Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Lerial wonders why, but only for a moment, because he sees another group of raiders riding out of the small forest toward them.

  “Draw your sabre,” Altyrn says as he reins up beside Lerial. “If you need it, it won’t do you any good in the scabbard.”

  Since Lerial has already begun to do so, he merely nods. He should have unsheathed it sooner.

  Only when the second group of attackers are less than fifty yards from the remaining Lancers, perhaps even closer, do the Lancers charge, clearly waiting as long as possible to remain closer to Lerial and the majer, but also not wanting to take a charge standing still.

  Altyrn swings his mount more to the west, and Lerial does the same.

  Then, Lerial sees two riders galloping around the clashing raiders and Lancers, heading directly for the two of them.

  “Get moving!” orders Altyrn.

  Lerial does not respond immediately, instead studying the raider headed toward him. The angular rider has his blade leveled almost as if it were a spear.

  Lerial knows that the motion is the beginning of a feint of some sort, then reacts by jabbing his heels into the gelding’s flanks. With the slight jump as the big horse starts to move, the raider’s blade wavers just slightly, enough that Lerial can sense and anticipate the move. He starts to strike in a way that would leave him open, then ducks and slides the larger blade, acting as the majer has taught him in coming in lower than the other, and then manages to come up as he passes the raider and slash just the sharpened tip of the sabre across the side of the raider’s neck, before turning the gelding right, again as Altyrn has instructed him, so that he always has the other rider in sight.

  From the corner of his eye, he can see that whatever the majer has done must have been successful, since there is no one that close to Altyrn.

  Lerial can see that the rider who had attacked him is slowing … or his mount is. The rider has dropped his sword and is clutching at his neck. Lerial quickly looks around. The Mirror Lancers seem to be scattered around the crest of the road. While he sees several raider mounts, they are riderless, and he sees no raiders nearby, except the one who had attacked him He looks more to the south, still keeping his sabre at the ready, and finally sees two raiders riding southward along the trail, fast enough to raise dust.

  “Are you all right?” asks Altyrn, riding up.

  “Yes, ser. He didn’t touch me.” Lerial glances back toward the raider, who looks to be trying to dismount, except that he slides out of his saddle and hits the ground. His horse stops.

  “I’ll check. You stay behind me.”

  Lerial rides behind Altyrn, then reins up short of the fallen raider.

  The man who lies on the ground is bearded and grizzled, and his frayed and faded brown shirt and patched riding jacket are covered in blood still oozing from the slash across his neck. His mouth opens and the only words that Lerial can hear, in a strangely accented Hamorian are,

  “… by a boy…” He tries to get out something else, then shudders and moves no more.

  Lerial can sense the linked order and chaos begin to unravel … until both dissipate unseen into the autumn air that suddenly feels cooler than it actually is. A cold chill settles over Lerial, as if death itself stood at his shoulder. Why?

  After a long moment, Lerial says, “He’s dead.”

  “He is.” Altyrn looks up as Chaarn rides up.

  “They’re either dead or gone. Mostly dead.”

  “What about your men?” asks the majer.

  “Hualsh’s got a deep slash in the shoulder. He might make it. Sparan took a spear through his ribs.”

  “Let’s see them.” Altyrn looks at Lerial.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  They ride after Chaarn toward a group of Lancers. Most are mounted, in a semicircle, facing south. Three are not, but only one of those is standing.

  Even before he dismounts, Lerial can sense that he can do nothing for the man who took the spear through the ribs. The shaft went through at a downward angle, and chaos is everywhere within Sparan. He looks up helplessly. Lerial touches his forehead and lets the smallest amount of order flow. “Just take it easy.” He hates saying something like that, but he doesn’t want to admit he can do nothing.

  Sparan grimaces, clearly trying not to moan, as Lerial turns to the other wounded man, who holds a blood-soaked cloth or folded shirt against his upper chest, almost at the shoulder.

  Altyrn looks down from where he remains mounted. He nods at Lerial, as if to tell him to do what he can.

  “Does anyone have any ale, lager, brandy?” Lerial asks.

