Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

“Commander Nythalt is at the Harbor Post?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Part of it exploded. What about Commander Sammyl?”

  “He was at the South Post.”

  Lerial turns to Dhallyn. “I’ll take Twenty-third Company to the palace. I’d recommend your sending a company as well. The palace guard will need help in keeping order.” He turns in the saddle. “Kusyl, we need to head out. Strauxyn, Fheldar, stand by. Should anyone attempt to attack here, you’re to defend. You’re not to leave the post here without my orders … or Kusyl’s, should anything happen to me.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Because Dhallyn looks slightly dazed, Lerial adds, “You’d best stand by for anything, Captain, and it might not hurt to start getting barracks ready, because some of those battalions may need quarters.” Lerial isn’t about to suggest that a captain whose functions have been largely logistics head out to fight, not when the Harbor Post is nearer and still has sizable ready forces, from what he saw, and when the headquarters post has only a few companies, most likely not all that well trained in combat.

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lerial nods and then turns his gelding.

  “On the overcaptain!” orders Kusyl. “Arms ready!”

  As they ride out through the gates once more, Lerial turns to the undercaptain. “You don’t have to say it. It’s far worse than eightday-old fish.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Once again, Lerial sees fewer people on the streets, but there is not the urgency in their steps that he beheld near the merchanter section of the city. Because they don’t know about what has happened? Or don’t think it affects them?

  That is all too possible, sadly, if the people only think that there has been damage to the palace.

  XXVII

  Because of the narrowness of the streets and the route Lerial has taken from the north, as he nears the palace, he cannot make out any damage—at least not on that part extending above the walls that he can see. He does see that the outer east gate to the palace is closed, but the two Afritan Guards ride forward, and the gates open so quickly that Lerial does not even have to slow his mount. Although he does not look back, even with his still-aching head, he has enough perception left with his order-senses to know that the gates close behind Twenty-third Company as quickly as they opened. The same pattern occurs when they near the inner gates.

  As soon as Lerial rides into the inner courtyard, his mouth drops open. The entire southeast corner of the palace appears to be a heap of rubble, and there are stones piled up around the lowest level, almost halfway to the second level, as if a giant hand had knocked off the false tower from the southwest corner and much of the stones and masonry from the fourth level and dropped them around the lower corner of the building. There are palace guards and Afritan Guards swarming over the rubble.

  As Lerial rides closer, he can see that what have been destroyed by the explosion are the third and fourth levels, although he would certainly not trust the lower levels to sustain the remaining weight above them. Strangely, the rest of the palace appears intact. But why?

  The family quarters and the duke’s study and receiving rooms. Before he can even think about that, his concentration is interrupted by a bellowing yell.

  “Lord Lerial! Overcaptain! Here!”

  Lerial turns in the saddle to see Undercaptain Norstaan waving from the door of a small stone building built against the east wall of the inner courtyard. Lerial immediately rides to where the undercaptain waits. Even before he reins up, Norstaan begins talking.

  “The arms-commander is inside, ser. We think he was thrown through the window of the duke’s study. He was sprawled on the stones, but he’d landed on some heavy draperies and a settee. He can’t move his legs, and there are welts all over his body. He says he’ll be all right, but he has to be in great pain. I’ve sent for a healer, but no one has found him. Without one … I don’t … I don’t know … You’re the only one…” Norstaan looks pleadingly up at Lerial.

  After immediately checking his shields, Lerial dismounts and hands the reins to the nearest ranker. He looks to Kusyl. “Keep anyone else away from here.” Then he follows the undercaptain through the door and into a small chamber.

  Rhamuel lies on his back on two table desks pushed together. A jacket or tunic has been rolled up and placed under his neck. His face is slightly contorted, but his eyes focus on Lerial, although he does not move his head. Two Afritan Guards are stationed on each side of the tables, clearly to make sure Rhamuel does not fall.

