Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

“There.” The arms-commander takes a shallow breath.

  Lerial hands the signed orders to Norstaan. “You’ll need to send those out as soon as you can.”

  “The messengers are ready, with escorts.”

  “Good. What about copies?”

  “I wrote one of each, ser. They’re not as neat.”

  “They’ll have to do.”

  As Lerial watches Norstaan leave the chamber, he wonders what he has forgotten or overlooked and turns to Rhamuel. “What else needs to be done?”

  “Besides appointing you arms-commander?” Rhamuel’s voice is both wry and dryly raspy.

  “Getting you a little lager or something to drink.” Lerial turns to one of the Afritan Guards.

  “I’ll see what we can do, ser.”

  “I’d like to know what’s happening. Lying here and worrying…”

  “I’m certain we’ll hear before long.” Whether we’ll like what we hear is another matter. “I doubt that the force to the north has reached the Harbor Post yet. They may not have even begun an advance. There were more merchanters heading for the tileworks pier.”

  “Four battalions and they’re sending more?”

  “They might be sending more horses,” Lerial points out. “There might be more than four battalions. That was what we could see.” Not that I actually saw that much.

  Before long, one of the Afritan Guards approaches Lerial. “Ser, there’s a messenger here from South Post. He insists on seeing the duke.”

  Lerial walks out into the courtyard, where another Afritan Guard stands, with two others mounted behind him. “You have a message for the duke?”

  The guard looks puzzled as he takes in Lerial.

  “I’m Lord Lerial, overcaptain in the Mirror Lancers.”

  “I’m supposed to deliver the message to the duke. If he is not here, then the arms-commander. No one else, ser.”

  “Come with me, then.” Lerial doesn’t even consider objecting.

  “Ser…?”

  “Look at the palace. The part that was destroyed included the duke’s quarters and study. The arms-commander is resting inside this building. He was injured.”

  Once the messenger enters, Lerial says, “There’s a messenger here from South Post.”

  The courier steps forward, extending a rolled sheet.

  “Give the dispatch to Lord Lerial. He can read it to me.”

  Lerial takes the dispatch, breaks the seal, and scans the single sheet quickly, taking in the important points. Then he says, “It’s from Commander Sammyl. The Heldyans have landed about twenty companies on South Point, as you had said they would. Drusyn has them surrounded. He can’t attack without losing too many men because they have at least two chaos-wizards there. Sammyl is requesting more forces to enable Drusyn to advance. He doesn’t say whether the Heldyans are still landing forces. Now … I’ll read it word for word.”

  “I suppose you must.”

  Lerial skips the salutation and begins, “‘The battalions stationed at South Post are engaged in a holding action against superior Heldyan forces in a battle at South Point. Sometime before dawn, Heldyan flatboats began to land on the river side of South Point…’” When he finishes, he asks, “Do you want me to read it again?”

  “No.” Rhamuel turns his head very slightly toward the courier. “Thank you. You may go. You can stand by for a reply.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “What do you think?” Rhamuel asks Lerial once everyone else has left the small room.

  “It’s hard to know what to do. We don’t know how many battalions of those remaining at the Harbor Post are able to fight. We don’t know what else might be happening, either, or whether anything has happened to Haesychya, Kyedra, or Mykel. What about Natroyor?”

  “I don’t know. He usually sleeps late…”

  “We’ll have to assume the worst, then.”

  “Send out scouts to see where the Heldyans are,” insists Rhamuel. “And if they’re trying to land at the harbor. And have someone find out who’s in charge at the Harbor Post and how many men are able to fight.”

  “I can do that. We need to move you—carefully—to the west end of the palace.”

  “I should be at headquarters.”

  “You shouldn’t travel that far … and you certainly can’t ride.”

  “Not yet.”

  Looking at Rhamuel, Lerial has his doubts as to whether the arms-commander will ever ride again.

