Cyador’s Heirs (56 page)

Is there any way you could retain or manipulate that order split from a chaos-bolt?
The problem is that it all comes at once, and he has no experience in dealing with that much order or chaos. He is still pondering over that when Altyrn walks stolidly through the rain and into the tent, where he gently brushes the water off the oiled leather jacket he wears.

“What happened?”

“We were attacked even before we could even attempt a fixed ambush…” Lerial goes on to relate the details, finishing up with, “… and then we rode back along a very wet and narrow passage through the Verd, getting even more soaked before we got here.”

“You managed to inflict some casualties. Do you have any idea how many?”

“Maybe two squads worth, between the injuries at that temporary order barrier and the ones brought down by arrows.” Lerial shrugs. “We didn’t stay to find out.”

“You’re likely hurting them more with what you’re doing to their mages,” muses Altyrn. “They burned two more gaps in the trunk wall before the elders could get the rain to strengthen.”

“They’re weather-mages? Why do they need us—”

Altyrn sighs. Loudly. “Didn’t you hear me? They’re not that strong, or not that strong without risking their lives. They can make it rain harder … or less … but they can’t create the storms.”

That makes sense, unfortunately.

“The damage the Merowyan wizards did was enough. They have three gaps big enough to put a company at a time through.” The majer turns and looks out into the dimness beyond the tent. “The rain will help for a few days after it lets up, but then they’ll burn another one or two. After that, there won’t be any way to keep them out.”

“How did Juist do?” asks Lerial, not only wanting to know, but also to change the subject.

“About the same as second company. Kusyl didn’t even get close. They were waiting for fourth company as well. He lost eight men. Between the three of you, we cost them another company today.”

Lerial understands all too well what the majer isn’t saying—that they still face overwhelming odds.

LX

The rain keeps falling sixday evening. It is still coming down on sevenday morning, and from what Lerial can sense in the clouds and in the flow of order and chaos, it will continue for at least several glasses, because he can find no change in the clouds to the northwest, which is from where the light winds are blowing. He still wonders just how the elders had managed to increase the rain.

After dealing with muster and making sure his men are as dry as possible, and having to admit to Alaynara that he does not know whether more arrows will be forthcoming or when, Lerial spends the morning experimenting with various order-patterns, using the lodestone at times, and not at others. He is discovering that, for whatever reason, most likely practice, he is more able to summon free order … but he has difficulty in doing much with it. To him, order is more like a flow of liquid, like water, except, unlike water, he has no container with which to hold it, so that he can direct it to some extent, but unless he concentrates—hard—on containing it, it flows from his patterns like water running through his fingers, or oozing from cupped hands.

The other matter that concerns him is the feeling of ugliness or uncleanness that he felt when he had redirected the chaos-bolt. He has always been slightly uncomfortable with chaos, a feeling he had almost not recognized, but the ugliness … even sitting on his blanket in the tent, he shivers slightly to think about it.
Was that because you were dealing with more chaos … or more closely?
That brings to mind his aunt’s caution about always making sure order lies between him and any use of chaos.
But you were using order and not trying to influence the chaos directly.

Still … he has only been using one coil of order, unlike the earlier patterns where he has employed several lines of order.
What if you use just two thinner order lines in the coil shape?

He sets to work trying to duplicate that. After a half glass he is sweating slightly, despite the slight chill, but he has finally managed to create the small pattern the way he wants it.

He nods happily. Then another thought crosses his mind.
What would happen if you wrapped that order pattern around the lodestone?

Lerial smiles as he does so—but his mouth drops open as the lodestone, pouch and all, rips itself from his hands and slams into the scabbard of his sabre, lying on the blanket beside him. The lodestone holds to the iron of the blade even through the hardened leather, and it takes a great effort by Lerial to pry it loose. Holding the lodestone tightly and well away from the sheathed sabre, he studies the dark oblong with his order-senses. Somehow, the pattern he has created has become part of the lodestone itself, amplifying the natural order-lines of the stone.