  “Will that help with a wound that deep?” asked Chaarn, who has barely reined up beside the majer. “Their blades aren’t exactly clean.”

  “It will help, and I need all the help I can get. What about a needle and thread or something.”

  “I have that,” admits Chaarn. “I’d rather not do a field dressing if anyone else can.”

  Lerial bends over the wounded Hualsh, easing the cloth away, slightly. While blood is flowing, more than oozing, it isn’t spurting. He straightens and takes the canvas pack that Chaarn hands to him. Inside are two needles and strong thread as well as what looks to be cleaned raw cotton.

  He uses his order senses to feel out the wound, thinking about what Maeroja had said and shown him about stitching wounds. He just hadn’t expected to have to do it so soon.

  “Here,” says Altyrn, handing a bottle to him. “Brandy.”

  After cleaning the wound as well as he can, Lerial ends up closing it from both ends, but leaving a small opening in the middle, which he packs with the cotton. He is guessing that is the right thing to do, because he feels that the wound will need to drain. Then he presses more order deep into the slash, trying to turn the wound chaos into a dull pink, rather than an angry whitish-red. He stops as his vision narrows, and sparkling lights flash across his vision.

  “I … can’t do more … now.” His knees are weak, and he rocks back. He can barely sit up on the matted grass.

  “Drink this,” says Altyrn, seemingly suddenly standing beside him and offering a bottle.

  Lerial drinks the bitter ale, and the narrowness of vision retreats slightly.

  “What…” Chaarn doesn’t finish what he is saying, or maybe Lerial doesn’t hear it.

  “… he’s part healer. He put order into the wound. With the brandy and order, Hualsh might make it.”

  Lerial hopes so.

  “We were lucky,” murmurs Chaarn.

  Altyrn nods, then offers a rueful smile. “Not just because…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but says, “You’ve sent a scout?”

  “Two, with orders to turn at any sign of raiders.”

  After a time, and several more swallows of the warm and bitter ale, Lerial gets to his feet. He is still slightly light-headed, but he manages to mount and square himself in the saddle. Although he has his suspicions, he asks, “What do we do now?”

  “We’ll check the village to make sure that raiders who fled aren’t there. If it looks like they’ve all cleared out, we can head back to Teilyn.”

  “You don’t think they stayed, do you?” asks Lerial.

  “I’d be surprised,” answers Altyrn, “but I’ve been surprised before. That’s why Chaarn sent scouts.”

  Lerial doesn’t have an answer for that. He also wonders why they have to check the village if the squad leader has sent scouts, but he doesn’t ask, not wanting to appear denser than he must already seem.

  His light-headedness is almost gone by the time a glass has almost passed, and the flickering flashes in his vision have vanished. By then Sparan has closed his eyes and moans softly between intermittent gasps and gurgles. Hualsh’s eyes are closed, but his breathing is more regular, and Lerial can sense that the remaining wound chaos has not increased.

  He looks once more at Sparan, knowing that he can do nothing that will change matters. But … still …

  “Don’t even think about i
t,” says Altyrn from where he stands a yard or so away from Lerial.

  “I feel stronger now.”

  “Even your aunt couldn’t do anything. That spear went through his lungs and gut. You’re weaker than you think. You could kill yourself and not save him.”

  Lerial frowns. “Have you seen that?”

  After a moment, Altyrn shakes his head. “I could see how much it took out of you for Hualsh, and he still may not make it.”

  Lerial glances back at Sparan, whose moans are even softer, then looks up as he sees two Lancers riding up the trail from the south.

  Before long the two scouts are reporting to Chaarn and Altyrn.

  “Village looks to be empty … fresh tracks of three mounts headed southwest.”

  “Lerial and I will check out the village.” Altyrn looks hard at Chaarn. “Then we’ll be back. You’ll find a place to stay tonight? Somewhere close?”

  “That might be best. Hualsh shouldn’t be moved much right now. I’ll send Naekyr and Alakan with you.”

  “We’ll be very careful, but it’s necessary.”

