“If Atroyan wasn’t strong enough to take over before now…”
“How could he do it now? Especially with the armsmen he’s moved near Penecca?” Altyrn offers a sardonic smile. “There’s only one way.”
If all three of them are acting together. “But if they’re acting together…?”
“Why don’t they all just attack Cigoerne at once? Because they don’t trust each other in the slightest. Our Lancers are strong enough to cripple any one army any of them could mass. What would happen if, say, Khesyn sends a message to your father telling him that Atroyan will attack through Penecca on the first day of spring, then promises to Atroyan to cross the Swarth and attack Cigoerne from the south, while not doing so and sending golds to your father as proof of his goodwill in promising not to attack Cigoerne?”
Lerial understands immediately. “Each of them fears that the other will do something like that … but if they adopt a strategy of nibbling at our borders on all sides, no one of them is greatly exposed.”
“If any one of them is fortunate … and exposes a weakness first, then that Duke reaps great rewards.”
“Cigoerne is not that wealthy,” protests Lerial.
“Not in golds, but the lands and the crops they produce are, and any of them would like to have them. Also, Cigoerne would offer either Casseon or Khesyn a strong point in dealing with Afrit, and it would strengthen Atroyan greatly if he comes to possess it.”
“And the only thing we can do is hold them off?”
“Hold them off and become stronger. If we can help the Verdyn repulse Casseon, then the golds of the forest people and the Lancers that they can provide will make us almost as strong as Afrit. It may be that Khesyn has seen that and suggested to Duke Casseon that his only chance to keep Cigoerne from becoming stronger is to conquer the Verd before Verdheln allies itself with Cigoerne.”
Lerial shakes his head. “But the threat of such an attack is what prompted the elders to contact Father.”
“I doubt that Khesyn thinks Casseon will be successful, but if the attacks weaken us…”
That, Lerial also understands—and the fact that, small as all the attacks and raids are, his father is fighting for Cigoerne’s survival. Again.
XLVII
Lerial wakes early on fiveday morning. He washes and dresses quickly, then hurries to meet with Altyrn. He still cannot believe what he and Altyrn have found on the southwest side of Escadya—eight new barracks buildings and two long stables, all well built, if recently, each barracks designed for one company of Lancers. Some of the surrounding woods have also been cleared, enough for mounted maneuvers on a company level, if barely. There are six hundred Lancer recruits waiting to be trained. The downside is that two hundred are women. Another two hundred recruits are expected in another four eightdays.
Altyrn is already in the study reserved for him when Lerial appears at the half-open door. He waves Lerial in. “Close the door.”
Lerial steps into the study and shuts the door, then takes the straight-backed chair across from the narrow table on which Altryn has several sets of papers spread out. “Have you decided on which way to organize them?”
“Each company will have to have mixed squads, with three squads of men, armed as Lancers, but with bows as backup. Twenty men to a squad, plus a squad leader, and one squad of archers with thirty women to that squad. That only leaves one smaller squad of archers, and they can be deployed as necessary independently of the other six companies.” Altyrn smiles. “The archers might make all the difference.”
“Why? Because they can already shoot? Do we know that?”
“Both the men and women can shoot. All the young people here can … and most of the older ones. On an open field, archers can wreak havoc on unarmored or lightly armored Lancers, but if armed riders get in close, they can scatter the archers and cut them down unless they flee or withdraw to terrain unfavorable to horsemen.”
“So why don’t we have archers?”
“Your father has two companies that can be used as either foot or mounted archers. They can be very useful. The problem is that bow-making is time-consuming and takes great skill, and it takes years for an archer to be really good. That doesn’t matter as much if you have a mass of archers, and they’re shooting into a mass of riders—but all good commanders know that, and they don’t order mass charges against archers.” Altyrn smiles. “I don’t think that the Meroweyans know how good the archers of the Verd are.” His smile vanishes. “They’ll learn … and they have some chaos mages. They can destroy shafts in flight and loft firebolts into archers. It becomes a matter of tactics … and strategy. We’ll have to think this out—while we’re training the men with blades and lances. The other problem is that we don’t have enough shafts for fighting a large force.”
Lerial frowns.
“They use their bows to hunt. Many of the arrows are used for small game or birds. Most people only have ten shafts suitable for large game—or fighting. Many likely have less than that. We’ll see if the people of the Verd can make more quickly, but it takes time, especially the arrowheads for war arrows. I’ve already sent word that we’ll need more wooden wands. I’ve had to let local woodworkers have several of those we brought to use as templates.” Altyrn shakes his head. “I didn’t plan on training hundreds of Lancers all at once. I knew we’d be short of wands, even with all that I could beg from Graessyr.” He shakes his head. “Six hundred trainees at once.”
Lerial almost asks where they all came from, except that he knows. The “recruits” are being told that their years of service will be as a Lancer. He doubts that many will complain, because, if they cannot hold back the advance of Merowey, everything they hold dear will vanish. Much of that will anyway, Lerial suspects.
“All that leaves us with a bigger problem.”
A bigger problem than training six hundred men and women?