If you did that to any piece of iron … would it do that?
Lerial shakes his head. To make iron act like a lodestone … at the moment, he can think of no reason to do so, but he will keep that in mind.

“If I might ask, Lerial … what are you doing?” Altyrn stands just inside the tent, shaking rain from his oilskin jacket.

“Working on trying to get better control of firebolts. Why?”

“Because you were surrounded by something like a silver-black haze.” The majer smiles almost slyly. “I recall something you said about not being an ordermage…”

“I’m not. I’ve had a little instruction, and can do some healing. Other than that, I’ve figured out a few things, but I can’t predict the weather, or change it. I can’t erect shields against either order or chaos; I can only sometimes shift where chaos goes … and that’s dangerous. You’ve seen that.”

“I have.” Altyrn nods. “I’ve also seen you destroy two chaos wizards, and you can conceal your entire company from sight.”

“Only for a short time.”

“Many would consider all of those enough to name you an ordermage, Lerial. Your rankers already do.”

Lerial winces. “I’m not that good.”

“You may not yet be what you would consider a good ordermage, but you are an ordermage of sorts, and it’s foolish on your part to deny it. Denying what you are only weakens you … just as exaggerating what you are does. Strength lies in knowing who and what you are—your capabilities and your weaknesses.”

Lerial cannot dispute that, and he nods.

After a silence that seems long to Lerial, but probably lasts but a few moments, Altyrn says, “The rain is a mixed blessing. Their chaos mages can’t do that much, and that will allow the crafters here to make more arrows.”

“That would be good. My head archer was asking about that.”

“I will let you know as soon as I do.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial pauses, then goes on. “I know that the rain will keep the fires from spreading, but you said they can’t do much.”

“It’s been forgotten, I think, but handling chaos in the rain can be very painful for those who do. At least, that was something I was told a long ways from here when I was a very junior officer.”

Lerial frowns for a moment. That’s something he has not heard. “Is there anything else that makes it hard for them?”

Altyrn laughs softly but harshly. “An even stronger ordermage. Or having to use chaos in the middle of the ocean or a large lake.” After another pause, he says, “I came to see if you had any sense of how long this rain will last.”

Lerial is about to protest, then reluctantly smiles. “Wait a moment … if you would.” He concentrates once more, letting his senses probe the clouds. As before, he can sense no immediate change … yet … the order flows seem slightly lighter and not quite so strong. He looks at the majer. “The rain
might
start to weaken in a few glasses, but I can’t tell if it will strengthen after that … or get stronger again.”

“I’ll see you in a few glasses then…” Altyrn gives Lerial a surprisingly boyish grin, “Captain and ordermage.” With that he turns and leaves the tent, walking through the rain toward the tent that holds Donnael, who has remained with the six companies for the last three days.

Lerial looks down at the lodestone he is still holding.
What else can you try?

LXI

By eightday morning the rain has stopped. Only a thin haze remains, a combination of fog and mist that hovers in the forest canopy and higher. The wind has shifted to the southwest and turned cooler, but the Meroweyan forces do not look to move or break camp. Shortly after midafternoon, Altyrn sends out sixth company under Denieryn through the main southern road gate—still unbreached—to see what reaction that provokes. Three companies immediately charge, and fireballs fly. Sixth company loses almost a full squad to firebolts and two stragglers who are cut down by hard-riding Meroweyan horsemen, although archers stationed by the road gate bring down close to another squad of Meroweyan riders who pursue too closely.

“They were ready,” says Lerial after hearing from the majer what happened.

“They knew you weren’t there,” observes Altyrn.

“Do you want second company to try next?”

“You can’t do everything,” the majer replies.

That’s not exactly an answer.
While that is Lerial’s first thought, he realizes that what the majer means is that if second company is the only one moving against the Meroweyans, sooner or later, the attackers will find a way to trap and outnumber second company … particularly since Lerial has no way to shield his position from the Meroweyan mages or wizards, given that, just as he can sense concentrations of chaos, they seem able to know where he is through the concentration of order he has, small as it is.

“Do you think they’ll attack this evening?” asks Lerial.