  Chaarn nods.

  Lerial thinks the nod is reluctant.

  Once they have started south on the trail behind the two Lancers, he asks, “Why do you need to see the village?”

  “We both need to see it, for rather different reasons.” Altyrn frowns, then goes on. “It’s been years since we’ve seen a band of raiders that large this far north. I’m getting the feeling that it’s drier than we thought in Merowey, and that’s going to mean more raiders and trouble. A lot more, and Graessyr won’t want to hear that, much as he needs to know.”

  Lerial does not comment on how the majer has avoided answering his question, knowing the Altyrn will not say what he does not wish to reveal and hoping that those reasons will become clear before they return to Kinaar.

  The trail is empty except for the four riders, and Lerial sees no new tracks, except for the pair left by the fleeing raiders, and no dust hanging in the air. Little more than a kay from the site of the skirmish, the trail curves around the end of a low rise, and less than half a kay ahead, Lerial can make out the hamlet. As they ride closer, he sees that the hamlet, if it can even be called that, consists of eight dwellings with sloping sod walls. Only the two largest have chimneys, ugly constructions of rocks held together with sun-hardened clay.

  “Did you check the huts?” Altyrn asks the Lancers.

  “Yes, ser. No one there. It looks like the raiders—the ones who ran off … well, they might have stopped here.”

  “Any bodies?”

  “No, ser.”

  “Then they didn’t kill anyone. Could you tell what they took?”

  “No, ser. A couple of the huts are a mess. There’s no blood anywhere.”

  “That’s good. The locals got off easily, then.”

  Easier than the Lancers did, muses Lerial.

  Altyrn looks to Lerial. “Ride over to the closest one. Dismount and look inside. But have your sabre out and ready … just in case.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  When Lerial dismounts, he hands the gelding’s reins to the majer and walks slowly to the first hut. The walls are made of chunks of sod, stacked on top of each other. There are only two crude windows, with what looks to be a crude wooden square the size of the window opening beneath each. Solid wood shutters? What passes for a door is the same, and there is not even a wooden door frame. A sour and acrid odor assaults Lerial as he nears the door, and he raises the sabre as he takes one step … and then another. But he can neither see nor sense anyone beyond the entry, and he steps forward.

  The hut seems to consist of two chambers. One contains the hearth, a long table made of saplings fastened together with the top side cut or scraped flat, and four backless benches constructed the same way. The odor is overpowering and gets stronger as he peers into the other chamber, clearly used for sleeping, given the pallets there. Except they are not pallets, but raised earthen beds filled with leaves.

  Lerial scans the chamber and makes his way out of the hut, trying not to retch. Once outside, he swallows twice, choking back bile, then says, “There’s no one in there.”

  “Take a quick look inside the next two,” Altyrn orders.

  “Yes, ser.”

  Altyrn walks his mount and Lerial’s toward the second hut, following the young man, but his bow is once more out, and he surveys the hamlet, his eyes never stopping.

  Lerial looks into the next two, quickly, but carefully. Although they have no chimneys, they appear to use a window to vent their hearths. The stench is similar in both to the first.

  “Mount up,” Altyrn says quietly as Lerial emerges from the first hut.

  Lerial is more than glad to do so, and they are well away from the hamlet before he speaks. “How can they live like that?”

  “Teilyn was much like that when I was granted my lands,” replies Altyrn. “Most of the dwellings were either sod or log-walled. There are a few of the log dwellings still.”

  “Then … you … made it what it is.”

  “Maeroja and I did much. The most important was building the brick kiln and the sawmill … and showing people how to use mud brick. With bricks and planks, people could build better houses. We also piped clean water down from the hill spring.”

  “Piped?”

  “We fired the pipes in the kiln. That was hard. We broke a lot. Bricks are much easier, at least once you get the hang of it.”

  As he looks northward to where a mounted Lancer waits, Lerial wonders just what else Altyrn has done … and how much of it his father knows.

  XX

  Sparan dies just before dawn on eightday morning. The Lancers bury him on the hillside where he fought, but remove his personal articles and place them in the dead Lancer’s kit bag, which they tie to his saddle.

