds.

XLIII

Fiveday morning dawns bright and clear, and Lerial is at the palace shortly after seventh glass, again meeting with Sammyl and Rhamuel.

“The merchanters put to sea before the storm hit,” Sammyl reports. “Now that the weather has calmed, they’re all returning. There wasn’t any great damage to the piers here, and there likely wasn’t much to the piers at Estheld.”

“How long will it take to load the first ships?” asks Lerial, shifting his weight in the uncomfortable straight-backed chair.

“Most of today, I’d say. That’s if they’re not carrying cargo. Could be days if they’re loading cargo,” ventures Sammyl.

“The only cargo will be weapons and mounts,” declares Rhamuel, his forearms resting on the wooden surface of the table desk.

“If they’re headed to Baiet, they’ll want to cast off by second or third glass at the latest. That’s if they want to port before dark.”

“Then I need to be going,” says Lerial. “I need to get very close to Estheld.”
The city of Heldya would be better, but it’s hundreds of kays away over hostile ground, not water, and we don’t have time for that.

“You’re planning what…” begins Sammyl, his voice dropping off at the look from the arms-commander.

“I think we can trust Overcaptain Lerial to act in both our interests and his,” Rhamuel says firmly.

Lerial can tell that Sammyl wants to know what he has in mind. For that reason alone, he doesn’t want to say much, in part because he has no idea if he can do what he has in mind. “The more I know, the more we’ll know what to do … and when.”

“We have sent scouts in other sail-galleys…”

Lerial smiles and rises. “For that I’m very grateful. I’ll let you know what I’ve found out when I return.”

Sammyl looks as though he wants to say something, but then just nods, as though he has decided against it.

“We’ll look forward to your report,” says Rhamuel.

Fhuraan and Fourth Squad from Eighth Company are waiting in the palace courtyard when Lerial reaches the stables.

“You’ve already got the squad mounted?” asks Lerial.

“I didn’t think you’d be long this morning, ser.”

The squad, with Fhuraan and Lerial immediately behind two outriders, takes the wide merchant avenue from the ring road around the palace along the base of the merchanters’ hill, where Kyedra remains with her mother and grandfather, then past the harbor. Lerial is surprised to see a good ten merchanters tied up at the piers, and crews and loaders very busily carrying goods on board the vessels.

Lerial frowns.
The last time the Heldyans invaded, the harbor was empty. Why is it different now?
He looks at the piers. All the goods are going
on
the ships. He nods. That, unfortunately, makes sense. It is also suggestive of the lack of confidence at least some of the merchanters have in Rhamuel and the Afritan Guard. But then, it could be that they are simply coppering their bets, sending goods out just in case matters do turn out badly for Swartheld.

As they ride up the road toward the Harbor Post, Lerial sees that groups of Heldyan prisoners, under guard, are still engaged in burying the dead from the fighting that ended almost an eightday ago.
So many dead … or such lack of organization?
Given that Dhresyl seems stronger on logistics than battle planning and anticipation, Lerial would wager on the former.
And for what?
And the fighting and the deaths are far from over, no matter who triumphs.

“Ser? You’re going to take a sail-galley out, aren’t you?”

For a moment, Lerial wonders how Fhuraan knows that, since he has not mentioned that specifically, but then realizes that the squad leaders must talk among themselves, and there was no secret about the fact that he’d tried to take one the day before. “Yes.”

“I’d feel better if you’d take Toeryn with you. He comes from a river family, and knows boats … and he’s good with weapons.”

“That’s a good idea.” Lerial grins. “I wish I’d thought of it.”

“I wish I had, ser,” admits Fhuraan. “Dhoraat suggested it.”

“I’m glad you two came up with it.”

When Lerial arrives at the stables at Harbor Post, he and Toeryn, a wiry ranker half a head shorter than Lerial, dismount, leave the squad, cross the southern end of the courtyard, and walk down the tunnel corridor to the boatyard and the pier. Lerial carries a water bottle filled with slightly watered lager. After they walk from the dimness of the tunnel into the bright early-morning sunlight, Lerial has to look around before he sees any of the Afritan Guards. Then, from the far side of the boatyard, Elphred hurries toward them.

“Overcaptain, ser! No one told us you were coming so early.”

“You’re right about that, galley master. I didn’t. That’s my fault. How soon can you be ready to set out?”

“Might be a half glass, ser.”

“Oh, this is Toeryn. He’ll be accompanying us. Unlike me, he has some experience on the water.”

“Just two of you, ser … that won’t be a problem. If you’ll excuse me…”

“Of course.”

Lerial watches as the sailing galley is released from its cradle and then moved alongside the stone pier. It is a narrow double-ended craft some ten yards long and slightly less than two wide, with benches for twelve oarsmen, a steering oar at the end that is presumably the stern, and a single mast, which is raised and stepped after the galley is tied in place beside the pier. Lerial is conscious of how small the craft is, given the expanse of water between him and Estheld.
And how shallow a draft it has, most likely only about a yard.

After a time, Elphred walks from the pier to where Lerial waits, trying to stay out of the men’s way as they prepare. “You wouldn’t be minding, ser, if you were in the bow, and your ranker in the stern with me.”

“It’s your vessel, Elphred. That would be fine with me. How long will it take for us to get to Estheld?”

“There’s not much wind. Might be three glasses. Or we could row the whole way…”

“But you’d prefer to save the men in case we have to depart quickly?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Unless matters change, you can use the sail.”

“Yes, ser. We’re ready for you, then.”

“There is one thing you need to tell your men. I may have to place a concealment over the galley when we get close to Estheld. That means that the Heldyans won’t be able to see us. It also means that we’ll be surrounded by darkness deeper than the blackest night. I’ll be able to direct the vessel, but … no one else will be able to see. I hope it’s not necessary, but it could be.”

“Yes, ser. I’ll tell them.”

Lerial waits for Elphred to brief his crew before he and Toeryn board the sail-galley. When the galley pulls away from the pier, propelled by twelve oarsmen, Lerial is seated on a narrow bench just aft of the bow, his knees tucked under the triangle of polished wood that extends a half yard back from the stem, a spray shield too small for much protection and not wide enough for much motion for his legs and knees. He puts the water bottle between his boots.

Once the sail-galley is well away from the shore and the sail is unfurled and catching some of the light breeze, the rowers ship their oars, and Lerial turns his attention to the Swartheld harbor, where the loading of the merchanters tied there continues at a steady pace. As closely as he looks, he cannot see a single vessel that appears to be unloading. He does note that five of the vessels each fly a dull maroon ensign. When a light gust of wind strikes the merchanter closest to him, he gets a glimpse of what looks to be a green key in the center of the maroon field.

There is only a slight chop to the water in the bay, and Lerial is glad for the limited protection from the sun provided by his visor cap as the sail-galley moves slowly eastward across the wide bay toward Estheld. After perhaps another half glass, Lerial can begin to make out the shapes of the nearer buildings on shore. What surprises him is that Estheld is really not that large a city, perhaps only a large town, even if it has more piers than does Swartheld. There is also something about the piers … something that he should recognize … but cannot.

After another third of a glass, Elphred moves down the center of the sail-galley bending his way around the mast until he is within a yard of Lerial. “How do you want to approach Estheld, ser?”