  Slightly less than a glass later, with the messengers and couriers on their way, and Rhamuel moved to a large guest bedchamber on the third level of the west wing of the palace, Lerial is still worrying. He glances at the arms-commander, eyes closed and lying in the large bed, his back supported not only by the brace, but by a flat and wide frame, once a cabinet door, padded with quilts and slightly inclined. At the near silence, Lerial stiffens, but then sees Rhamuel’s chest rising and falling.

  What should you do now? Go and support Drusyn? What if the Heldyan attack from the north presents the greater danger? Why hasn’t Nythalt or whoever is in charge reported back to the arms-commander?

  He feels he needs to do something, but he recalls all too clearly his father’s advice about the folly of action for the sake of action—and the majer’s cautions about the uselessness of needless sacrifice.

  None of that makes him feel any better.

  XXVIII

  Just before fourth glass of the afternoon, Norstaan hurries into the study adjoining the bedchamber where Rhamuel is resting. At least, Lerial hopes he is resting.

  “Have the men found any more survivors … or bodies?”

  “Ah … yes, ser. Several more servants … and … the heir.”

  “Lord Natroyor?”

  “Yes, ser. His skull was crushed by stone blocks. It was even hard to see it was him.”

  Meaning that there’s likely no way to tell if his throat had been cut as well. “What about that functionary … Dafaal?”

  “No, ser. There’s no sign of him, but there’s no way to get to most of the third level. That must have been where the explosion was.”

  Where all the repairs were going on! Lerial nods. The only question is whether Dafaal was part of the plot, or whether someone used Dafaal’s insisted-upon repairs as a way to smuggle whatever exploded into the palace. Certainly, Lerial himself had seen plenty of barrels. Who knew what might have been in some of them?

  A guard raps on the study door and then peers in. “Commander Sammyl has just arrived, and he’s on his way here.”

  “Thank you. Have him come here.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Once the outer door closes, Lerial says, “I’d like to hear what he has to say.” He would not only like to hear, but would like to know why Sammyl hasn’t sent any reports on what has been happening in the battle around South Point. The scouts Norstaan has sent have only been able to determine that the Heldyans have continued to land flatboats and troopers, that Drusyn appears to have contained the attackers, if temporarily, and that the Heldyans have chaos-mages who have occasionally sent chaos-bolts against the defenders. Matters to the north of Swartheld appear clearer, but not necessarily better. The short dispatch from Subcommander Dhresyl stated that he was in command because the explosion at the Harbor Post killed Commander Nythalt and Subcommander Klassyn, as well as other subcommanders, and that the remaining four battalions had managed to repulse an initial attack from the north. And Haesychya and Kyedra are safe at Aenslem’s villa.

  After some time, and food, Lerial only feels a dull aching in his skull, rather than the intense throbbing pain he had felt earlier. He has considered moving to support the Afritan Guard, but Rhamuel has suggested he wait until matters become clearer. Except … you’ve likely been waiting too long.

  Moments later, the outer door opens, and Sammyl steps through. “I’m surprised to see you here, Overcaptain.”

  “Oh? Why might that be?” replies Lerial.

  “With attacks in the north and south �
� one might even accuse you of … excessive discretion.”

  “That’s always possible when people make erroneous assumptions, Commander.”

  “Erroneous?”

  “Such as believing the Mirror Lancers have not fought.”

  “Perhaps I should have suggested that remaining in the field might have shown less excessive discretion…”

  “Perhaps you should have, but then, after we stopped the first advance from the north, with but a single company, had we remained and been obliterated by four chaos-wizards and four more battalions, who would have been able to report on the matter … or come back here and coordinate communications once the southeast part of the palace was destroyed and the arms-commander injured?” Lerial smiles. “Now … I’m certain that the arms-commander wishes to hear your report.” He turns and gestures toward the door to the bedchamber.

  “Why wasn’t I summoned sooner?”

  “You were. Undercaptain Norstaan sent a squad, and the squad leader delivered the dispatch to your hands.”

  “That was after midday.”

