Cyador’s Heirs (50 page)

“Uphill … not that much of a slope…” Alaynara tilts her head slightly. “We could do two hundred, but closer is better. First volley will be a guess. Fire arrows, though, they’ll let us see the range better than war arrows…”

As she talks, Lerial mentally revises some of what he has planned. When she finishes, he says. “The other thing is that to get close enough, we’re going to have to ride under a concealment … the blackness I used at the ambush this morning.”

“How will we know where to go?”

“I’d thought to use cord from rider to rider. I can tell where to go, but I can’t be calling out directions.”

The head archer nods. “Ought to work. Can’t be that much worse than night riding in the deep Verd.”

When he finishes with Moraris and Alaynara, Lerial walks to the west end of the Lancer positions and begins to study the Meroweyan positions. He especially notes where there are large clumps of bushes, few as those are. After a time, he returns to second company, checking the tie-line near the woods where the mounts are tethered. That arrangement and the fact that the supply wagons have not been unloaded suggests to Lerial that Altyrn thinks that they may have to withdraw on very short notice. It’s not a comforting observation.

Lerial forces himself to eat when dinner is ready—ghano hash between dry acorn bread slices, washed down with either water or greenberry … or the combination of the two that Lerial can get down. After obtaining lengths of cordage from the supply wagon, and turning them over to Moraris, he forces himself to take his time getting ready, and he offers last-moment orders to Moraris about a third before eighth glass.

“We’ll ride west as a two-abreast column, and then, just before we’re opposite the target we’ll stop and pay out the cord so that each file can keep position. We’ll head south, still east of the road. I’m going to take us beside several areas that have clumps of bushes until we’re at a point where I’ll raise a concealment. Once we get in range, I’ll drop the concealment. When the archers can see the stars, I’ll give the command to dip the arrows and then strike their flints and light them. Then they keep dipping and firing them until they’re out of fire arrows … or if there’s a charge headed our way. That’s when we turn and leave as fast as we can.”

“No concealment on the way back, ser?” asks Moraris.

“There’s no reason for that. If they have white wizards, they’ll sense where we are from the concealment … once they know we’re there. And the fire arrows will give away our initial position anyway. They likely won’t be looking with chaos senses all the time before we get there. That’s too tiring.”
That’s what your experience says. What if theirs is different?
“If they sense us earlier, we’ll just have to break off the attack.”

Finally … fourth squad sets out westward, parallel to both lines, with Lerial at the head of one file, and Moraris at the head of the other.

When they’re opposite their target, Lerial turns the squad and starts south before calling a halt and giving the order, “Pay out the cord to each file.”

While he waits for the guiding cord to reach the last ranker in each file, Lerial again tries to sense, without reaching out, whether the Meroweyan white wizards are showing any sign of having discovered them. So far, they are not moving, nor are they doing anything different.
Then, too, they could be watching to see if you get closer, or waiting until you do.

Lerial is finding that he doesn’t like to try to guess what his enemies are doing, even as he knows he must … and that he must get better at it … so that he is not guessing, but anticipating.
Like with the sabre.

“Guide cords in place, ser,” Moraris says quietly.

“Squad. Forward.”

After they have ridden downhill and south, then across part of the small valley, but before they reach the middle, Lerial can sense the supply wagons. Without probing, recalling his lessons with Saltaryn, he tries just to gain an impression of where there might be ordermages or white wizards. There are two, possibly three, white wizards in the middle of the Meroweyan positions, and several farther to the south, although he cannot locate the wizards to the south, most likely because they are beyond his ability to discern clearly. Fourth squad continues at a measured pace, first, because it is quieter, and also safer in the darkness, and second, because slower movements are not as likely to be noticed at a distance by sentries.

Lerial also directs the squad from clump to clump of bushes, in ways that do not markedly extend the distance they must cover, in order to convey the impression that the riders are a scouting party … if they are noticed. But with about half a kay remaining to the area from which he wants the archers to loft the fire arrows he says, “Concealment coming. Pass it back. Quietly.”

