Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Paelwyr drops into the chair across the long table from Lerial. “Our casualties were light. Very light, given that we rode right through the Heldyan encampment. How did you manage that, ser?”

  “Surprise. I doubt that anyone expected an attack like that. We were inside their lines before they could react.”

  “You knew where their lines were thin before you ever saw the encampment.”

  “I scouted it out yesterday. People seldom change their lines when they haven’t been attacked.” All of that is true and allows Lerial to avoid answering Paelwyr’s implied question. “What were your casualties? I’ll need to report them to the commander.”

  “Twenty-nine killed or missing, forty wounded, most only slightly.”

  Lerial nods. “That’s good for what you accomplished. We likely created a battalion’s worth of casualties. You obviously kept your men in an effective tight formation.”

  “Not quite as tight as I would have liked.”

  “That tight under those conditions was admirable.”

  “Will we be doing something like that again, ser?”

  “Not like that. We may be called on to undertake another diversionary attack, but it will have to be different if we are.”

  “Is there anything else, ser?”

  “Not for now. If that changes, I’ll let you know.”

  “By your leave … then…?”

  “Of course.” Lerial watches as Paelwyr rises and then leaves the mess. Once he is alone, he takes a swallow of the lager, then sets the beaker down. He worries about the thrust of Paelwyr’s questions, and hopes he has defused at least some of the majer’s suspicions.

  “Overcaptain, ser?”

  Lerial looks up to see a junior squad leader standing at the end of the mess table. “Yes?”

  “Commander Dhresyl wanted you and Subcommander Drusyn to know that Subcommander Ascaar is fighting off four battalions of Heldyans at Shaelt.”

  “Thank you.” Lerial can’t say he is surprised.

  “The commander would like to meet with you both as soon as Subcommander Drusyn arrives.”

  “I’ll wait here for Subcommander Drusyn.”

  “Yes, ser.” The squad leader nods and then hurries out.

  Lerial takes another swallow of lager, realizing that the beaker is almost empty and that he has eaten the entire small loaf of bread and the wedge of cheese.

  “Would you like more, ser?” asks the mess ranker.

  “Please.”

  Lerial has only drunk several swallows from the second beaker of lager when Drusyn walks into the senior officers’ mess.

  “I hear you did some damage to the Heldyans…” begins the subcommander.

  “Both of you in here, if you would!” calls Dhresyl from the small chamber adjoining the mess.

  Lerial rises from the table, taking the beaker with him, and joins Drusyn in entering the smaller room, where Dhresyl sits behind a table desk. The commander looks askance at the half beaker of lager that Lerial carries.

  “It’s been a long morning … day.” Lerial takes one of the straight-backed chairs before the desk and sits down.

  Drusyn takes the other chair.

  “What sort of damage did you inflict on the Heldyans?”

  “We cost them at least a battalion, possibly two,” replies Lerial.

  “You don’t know the enemy casualties?” The commander frowns.

  “It wouldn’t have been wise to remain close enough to count.” Lerial takes another swallow of lager. “We rode inside the western perimeter of their encampment and then along the southern edge. Along the way, we took out as many as we could without stopping or slowing.”

  “They didn’t pursue?”

  “Not beyond their own lines.”

  “What about their pikes and shields?”

  “They’re not nearly as effective if you attack them from the side or from behind … and if your riders have lances.” Lerial’s tone is dry.

  “I see. What about your casualties?”

  “The Mirror Lancers lost fifteen men and suffered twenty-six wounded. Fourteenth Battalion lost twenty-nine and had forty wounded.”

  “A hundred or so casualties from a diversionary attack?” Dhresyl’s eyebrows lift.

  “A diversionary attack that removed over a battalion of Heldyans.” And likely two chaos-mages.

  “It is rather difficult to kill a large number of enemy armsmen without losing some troopers,” Drusyn adds dryly.

  After he leaves Drusyn and Dhresyl, Lerial makes his way to the officers’ quarters, where he gathers Fheldar, Strauxyn, and Kusyl and briefs them on the situation Ascaar is facing.

  “Doesn’t surprise you, does it, ser?” asks Fheldar.