“Leadership. They don’t have anyone who’s had any experience. That means most of our rankers will have to act as squad leaders, and some as senior squad leaders or acting undercaptains in charge of companies, and you’re a provisional acting captain—only here in Verdheln.”
Lerial nods. That makes sense. So does the majer’s unease with having to set matters up that way. “What about pay for the recruits?”
“They get paid what they would for service to the council.”
“Do you think Majer Phortyn understands some of the … implications?”
“He understands that, no matter how things turn out, it’s going to be a mess. Why do you think he and your father asked me?”
“Because no one else could do it,” replies Lerial instantly.
“More likely that no one else would do it, not in the way it has to be done.” After the briefest pause, Altyrn goes on. “What about you?”
“Where can I be the most useful and effective?”
“Where would you think you would be?” Altyrn smiles.
“The only areas where I really know anything are bladework and healing. The healing isn’t going to do much to train them to kill.”
“That combination will be more useful than you think. I suspect—I don’t know, but I suspect that many of the recruits have order abilities. They’re more likely to believe they can do what you tell them because you’re close to an ordermage.”
“I’m not anywhere near that…” Lerial pauses, then asks, “Where did you get that idea?”
“Donnael. He is an ordermaster, I think.”
“He is,” confirms Lerial, “but why on earth would he say that I am?”
“It might be because he thinks you are.”
“I can’t do any of the things ordermasters are supposed to do.”
“Not an ordermaster—an ordermage. You can heal. You know where a blade will be before it’s there. I suspect that when you don’t wish to be seen, no one can see you. You have some ability to sense what the weather will be.”
“I’ll admit I have some talent, ser, but not as much as any true order
master.”
“Keep working at it,” says Altyrn dryly. “Before all this is over, you’ll need every skill you can muster.”
“Things look that bad?”
“Worse, probably.” Altyrn straightens in the chair. “We need to talk about how you’re going to train these poor recruits in bladework.”
“Ser … wouldn’t one of the squad leaders be able to do this?”
“Yes, but you’re as good as they are with a blade, if not better, and better than any of the rankers who will be acting squad leaders. Also, you don’t know anything about how to train a mounted squad to maneuver. They do. I’ll help you train some of the squads for now, for the first eightday or so, but I’ll also be working with the archers. Now … you’ll have to begin with group exercises…”
As Altyrn explains, Lerial listens closely.
“… and just remember that you can’t teach them everything all at once. Repetition is what teaches physical discipline. It gets tiring on the recruits, and even more tiring for the teacher, but you have to keep that in mind. Now … we need to get something to eat.” Altyrn stands.
The two walk outside from the small study at the north end of the west barracks and south to the mess hall. There is nothing like an officers’ mess, but there are two separate tables, one for the Lancer squad leaders and officers, and one for the Lancer rankers from Cigoerne. As the two officers enter the mess hall and walk toward their table, they pass the ranker recruits lined up to be served. Lerial extends his order-senses as much as he can, trying to catch anything that might be said, but most of the recruits are quiet, at least as he and Altyrn walk past them. There are some comments after they pass, in very low voices.
“… Lancer officers … why…?”
“… the iron majer … the one that forged Cigoerne…”
“… said he’s fried men like they were ghanos…”
“… the other one?”
“… one of the Duke’s sons…”
“… young … but something about him…” That was a female voice.
“He’s male…”
Lerial doesn’t hear the rejoinder, and he’s not sure he wants to.
Because they do have the privilege of being served, rather than standing in line, Lerial and Altyrn are barely seated when a mess server arrives with two platters and then quickly returns with two mugs.
“Thank you.”
Lerial’s words are mirrored by Altyrn’s.
Lerial looks at the platter, containing what he would call an egg and ghano hash, with a slice of warm acorn-tuber bread. The only beverage offered is a variation on greenberry. Lerial does not sigh, but he is going to miss lager or anything else he would consider a decent drink. As for the food …
“Don’t look so enthusiastic,” remarks Altyrn.
“No wonder everyone here is so fit looking.”
“You’ll be glad they are when you have to lead them against Casseon’s armsmen.”
Lead them? They aren’t even trained yet … and you’re not ready to lead anyone. Altyrn clearly reads Lerial’s expression. “You’re going to have to lead some of them … and you’d better keep thinking about tactics and how to do that with whatever you have … and that will mean learning exactly what they can do, among other things.”
The “among other things” worries Lerial as much as the idea of leading. He’s already experienced some of the majer’s other things.
After a moment, Lerial takes a bite of his breakfast … and then another bite. His sips of the greenberry are small.
All too soon he is standing beside a handcart stacked with forty-one wooden wands, roughly two-thirds of all those that they have, looking at the forty young men, the first two squads of something like eighteen with whom he will have to work. And you’re the best one to do this? No … Altyrn is, but the majer can’t do everything, and the squad leaders can do what Lerial can’t. Even some of the rankers can do things Lerial can’t.