“I’d be surprised. They lost some of those riders because the ground was soft. Every glass the wind holds it dries out the ground and trees more. Tonight … well … it’s going to be a long night,” says Altyrn.

By eighth glass in the evening, the first firebolt strikes the edge of the already burned area east of the road-gate, and Lerial goes to find Altyrn.

“I can try to stop them,” he says.

“Which ones? How will you keep up? The chaos-fire you saw to the east isn’t the only place they’ll fire. They’ve already moved on. Their mages rode up behind a company, threw some fire and withdrew.”

Lerial understands all too well, especially after riding on the tortuous paths of the Verd. If second company leaves the Verd, Lerial will likely be immediately outnumbered and forced to withdraw. “So what do we do?”

“Wait. The Verd is still damp, and the elders can minimize the spread. If Casseon’s men do attack in the darkness, they’ll risk taking huge losses among the trees. They’ll likely attack in force tomorrow.” Altyrn snorts. “If they attack tonight, I’ll have you awakened, never fear. For now, try to get some rest. You’ll have plenty to do tomorrow.”

Even before Lerial returns to the tent, he can smell the acrid odor of burning wood and vegetation, but he can see no fire, not even a dull red glow.

As he stands there, a short and broad-shouldered figure approaches. “Ser?”

He recognizes her. “Yes, Head Archer?”

“Do you know where we will be riding tomorrow?” Alaynara’s voice is low for a woman, but pleasant.

“Wherever the majer sends us. That will depend on where the Meroweyans are and what they’re doing.”

“You know you’re not what anyone thought?”

What anyone thought?
“You mean by ‘anyone’ the people of the Verd? Or the Verdyn Lancers?”

“Both. It’s not as though the Lancers and the people are different.” Her smile is somehow sad, Lerial thinks.

“Sometimes, those who are younger don’t see things the same as those who are older.”

“Especially when the younger ones are fighting and dying. Is that what you mean?”

“I have thought that. What did you mean by my being different? That I’m fighting instead of merely being here and conferring with the elders?”

“Mostly. But you also saved Haermish when it might have killed you.”

Her words embarrass Lerial, and he quickly replies, “I did what I could … and it was after we got back.”

“You like to think of yourself as practical, don’t you?”

“I try.” He almost laughs, thinking how that description would have amused his father.

“Practicality has to include who we are.”

“That’s why you’re fighting,” he points out.

“I thought you would understand. The majer does. I hope your father does also. Good night, ser.” With a polite nod, Alaynara slips away into the darkness.

For a time, Lerial stands there.
Did she seek you out just to make that point? Why? You’re not even the heir.

In a way, Alaynara reminds him of Emerya, the same sort of combination of caring and practicality … and that reminds him of Amaira … and Ryalah, and he wonders how they are both doing … and that makes him wonder if Alaynara will end up like Emerya. He is still pondering what Alaynara had wanted when he stretches out on his blanket.

That acrid odor is stronger when he wakes as the sky is beginning to lighten the next morning. He glances at Altyrn’s bedroll, which is already rolled up and wonders if the majer ever sleeps. When he looks outside, he can see that the cooler wind has brought scattered clouds, not thin ones, but the puffy kind that may well turn into thunderstorms by afternoon.

After checking with the second company duty ranker, he is relieved to know that there have been no more attacks during the night, not after ninth glass, anyway, and that the fires caused by the white wizards have largely died out.
Because of the efforts of the elders?

Lerial eats quickly and goes to find Altyrn, whom he finds standing in the narrow opening of the outer road gate. The lines of smoke from cookfires and the fact that there are no forces obviously mustering suggest that they do not plan on an early attack.

The majer turns to Lerial. “Close to midday. They’ve widened the gap east of here. I could be wrong, but I think they’ll attack there in force without their wizards.”

“Ser?”

“They have to know that you can’t or won’t throw chaos. But you can throw it back at them. They don’t need chaos to prevail. In fact, it could hurt them. So they’ll send the wizards elsewhere to burn other entries and let most of their armsmen push their way into the Verd.”