  Lerial immediately lets his order-sense range over the arms-commander. The diffuse chaos across his upper body indicates a large amount of bruising, most of which will not become apparent for several days, but not life-threatening by itself. There is a clear break in the main bone in his left leg halfway between ankle and knee, and more deep bruises on his legs. There is also a band of chaos across Rhamuel’s lower back. Lerial turns to Norstaan. “Did a heavy block of stone hit his lower back?”

  “There were a lot of masonry stones over him, ser. He was half buried.”

  Frig!

  “What can you feel?” Lerial asks Rhamuel.

  “Everything above my waist hurts. There’s pain everywhere lower…”

  “Can you move your fingers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Toes?”

  “I don’t … know … can’t feel … except pain.”

  “What about your left leg?”

  “What’s wrong with me?” demands Rhamuel.

  “You’re badly bruised and battered over most of your body. You’ve got a broken bone in your left leg, and your lower back is hurt. That might be very bad. We can set and splint the leg. That can wait a little bit.”

  “Wait?”

  Lerial ignores Rhamuel’s question, instead concentrating on the chaos-knot in the arms-commander’s lower back. He cannot tell exactly what is wrong, but he has the feeling that there is little he can do except to reduce the amount of chaos. Bit by bit, he does, until he has the sense that to remove more would not be a good idea for either Rhamuel or himself. When he shifts his weight from one boot to the other, he feels light-headed. He steps back, carefully. His falling on the injured commander is the last thing either of them needs.

  “What did you do? The pain’s less.”

  “What I could.” Lerial stands there for a moment, taking a deep breath.

  “I can’t move my toes…”

  “We need to splint that leg. Otherwise, what happens with your toes won’t matter.” Lerial is well aware that it will matter, but he doesn’t want to talk about that aspect of Rhamuel’s injuries … not yet. “What about the others in the palace?”

  Rhamuel gestures with his right forearm and hand. “Everyone out except Lord Lerial.”

  Lerial looks at Norstaan. “I’m going to need straight strong narrow pieces of wood and long strips of cloth, canvas if you can find any. Clear spirits or strong ale.…” When he finishes, he adds, “The sooner the better.”

  After the others leave, Lerial steps closer to the table.

  Rhamuel looks up at Lerial. “Atroyan’s dead. He was when I got to his study. His throat was slashed. I heard something so loud it shook me and the palace. Everything started to collapse … I grabbed the settee and used it like a shield to go through the window as the stones were falling … didn’t time it quite right…”

  “What about the rest of the family?”

  “I don’t know. I went straight to Atroyan’s study.”

  “You have another problem,” Lerial says. “We were scouting to the north and discovered that the Heldyans have landed at least four battalions at the pier at Maesoryk’s tileworks there. They had chaos-wizards who created the fog. We managed to destroy maybe a battalion of Heldyans, but they had three or four more left and at least three more strong chaos-wizards. I only had a company with me. I couldn’t do any more, and we had to withdraw. On the way back we saw part of the Harbor Post explode, maybe a third.
There wasn’t anything we could do. So we headed back here, but I sent a messenger to the Harbor Post to let the senior officer know about the Heldyans. Then I got word about you and the palace.”

  “What about the South Post?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have Norstaan draft some orders and send word. Sammyl’s there, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. What about sending Drusyn’s battalions north…”

  “That would be fine … if the Heldyans haven’t attacked elsewhere. We still need to take care of you. I need to see how they’re coming.” Keeping an eye on Rhamuel, Lerial goes to the door and tells the two Afritan Guards, “You can come back.”

  While waiting for Norstaan to return with what he needs, Lerial steps out into the courtyard. Nothing has changed, and palace guards and rankers are still looking through the rubble. Bodies covered with blankets lie in a line on the stone pavement in front of the east entrance to the palace. Lerial walks to his mount and grabs the water bottle, from which he takes slow swallows, hoping that the watered lager will help his light-headedness and the flashes that have returned to plague his vision.