  “I would have been surprised if there hadn’t been another attack somewhere, and an attack on Ascaar makes sense.” And the fact that Khesyn knows where all Rhamuel’s forces are makes another kind of sense.

  “Do you think the Heldyans will attack somewhere else?” Strauxyn looks intently at Lerial.

  “You can never tell, but I would doubt it. All these attacks are designed to destroy the Afritan Guard. So far as I know, there aren’t any large Guard forces anywhere else besides where the last four attacks have been. There’s more likely to be an attack somewhere else in Swartheld than in any other town or city.”

  “Begging your pardon, ser,” begins Kusyl, “but what did the commander really want?”

  Lerial can’t help smiling faintly, since he has not mentioned that Dhresyl wanted anything, but Kusyl has been in the Lancers far longer than Lerial—long enough to be skeptical of senior officers and to know that they often want far more than seems reasonable. “To know why our casualties were so high.”

  “We ought to bring him along next time,” says Strauxyn.

  “Wouldn’t do any good,” drawls Kusyl. “Have to be able to see what you’re looking at.”

  Fheldar offers the smallest of headshakes, then asks, “What’s next, ser?”

  “That depends on the Heldyans. I’d be happy if they just don’t attack today.”

  “When do you think they will?”

  “If they’re smart, and they’ve generally been effective, they’ll attack tomorrow. Plan on that. If they don’t, the men will get another day to recover.” And you’ll start worrying about what else they’ve caused to go wrong somewhere else. Lerial manages a smile. “That’s all for now.”

  After he leaves them and begins to walk to his small room, where he hopes he can take a nap or at least rest, his mind is already considering the possibilities of what the days ahead will bring.

  XXXV

  Lerial awakens early on eightday, feeling the heavy stillness of the air even at dawn. When he looks outside, the sky is darker than usual for dawn, and he can discern a thick haze overhead. At least his headache has finally vanished, and there are no flashes across his eyes. He washes, shaves, and dresses quickly, then makes his way to the duty officer stationed in the small chamber off the senior officers’ mess.

  The captain on duty looks toward the door as Lerial enters, then straightens. “Ser?”

  “Do you have any reports on the Heldyans?”

  “Ah…” The captain yawns. “Sorry, ser. It’s been a long watch. The last word came in about half a glass ago. The scouts report some movement in the center of the encampment. No companies appear to be forming up. They weren’t then, that is.”

  “Do we have any word from the arms-commander?”

  “Nothing since yesterday.”

  “No messages or dispatches for me?”

  “No, ser. No dispatches since yesterday afternoon.”

  “Thank you.” Lerial turns and walks back into the mess.

  One of the servers hurries over. “Ser … ah…”

  “Nothing’s ready, I take it.”

  “Not yet, ser.”

  “I’ll have a lager while I wait.” Lerial settles into one of the chairs at the long table, worrying. Why haven’t there bee
n any dispatches from Rhamuel? Has he taken a turn for the worse? Yet at the same time, he knows that whether Rhamuel survives or perishes is, at least at the moment, secondary to the need to defeat and destroy the Heldyans and remove them from Afrit. Destroying would be better, especially if Rhamuel does not survive. Lerial just hopes that the arms-commander survives … and that his father and Emerya will agree to her coming to Swartheld … if she will even consider it. Even crippled, Rhamuel would be a far better duke than Atroyan had been, and Lerial shudders to think of Afrit under Mykel, if he has even survived … or one of the merchanters, since Kyedra would never be allowed to rule. Then, they might consort her to the son of whatever merchanter took over so that they could claim the line would continue. That thought also disturbs him, even as he considers that he scarcely knows her. He directs his thoughts back to the likely battle ahead.

  He is still pondering over what role or task the Mirror Lancers might best accomplish in the face of the certain oncoming Heldyan attack when the server reappears with a beaker of lager and a platter with cheesed scrambled eggs and a still-steaming small loaf of bread.

  “The cook thought you might need this now, ser.”

  “Thank you … and thank him. I appreciate it.”

  Lerial eats the eggs and bread—all of it—quickly, draining the beaker as well, then stands as he starts to head out to meet with his officers.