  “There was the small matter of fighting a battle with the Heldyans, riding almost ten kays back to Swartheld, while informing Subcommander Dhresyl about the Heldyans, then coming to the palace to heal the arms-commander after discovering it had suffered an explosion. You might consider, Commander, that I have no authority to issue commands over the Afritan Guard. I sent a messenger to the Harbor Post immediately, and as soon as the arms-commander received your report, he replied. That was as soon as he was able.”

  Sammyl lowers his voice. “How badly is he injured?”

  “They had to move stone blocks to move him from the rubble. His left leg is broken, but the bone has been set, and it should heal properly. His entire body is bruised … and he has little feeling in his legs. His mind and voice are unimpaired.”

  The commander nods abruptly. “I apologize. You must understand…”

  “I understand. The Heldyan attack, the lack of communications, the likely death of the duke, the fact that Natroyor is missing and likely dead in the rubble, and that no one knows for certain where Lord Mykel might be…”

  “Did you … heal…?” Sammyl looks toward the bedchamber.

  “I did what I could. I think he will largely recover. He may not ride or walk unaided again, but that is too early to tell.”

  “Without you…?”

  “Without Lord Lerial,” interjects Norstaan, who has been so quiet that it has skipped Lerial’s mind that the undercaptain is in the chamber, “the arms-commander would not recover. You also would not have received orders and information as soon as you did.”

  “I see.”

  Lerial is afraid that Sammyl is seeing more than is there. “You need to talk to the arms-commander. Alone.” He walks to the doorway to the bedchamber and looks at Rhamuel, who is frowning. “Commander Sammyl is here.”

  Sammyl does not look at either Lerial or Norstaan as he enters the bedchamber and closes the door behind him.

  “I’m sorry, ser,” Norstaan says, “but he wasn’t seeing what really happened.”

  Sammyl has always wanted to see things his way. At least, that’s what Lerial has observed so far. “He needs to talk to the arms-commander. He doesn’t want to believe that matters were as bad as they were here.” Yet Lerial knows he likely could have managed matters better. He should have had messengers sent even sooner than he did. Should you have just gone to support Drusyn immediately? But that would have left Rhamuel without any senior officer to convey his orders. You didn’t worry about that at Luba … But there were others able to do that.

  Lerial pushes away the competing thoughts. It’s too late now. You did what you did.

  Shortly, the bedchamber door opens. Sammyl gestures for Lerial.

  Lerial enters and closes the door.

  Sammyl inclines his head slightly. “I was not aware that the arms-commander literally had no even field-grade officers present. I can certainly see why you felt constrained to remain here, Overcaptain.”

  “That was one of the reasons I had the arms-commander request your presence,” Lerial replies. “Now that you’re here, you can provide that support and a more experienced viewpoint.”

  “With that in hand,” Rhamuel says, his voice raspy, but conveying a certain dryness, “can we get on with deciding how best to handle the Heldyans?”

  Lerial looks at the arms-commander. The circles under Rhamuel’s eyes are even darker, and Lerial immediately extends the slightest order-probe. He cannot sense any more wound chaos than before … and can only hope that Rhamuel’s condition will not worsen. Yet he knows of nothing else he can do. He wishes Emerya were closer. In addition to her healing abilities, she has other talents, besides undetectable concealment, he is certain. In any event, she is likely the only one in all Hamor who could do more for Rhamuel. But … he cannot do anything about that at the moment. “What is the situation near South Post?”

  “So far, Drusyn is managing to hold the Heldyans to the area of South Point, but there are more flatboats landing every glass. They have close to four battalions there now, and at least one, and possibly two chaos-wizards there…” Sammy goes on to provide more detail, before ending, “It’s likely that they’ll attack early tomorrow. I would judge that the Heldyan force to the north will attempt to attack as well, so that we are engaged in two battles at once.”

  “You’ve seen the force to the north, and you’ve heard Commander Sammyl’s summation of the situation,” says Rhamuel, wincing as he lifts his left hand. “Where do you think you and your men could be the most effective?”