After several moments, he raises the concealment, then makes another effort to try to determine whether the chaos mages might have detected anything. He can sense no changes. He almost feels like holding his breath in the darkness that is far darker than a starry night as he leads the column across the remainder of the flat area and then starts up the gradual slope toward their target.

When they near the area he and Altyrn had picked out, Lerial realizes that they cannot go exactly where he had hoped. Because, even his senses are telling him that the ground ahead is far too uneven to ride across. Yet … they are possibly thirty, perhaps even fifty, yards short of where he would like to be, a good hundred and fifty yards from the supply wagons. He lifts the concealment.

“We’re fifty yards farther out. Pass it back.”

Lerial waits for Moraris to report.

“Fourth squad, ready, ser.”

“Strike and light,” Lerial orders, hoping that is an accurate order. He has no idea what the proper order might be, but his words seem to have the desired effect because small balls of light appear along the line of archers.

“First volley!” he finally orders, then watches as the arrows arch up and over the crest, trying to follow them with his senses. While a few strike the wagons, most fall slightly short. “Head archer! Most are about ten yards short.”

“Ten yards more. Ready for volley.”

“Second volley!”

Most of the arrows are in the right range, but many still miss the wagons. One wagon seems to be catching fire, from what Lerial can sense. “That’s a good range. Stand by for third volley.”

“Ready for volley.”

“Third volley!”

This time a few more shafts stick.

“Stand by for fourth volley.”

“Ready.”

“Fourth volley!”

Lerial can sense the chaos building—somewhere to the south and east of him—but there is nothing he can do but wait … and hope he has the ability to divert whatever chaos force is aimed at fourth squad. While the arrows are having an effect, they really need at least one more volley.

The fifth volley goes, and Lerial is about to order the sixth, knowing there are only enough arrows for seven full volleys, when a firebolt flares directly toward him.

Even though he is as ready as he can be, it takes a huge effort to drop the chaos-fire short of fourth squad, more so than angling it away, but he hopes the flare of power will momentarily keep the white wizard from seeing or determining whether his effort was successful.

“Sixth volley!”

As soon as the fire arrows are away, he orders, “Turn and withdraw! On the double!” He turns the gelding, noticing that some of the archers are glancing toward the hilltop. “Withdraw! Now!”

“Forward to the rear!” orders Moraris, urging his mount forward toward the end of the column that has become the van.

The squad starts downhill, but Lerial remains at the back. He tries a quick sensing of the wagons and gets the impression that as many as six may be in flames. Men are scurrying and pulling other wagons away. At least, that is the impression he gets—along with that feeling of building chaos.

The next firebolt is bigger than the previous one, but it arches down toward Lerial, almost as if the wizard intends to drop it right on him.

Lerial concentrates—this time with a terribly fine-lined twenty-strand order loop—and the firebolt strikes the hillside less than thirty yards behind the gelding. Heat hotter than an oven washes over Lerial, then dissipates.

“Captain?” comes a call from Moraris.

“I’m fine. Keep riding! There might be more fireballs.”

No sooner are the words out of Lerial’s mouth than he can sense more chaos building somewhere behind him, and he wonders if he can divert the next chaos-blast … and still function.

The third bolt is more whitish red, somehow
nastier
feeling.

Lerial doubts that he can survive another twenty-line diversion pattern, and he tries two linked ten-line patterns. His mouth opens as the firebolt just disintegrates in midair with streamers of reddish-white flames almost dribbling from the star-sprinkled night sky.

Over the next three or four hundred yards, he can sense no more chaos-fire concentration, but, once more, Lerial’s head aches, and tiny flashes of light erratically distort his vision. He keeps looking back, but there are no more firebolts, and once they are close to a kay away from the Meroweyan lines, he begins to breathe more easily. As fourth squad begins riding up the slope on the north side of the valley, back to the Lancer camp, Lerial realizes that, despite the evening chill, he is sweating and soaked, and his entire body is shaking.
Just from diverting three firebolts? Three?