  Norstaan hurries from the southwest corner of the courtyard toward Lerial. “We should have everything in a few moments, ser.”

  “Good. You never told me what happened.”

  “I don’t know, ser. Not really. I heard that the duke wanted the arms-commander and had sent a messenger. When he entered the courtyard, I came out to see him, but he barely stopped, just long enough to tell me that we’d talk after he met with the duke. He left his mount with one of the rankers and hurried to the east entrance. I went back to looking at the duty rosters. A little later, there was an explosion, and everything shook. I ran out. The palace was pretty near like it is now, but some stone blocks were still falling.”

  Lerial nods. “I’ve talked to the arms-commander. Have some men look through the undamaged part of the palace to see if they can find out about the duke and his family—”

  “Ser … we already did. The arms-commander ordered it. They’re not anywhere in the safe parts of the palace. Neither is Councilor Dafaal. Lady Haesychya and her daughter are likely safe. They left early because her father is ailing. They should be at Aenslem’s villa. We couldn’t find any trace of Lord Natroyor. Lord Mykel departed for Lake Reomer early this morning with his … friend.”

  Lerial finds himself letting out a deep breath at the news about Haesychya and Kyedra. After a moment, he says, “You need to send a messenger to Aenslem’s villa, if you haven’t already. It’s cold, but the lady needs to know that the duke is dead, and that the heir is missing in the rubble. Tell them to stay there because the city is facing Heldyan attack.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Draft an order to Commander Nythalt, or the senior officer in command at Harbor Post. Order him to set up a line of defense to assure that the Heldyan forces to the north of Swartheld do not take the city. Tell him he’ll need to consider earthworks because the Heldyans have chaos-wizards. We’ll have the arms-commander sign it, and you’ll take it to the Harbor Post.”

  “But … what will I tell them?”

  “That an explosion blew up part of the palace. That the duke is buried in the rubble and likely dead. That the arms-commander was injured and has a broken leg, but as arms-commander and possible heir, his commands stand. We’ll also need to send orders to Commander Sammyl at South Post. He needs to report here to assist the arms-commander, and Subcommander Drusyn needs to take whatever steps are necessary, if he hasn’t already, to repulse any Heldyan troops that may attack from the south.” At Norstaan’s questioning look, Lerial adds, “I’m certain they have standing orders to that effect,” at least they should, “but with the explosions and rumors that are going to circulate, a set of written orders, confirmed by a live officer or squad leader who can confirm that the arms-commander, although wounded, is alive and alert, will help settle officers and men.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lerial can see several troopers and a man in green headed toward them. “I didn’t know there was a palace healer. Is he the one you mentioned?”

  “Yes, ser. He can’t do order-healing, but he’s good with other kinds of healing, cleaning and stitching wounds, setting bones…”

  “Good.”

  As the healer approaches, Lerial sees that he is a trim square-faced man with graying brown hair. The healer also manifests a strong order-presence, if not as much as a true order-healer.

  “Jaermyd, ser.”

  “It’s good you’re here. I’d like your help … or perhaps it might be better to say that I’ll help you in setting the arms-commander’s broken leg.”

  “Is that all…”

  Lerial shakes his head. “He’s got welts everywhere. Much of his body will be bruised, but some of the bruises are so deep that they won’t show up for a day or so…”

  “I heard you were a field healer, but that…”

  “I can do some order-healing. Not so much as the best…” Lerial pauses. “His lower back is damaged. He doesn’t have any feeling there. There’s a knot of wound chaos there … but we still need to set and splint the leg so it will heal.”

  Jaermyd nods. “Maybe ought to brace his back first. Otherwise…”

  “We might damage it more?”

  “He might. Even the best bonesetting’s painful.”

  You should have remembered that. “You’re right.”

  “Begging your pardon, ser.” Kusyl clears his throat and steps forward. “Thought you might like these.” He extends several biscuits.