  When Lerial checks Hualsh, the wounded Lancer appears slightly stronger, or his order flows do, but Lerial worries. From what Lerial can sense, the wound chaos has not increased and might be just a touch less. But is that what you want to believe? How can you tell?

  “How does he feel?”

  Although Altyrn’s voice is low, Lerial starts, because he has not heard the majer approach. He turns, and after a moment, he says, “He’s stronger than yesterday…”

  “But you worry.”

  Lerial nods.

  “It would be better for him to stay here for a few days. We don’t have that choice.”

  “Because of me?”

  “Partly. It’s also because Graessyr and your father need to know how bad things could get. The raiders haven’t come this far north and east in years. If they’re coming here this soon after harvest, there are likely more of them near Bartheld and Narthyl. The longer before he knows, the more growers will suffer.” Altyrn adds, “That’s going to make things difficult for your father … and for everyone in Cigoerne.”

  “Because the Heldyans—or the Afritan poachers—will take advantage of it if Father sends more Lancers south?”

  Altyrn nods. “It’s possible.”

  “We need more Lancers, then.”

  “If he raises more than the two companies Majer Phortyn is training now, that will leave fewer men in the fields. That will make planting harder and slower in the spring. It takes seasons to train a Lancer. You knew how to handle a blade and ride, and look how long it’s taken you.”

  “And I’m not even as good as they are,” says Lerial.

  “No … you’re better than the newer Lancers. You’re just not as good as the experienced squad leaders and officers. You’re probably better than the very junior undercaptains, but you should be better than that before you can ride patrols.”

  Why? Lephi likely isn’t that much better. “Because I’m Father’s son?”

  Altyrn offers a sad smile. “No. Because you’re part healer.”

  Lerial doesn’t know quite what to say to that. Saltaryn has said that a youth of Magi’i blood should avoid healing until he mastered chaos.
Was what the majer has told Lerial what Saltaryn had really meant?

  “A Lancer officer who is part healer cannot afford to think about what he does in battle. He must be so well trained and skilled that his body will instantly do what needs to be done.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Healers are steeped in order. Order opposes death. In battle, you have to seek the death of those you oppose. If you don’t, you’ll be the one who is most likely to die. You will have to lead men. They will know, before long, if you hesitate to kill when you must.”

  Lerial understands. He doesn’t like it, but he does understand.

  “Now … we need to pack up and head out.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  As he begins packing his kit bag, Lerial can only hope that Hualsh can survive the ride back to Teilyn. His eyes drift toward the hillside … and the single grave that holds Sparan … and the larger and shallower one that holds the bodies of twelve Meroweyan raiders.

  XXI

  Just before midday on threeday, Altyrn and Lerial ride up to the villa south of Teilyn under a cloudy sky with a cool wind blowing out of the southwest. Lerial is grateful that Hualsh appears to be healing, or was when they left the Lancers at the post, and that the Lancer’s wound chaos is less each day. Even so, Lerial worries. He also worries about the quick conversation that Altyrn had had with Captain Graessyr, mostly because of the looks the captain had given him.

  As they near the stables, Lerial finally asks, “Did I do something I should know about?”

  Altyrn offers a puzzled frown, then abruptly shakes his head and laughs. “You’re asking if I was telling Graessyr that you’d made some sort of mistake? No … we weren’t talking about that at all. He was impressed with the fact that you’d used your sabre as you were taught and that you helped heal Hualsh.”

  “Couldn’t you have stopped the bleeding and sewed up the wound?” This is something about which Lerial has wondered for most of the journey back to Teilyn.

  “I could have. So could Chaarn, but Hualsh had a better chance with you. I saw what you did with that boy who had his arm ripped by the cart wheel. I might stitch a little neater, but there’s more to healing than that. You have the touch. For you, it’s a curse and a blessing. If I were you, I’d not let anyone outside your family know. Graessyr won’t say anything, and I told Hualsh that he shouldn’t. He’ll keep his mouth shut about that.”