  “Ser?” A junior squad leader hurries toward him. “There is a senior officers’ meeting at half before seventh glass. Commander Dhresyl would appreciate meeting with you immediately before that.”

  “Did he say how much before?”

  “No, ser.”

  “I’ll plan to be there,” Lerial gestures toward the door to Dhresyl’s makeshift study, still only occupied by the duty officer, “a tenth of a glass before the meeting. If he needs more time than that, I’ll be meeting with my officers.” Lerial pauses briefly, then asks, “Did the commander say anything about the meeting?”

  “No, ser.”

  “Thank you.”

  The squad leader turns and leaves the mess. Lerial follows him out but turns toward the junior officers’ quarters. In less than a tenth of a glass, he has gathered Strauxyn, Fheldar, and Kusyl together in a corner outside the stables, where he briefs them on what he knows, finishing up with the message from Dhresyl. “I have no idea what he wants, but it’s likely he wants to know what we intend to do if the Heldyans attack. I’d like your thoughts on that.”

  “Keep us out of the front lines,” suggests Strauxyn. “It’d be a mess.”

  “Rankers will get so jammed together that we won’t be able to use lances,” adds Fheldar.

  “We’d have more effect by circling and attacking their rear,” says Kusyl. “That’d also keep their wizards from frying a lot of the Afritans.” He pauses. “Not that some of them couldn’t use frying.”

  “Oh?” Lerial looks to the older undercaptain.

  “Some of the majers and younger captains act like some mages, begging your pardon, ser, excepting they don’t have talent at either leading or arms, from the way the old undercaptains look at them when they don’t think anyone’s watching.”

  Lerial manages not to grin. “Let’s just let them do us a service by blunting the Heldyan attack.”

  Fheldar nods. Strauxyn looks puzzled for a moment, but only a moment.

  Kusyl grins. “Sounds like a good idea to me. They need to do some of the hard work.”

  “Some more of the productive hard work,” Lerial says. “They’ve already taken significant losses, but South Point was the only place in Swartheld where they managed to damage the Heldyans.” He pauses. “That’s unfair. What happened here also reveals the sort of attack we could expect if Cigoerne has to deal with Khesyn … and that knowledge isn’t costing us anywhere near what it’s cost Afrit.”

  “Shows what a total bastard Khesyn is,” Kusyl comments. “He deserves some of his own poison.”

  “That may be, but first we need to deal with the armsmen outside Swartheld.” If we can. “I’d like you to think over how you think we could be most effective while I meet with Commander Dhresyl.”

  After leaving the three, Lerial walks quickly back to the senior officers’ mess and then to the door of the small study, now occupied just by Dhresyl, who motions for him to enter … and for him to close the door. Lerial does and then takes the chair across the table desk from the commander. “You requested my presence, ser.”

  “You’re always so polite. You remind me of the arms-commander.”

  “How is he? Do you know?”

  “According to Commander Sammyl’s dispatch yesterday, he’s alert and very much in command.”

  Lerial nods and waits, not that he totally trusts what Sammyl might write.

  “I’m convinced that the Heldyans will begin their march on Swartheld today, later this morning. What I need to know is where you believe you and the Mirror Lancers would be most effective.” Dhresyl’s tone is even, not quite bland.

  “I couldn’t say until I know what you plan as a defense or a counter,” replies Lerial.

  “I’ve already positioned Ninth and Tenth Battalion behind earthworks across the road and to the east on the south side of the stream, even with First and Seventeenth Battalion. They’re the ones on the south side of the stream opposite the Heldyans’ south perimeter.”

  “You don’t think they’ll cross the stream and attack uphill?”

  Dhresyl shakes his head, then says, “Not unless I move First and Seventeenth Battalion. Once the Heldyans commit to an attack, assuming they take the road, First and Seventeenth can either move north—if the Heldyans don’t maintain their perimeter—hold against remaining forces, or move to support Ninth and Tenth … whatever’s necessary. Drusyn’s battalions will take position at the fork between the road to the post and the shore road … so that the Heldyans cannot move east off the shore road and flank our positions…”

  Lerial listens as the commander continues to detail what he has in mind.