But then, he’d only managed two the last time.

He takes another look back across the valley. The flames have died down, but there are still some reddish-orange points of light and an overall fire glow. He almost smiles, until he thinks about how many white wizards the Meroweyans have … and the fact that at least one of them had known exactly where he had been.

He just wishes he could figure out a way to divert all that power in the chaos-bolts back to the wizards who are throwing it—or at least back at the Meroweyan camp.
You’ll have to think about that.
Except … to do that, he needs to work with wizard chaos, and that tends to be difficult when, if he fails, he’s likely to be incinerated on the spot.

Lerial is so exhausted by the time that he and fourth squad return that he really doesn’t want to do anything but collapse into sleep, but he needs to report to Altyrn. After unsaddling and grooming the gelding, quickly and not well, he makes his way to find the majer.

Altyrn is standing beside the awning tent, talking to Juist and Kusyl. Rather than interrupt, Lerial waits until they leave to step forward. “Ser?”

“I could see the fire from here. Did you take any casualties?”

“No, ser.”

“Good. Were there any problems or anything I should know immediately?”

“No problems, but they do have at least four white wizards, chaos mages.”

“I saw the firebolts. How far do you think the farthest one went?”

“A kay at most.”

Altyrn nods and then looks closely at Lerial in the dim light. “Get some sleep. You can tell me the rest in the morning. Early.”

“Yes, ser. Is there a problem?”

“Not unless you have one. I need to work out some things with fifth and sixth company.”

“No problems, ser.” Lerial nods and departs, wondering if and how he has disappointed the majer. He stifles a yawn.

He can worry about that in the morning … and he knows he will.

LVI

The next morning Lerial wakes up early, stiff from a night on a bedroll—especially in his shoulders and neck—and very worried. Although it is before sunrise, the gray has faded, and the sky is largely clear, but he can see a few scattered clouds on the horizon to the south, although it will be later in the day before those clouds get near enough for Lerial to determine whether they might bring rain. After readying himself for the day and then checking with his squad leaders, he hurries to find Altyrn.

The majer is at the table under the awning, looking at the maps and talking to Juist. He beckons for Lerial to join them, but continues to talk to the acting undercaptain. “… can take the trail on the back side of the wash a kay west of the old quarry there … bring you within striking distance … bluff there … have the first three squads use their bows to target the rankers, and the archers put fire arrows into the supply wagons … no casualties … if possible…”

“That’s going to make them mad,” observes Juist.

“It probably will. Since they intend to kill us all anyway, what difference does it make?”

At the ironic tone in the majer’s voice, Juist shakes his head and chuckles.

Lerial can sense that there is far more behind the majer’s comment, but not what.

“Do you want us to do anything on the way back?” asks Juist.

“Get close enough to the Meroweyan lines here that they can see you returning, but not close enough for them to be able to send out a force able to reach you before you rejoin us.”

Lerial can see the point of that.

“That’s all,” concludes Altyrn. “Set out as soon as you can.”

“Yes, ser.” Juist nods to the majer and turns, smiling wryly at Lerial as he departs.

Lerial steps closer and waits for the majer to speak.

“Give me a brief summary of your mission last night.”

“Yes, ser. We headed west in front of our lines until we were close to opposite the objective. Then we headed south, silent riding, and moving from various clumps of bushes at a deliberate pace…” Lerial goes on to give a brief description of what happened, but without mentioning his diversions of the firebolts, and only saying that the second one came so close that he felt as though his back had been in an oven.

“So … you accomplished your objective last night. No more and no less.”

“Yes, ser. We did so without casualties.”

“That’s always good.” Altyrn pauses. “You do realize that they have more than three thousand armsmen. The scouts have reported another five to ten companies on the road from Yakaat. Presumably they are headed here. They’ll arrive late this evening, or tomorrow. You heard the strategy I gave Juist for dealing with them.”