  “Thank you.” Lerial takes the biscuits and immediately eats one, then the other, before taking another swallow from his now nearly empty water bottle. Then he turns to Jaermyd. “We need to do this.” Before everything else gets worse and while you can.

  Lerial and Jaermyd fashion a brace, using wood and canvas, to keep Rhamuel’s lower back as immobilized as possible, since there is little else that they can do, not that Lerial knows of, anyway. Then Lerial lets Jaermyd take the lead in setting Rhamuel’s leg, but does at one time stop the older healer. “Wait. There’s some wound chaos…”

  Throughout both procedures, Rhamuel is silent, except for breathing heavily, but his forehead is damp by the time the two finish.

  “Are you two done?” the arms-commander finally asks, his voice ragged.

  Lerial forces a smile. “For now. Don’t move for a bit.”

  “How could I, the way you’ve trussed me up?”

  “That’s the point,” replies Lerial. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Then he leaves the chamber with Jaermyd. He says nothing until they are outside and well away from the doorway. “Thank you. You have more experience in setting bones.”

  “You would have done just fine, ser.” The healer pauses. “You can sense wound chaos inside a body?”

  Lerial nods. “There was a touch of it at the end of the spot where the bone broke. I thought it might heal better with a little order. I’m just glad the bones didn’t break the skin.”

  “You know … ser…?”

  “That he may never walk again? Or that he may not survive for that long? I know both are possible. It is also possible that he will live many years, even if he cannot walk.” But Afrit and Cigoerne both need him alive and alert for as long as possible, and many years would be for the best, especially if Natroyor is still alive. Or Mykel, for that matter.

  “I will wish for the best.”

  “You’ll have to do more than that, I fear, Jaermyd. You’re going to have to take care of him. I have this feeling I’m going to be needed elsewhere in Swartheld. I’ll need you to stand by near here. He’ll need to be moved to somewhere in the west wing of the palace where he can be guarded and where he can recover.”

  “There are others…”

  “You can tend to them, but don’t go far. Rhamuel is not only arms-commander of Afrit; he may also be the duke, or acting in place of the heir until he can be found.”

  “Oh…”
>
  “Exactly. Now … I need to talk to him.” Lerial pauses. “Thank you.”

  Jaermyd looks down for a moment, then replies, “It’s what I do. I will do my best.”

  “That’s all I ask.” With that, Lerial nods and then turns and walks back into the small room.

  “Am I supposed to lie here while all Afrit falls apart?” Rhamuel demands.

  “No, but you’re going to be mostly on your back for a while. We can tilt you, so long as your back is stiff. That’s why you’re bound so tightly…” Lerial is amazed that Rhamuel can talk so coherently with all his injuries. “In a bit, Jaermyd and Norstaan will have you moved to somewhere in the west part of the palace.”

  “You’re not telling me everything.”

  “I don’t know everything. I’ve told you all I know about the Heldyans. We haven’t had any word—”

  “Ser…” Norstaan peers into the small room.

  “Do you have the orders? And a pen and ink?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “What orders?” demands Rhamuel.

  “The ones we talked about. You can read them. If you don’t like them, we’ll change them, but we need to get them out to Sammyl and whoever’s in command at the Harbor Post.”

  “We need to get them out?”

  “You need to decide the orders. We need to get them where they go.” Lerial hands the first order to Rhamuel.

  Rhamuel has to squint to read the words, but he finally looks up. “It sounds like me. Not you. That’s better.”

  “I had Norstaan write them. I thought he might know how you write.”

  “He drafts most orders.”

  “Here’s the second order.”

  Rhamuel’s hands are shaking by the time he lowers the second sheet. “Good. Your ideas?”

  “What I thought should be done. Can you sign them?”

  “I’ll see.”

  “I brought a writing board,” Norstaan volunteers.

  “Good.”

  With Norstaan holding the inkwell, and the two troopers holding the writing board, Rhamuel manages to sign both orders … and add words to the effect that his seal was not available.