“You’re here to learn the basics of how to handle a sabre. You’ll begin with exercises using a wooden wand. That’s because we’d like to have you survive training without the wounds you’d end up giving yourself or others if you began with real blades. It will also keep you from damaging the sabres before you know the basics of handling them. It takes time to forge a sabre, and we’re likely to be short of blades anyway without losing more when we don’t have to…”
After Lerial he finishes, he looks around the group and almost asks if there are any questions, but decides against that. Questions can come later.
“Each of you, take a wooden wand and form up in a straight line. Hold it in the hand that is most comfortable…” Lerial wasn’t about to try to deal with trying to have every Lancer using a blade right-handed, not when it was likely most would end up, after an initial attack, fighting one-on-one, and when few recruits were left-handed. Besides, those few could always be placed at the left end or side of the force—and that would provide additional protection … and not run the slightly higher risk of injuring the adjoining Lancer.
He watches as the recruits—mostly young men, but not always—file forward to take a wand from those stacked in the small handcart.
He just hopes he can teach them enough, soon enough.
XLVIII
Each day seems like the one before, and almost two eightdays later, roughly at midmorning, Lerial finds himself instructing one of his “problem” sets of squads. Everything seems to take the two squads now before him twice as long to learn, and they seem to forget twice as quickly. The chill air and brisk winter wind doesn’t help either, although it isn’t as cold as the gray skies would indicate, but day after day of winter gray wears on Lerial.
He returns full concentration to instructing the group on various ways to slip or parry a blade, when one of the taller recruits asks, “Ser … why don’t we work more on blocks. They’re easier, and there’s so much to learn.”
Lerial swears that he has explained that at least five times before, but he takes a slow deep breath and smiles pleasantly. “I could say that you need to learn slipping and parrying because it’s better technique. Or I could say that you need to learn it because I said so, but the real reason is simple. If you make a practice of just holding up your blade in a block, your arms will get tired quickly … and if someone strikes it while they’re moving faster or if they’re stronger, they’ll throw you back or they can shiver the iron of your blade so much that you’ll lose control. Also, if you fight the same person for long, they’ll see that’s what you’re doing and come up under your blade with a gut thrust. All of those are good ways to get killed.”
“I don’t understand, ser.” A puzzled expression appears on the pleasant-enough face of the big blond youth—except that he’s likely older than Lerial.
“Hold your wand in a block,” Lerial orders, as he backs away. “Just hold it there.”
The puzzled expression intensifies, but the ranker trainee follows Lerial’s instructions.
What Lerial is about to do won’t work in a real fight, he knows, but he hopes it will get his point across. One of them, anyway. He stops five yards back. “Ready?”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial sprints forward, then, whips the wand into a half-down and half-sideways arc so that both his momentum and the force of his strike land on the wand of the trainee. At that last moment, he also adds a touch of order to the point of contact of his wand, because he can’t afford to have it shatter, and it should add more force to his blade.
The effect isn’t quite what Lerial hoped, because the rather sturdy and stout trainee rocks back on his feet rather than loses his balance, but Lerial finishes with a back cut that rips the wand out of the other’s hands.
Lerial’s own hands are tingling, but the trainee is standing openmouthed.
As Lerial steps back and lowers his wand, he hears a murmur.
“… giving away a stone, and Storen’s a logger…”
“That’s a crude example of
what can happen with a stationary block when you’re mounted,” Lerial says into the silence. “Technique with strength usually beats greater strength with poorer technique—unless you’re lucky. It’s not a good idea to trust your life to luck. Pick up your wand.” He waits until the former logger picks up the wand before he says. “Turn to your partner. On my signal, those on the left, aim a thrust for the chest. Those on the right, slip the attacking wand, or parry it. Ready! Now!”
For the remainder of his session with those two squads, no one raises any more questions, stupid or otherwise, and Lerial thanks the Rational Stars that his impromptu demonstration worked, because he can see, in hindsight, that it could have gone terribly wrong.
After a third session, Lerial is walking toward the small building that holds Altyrn’s study when Kusyl rides by and reins up. “Ser…?”
“Yes, Kusyl?”
“I was riding by a glass or so ago, and I saw you … well, it was a strange move…”
Lerial frowns. “Oh … when I was trying to show what could happen if all they did was block a cut or slash.”
“How did you think of that, ser?” asks Kusyl.
“I was just trying to get across what would happen if they’re just sticking a blade up in a block. I remembered how much it hurt when I tried that.” Lerial smiles wryly. “It would have been easier if I hadn’t picked one of the biggest trainees.”
Kusyl grins. “Might be, ser, but they’ll remember it. Never show anything against the smallest man in the squad. Everyone will think it’s because you’re bigger. ’Course, I never had to worry about that.” The squad leader, who is acting as an undercaptain and training the squads in company-sized maneuvers, grins.
Lerial laughs softly. “Do you have any other suggestions?”
“It helps if you can use a blade with either hand.”
“That’s a good idea.” If you can find time to practice with your other hand. “Anything else?”
“Keep it simple. Most of them will forget half what you teach them in their first skirmish, and some poor squad leader will have to beat it back into them again.”
Cyador’s Heirs Page 35