  “That’s a bit of a guess. From what I’ve seen and from what you’ve reported, the force to the north is the stronger, but they’re taking their time, likely so that they can mass overwhelming numbers. I’d like to see what we could do at South Point early tomorrow. If we can weaken that force enough…”

  Sammyl nods.

  “Either way, even if I have to support the Harbor Post on sixday, that will help Drusyn and buy some time.”

  “To what end?” asks Sammyl.

  “The more time we have, the more likely we are to prevail. It’s still spring. They can’t feed all those men by foraging, not in the north and not in the middle of a city. That means shipping food, and that takes more time. Let them attack, and give ground slowly. They’ll take more casualties that way.”

  “This sounds familiar,” observes Rhamuel.

  “If either of you has a better idea,” replies Lerial, “I’m certainly open to it.” Anything that doesn’t require Mirror Lancers doing something suicidal.

  “You have some abilities in handling chaos yourself,” Sammyl says blandly.

  “Some,” admits Lerial. “I can’t create chaos-bolts and throw them, but I can often redirect what is thrown at us. That’s if I’m not outnumbered by chaos-wizards.” He isn’t about to mention the use of order-chaos unlocking. That remains a last resort. He still recalls the times doing that has come too close to killing him and everyone around him. As it was, with the comparatively small unlocking he had done on the north shore road, he’d been light-headed for more than a glass.

  “That’s why you think you can be more effective at South Point,” says Rhamuel.

  “If they have fewer chaos-wizards there … and if … well … it might be possible to use their own chaos against them and remove one or both of them. It can’t hurt to try. That way…”

  “That way Drusyn would only have to worry about weapons and not wizards,” concludes Sammyl.

  “That would be the plan,” says Lerial.

  Left unsaid is the understanding that, in battles, seldom will matters go as planned.

  Almost a glass later, after the three have agreed on the general approach for fiveday and sixday, and some of the supporting details, Sammyl leaves, promising to return shortly. While Rhamuel rests, Lerial sits down at the table desk in the sitting room and begins to draft a dispatch.

  When he fin
ally finishes it, he reads over the words once more.

  Ser—

  This may be the first word you receive of the Heldyan attack on Swartheld. The Afritan Guard is fighting two invasion forces, as well as extensive treachery. This treachery included an explosion which destroyed part of the ducal palace in Swartheld and killed the duke and his son, the heir presumptive. This has left Rhamuel, the arms-commander and the brother of the duke, as the heir apparent. He was injured as well, and has severe damage to his lower back and legs. Despite the injury, he is fully alert and in command. Given matters here in Swartheld, a more complete recovery on his part is beyond my limited abilities as a healer, and I would suggest that a more experienced healer, if at all possible, the healer who made certain he recovered from his previous injury, be escorted to Swartheld, by watercraft, in order to assure that Afrit will have its most capable duke in the best possible health for as long as possible. I would not make this suggestion did I not feel that its implementation would be of the greatest possible benefit for both Cigoerne and Afrit.

  After reading it over, he signs it with his name and rank. Next, he addresses the sheet that will become the envelope.

  Kiedron

  Duke of Cigoerne

  Of the Rational Stars

  Then he summons Norstaan.

  When the undercaptain appears, Lerial says, “I understand you have often arranged for dispatches to reach places expeditiously, sometimes not always through the usual … manner.” This is totally a guess on Lerial’s part, but given what he has seen so far in Afrit, someone has to have done that for Rhamuel.

  Norstaan frowns, pauses. “Ser…”

  “I need a dispatch sent.” Lerial extends the sheet. “I need this dispatch sent, and it needs to get to its destination swiftly. Go ahead and read it.” He extends the envelope sheet. “And here is to whom it will go eventually.”

  Norstaan’s eyes widen.

  “Just read the dispatch first. Then you can ask questions.”

  When Norstaan finishes, he looks at Lerial, his expression half-quizzical, half-hopeful.

  “The dispatch you have,” Lerial explains, “will be enclosed, sealed, within a dispatch to Majer Jhalet, the commander of the Mirror Lancers in Cigoerne. Can you arrange for this, even with the chaos around us?”