  When Dhresyl finishes, he looks to Lerial, inquiringly.

  “I think the Mirror Lancers should initially remain out of the immediate line of battle, but forward enough so that we can move quickly where we can do the most good.”

  “If…” Dhresyl does not finish his statement.

  “If we hadn’t already killed so many, it might sound like we had reservations about fighting. Is that what you meant, Commander? Putting the Mirror Lancers where they can’t move destroys our effectiveness. Just let us do what we do best, and you won’t regret it.” Lerial knows that is a dangerous promise, but getting his men and himself in the middle of a massive melee would be even more deadly—and a total waste of men and mounts.

  “Still…”

  Lerial says nothing.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Destroying as many Heldyans as possible so that Khesyn cannot attack again any time soon.”

  “I can’t fault that, but how…?”

  “By attacking where they’re not expecting it. That’s all I can say at the moment. Once you finish briefing the senior officers, I’d like to take a squad and study the situation while the Mirror Lancers ready themselves.”

  “That might be useful.”

  “I’m certain it will be,” Lerial returns. “That way we’ll know where to move and attack when the time comes.” He hopes that reminder that the Mirror Lancers will indeed attack penetrates Dhresyl’s skepticism.

  “We might as well move into the mess for the briefing,” says the commander as he rises.

  Lerial stands and follows. Subcommander Drusyn is already there, as are several majers that Lerial does not recognize. By the time all the battalion commanders have arrived, in addition to Drusyn, Dhresyl, and Lerial, there are ten majers and one captain around the long table. Lerial recognizes only four—Paelwyr, Knaak, Aerlyt, and Captain Grusart, who is clearly replacing Majer Fhaet, whose loss, so far as Lerial is concerned, is a benefit
to the Afritan Guard.

  Dhresyl clears his throat loudly. “All of you know the general plan of battle from the orders you’ve received or from what I have informed you of personally. The latest scouting reports indicate that the Heldyans appear to be preparing to attack…” The commander goes on to give more details about what he expects from each battalion and then finishes by saying, “Overcaptain Lerial’s forces will not be part of the initial order of battle, but will act independently and in coordination with the Afritan Guard.”

  Lerial notices a momentary frown from Drusyn and a faint smile that quickly vanishes from Paelwyr. Aerlyt nods almost sagely. The other majers offer no immediate reaction, almost as if that is what they have expected.

  “Do you have any questions?” asks Dhresyl.

  “How long will it take the Heldyans to move once they’re formed up?”

  Dhresyl looks to Lerial. “Overcaptain … you’ve seen the Heldyans in that situation. What would you say?”

  “I’ve seen them turn an entire battalion with pikes and a shield wall in less than a tenth of a glass, and they can move forward at a trot, holding a shield wall. With the size of their forces, it will likely take them longer to initially form up, but they maneuver quickly.”

  “How many mounted battalions do they have?”

  “The scouts have reported that they have five, possibly six,” replies Dhresyl.

  “What arms do they bear?” asks Lerial. You should have asked that earlier. Much earlier.

  “The scouts couldn’t tell, except that they had round shields.”

  “Heavy cavalry, most likely, not lancers, then.”

  After several more questions, Dhresyl simply stands. “Time to form up and be ready to move out.”

  Lerial leaves quickly. Less than a tenth of a glass later, after giving brief and more general instructions than he would have liked to his company commanders, he is riding down the paved road from the Harbor Post toward the shore road with a single squad from Twenty-third Company … and Kusyl. At the last lane short of the shore road, he turns northward because he doesn’t want to interfere with the Afritan battalions and because he wants to determine if the lane is suitable for what he has in mind for his forces. After passing two cots and several sheds, the lane narrows into a wide path that will just hold two mounts comfortably, three if crowded. The ground between the path and the shore is rocky, with intermittent patches of grass, and slopes downward both toward the bay and to the north, although there is a small ridge about a half kay ahead. The ground between where he rides and the ridge rises enough that he can no longer see either the shore road or the Heldyan encampment, and there are two Afritan scouts reined up a hundred yards or so short of the section of the rise toward which Lerial leads the squad.