Lerial also directs the squad from clump to clump of bushes, in ways that do not markedly extend the distance they must cover, in order to convey the impression that the riders are a scouting party … if they are noticed. But with about half a kay remaining to the area from which he wants the archers to loft the fire arrows he says, “Concealment coming. Pass it back. Quietly.”
After several moments, he raises the concealment, then makes another effort to try to determine whether the chaos mages might have detected anything. He can sense no changes. He almost feels like holding his breath in the darkness that is far darker than a starry night as he leads the column across the remainder of the flat area and then starts up the gradual slope toward their target.
When they near the area he and Altyrn had picked out, Lerial realizes that they cannot go exactly where he had hoped. Because, even his senses are telling him that the ground ahead is far too uneven to ride across. Yet … they are possibly thirty, perhaps even fifty, yards short of where he would like to be, a good hundred and fifty yards from the supply wagons. He lifts the concealment.
“We’re fifty yards farther out. Pass it back.”
Lerial waits for Moraris to report.
“Fourth squad, ready, ser.”
“Strike and light,” Lerial orders, hoping that is an accurate order. He has no idea what the proper order might be, but his words seem to have the desired effect because small balls of light appear along the line of archers.
“First volley!” he finally orders, then watches as the arrows arch up and over the crest, trying to follow them with his senses. While a few strike the wagons, most fall slightly short. “Head archer! Most are about ten yards short.”
“Ten yards more. Ready for volley.”
“Second volley!”
Most of the arrows are in the right range, but many still miss the wagons. One wagon seems to be catching fire, from what Lerial can sense. “That’s a good range. Stand by for third volley.”
“Ready for volley.”
“Third volley!”
This time a few more shafts stick.
“Stand by for fourth volley.”
“Ready.”
“Fourth volley!”
Lerial can sense the chaos building—somewhere to the south and east of him—but there is nothing he can do but wait … and hope he has the ability to divert whatever chaos force is aimed at fourth squad. While the arrows are having an effect, they really need at least one more volley.
The fifth volley goes, and Lerial is about to order the sixth, knowing there are only enough arrows for seven full volleys, when a firebolt flares directly toward him.
Even though he is as ready as he can be, it takes a huge effort to drop the chaos-fire short of fourth squad, more so than angling it away, but he hopes the flare of power will momentarily keep the white wizard from seeing or determining whether his effort was successful.
“Sixth volley!”
As soon as the fire arrows are away, he orders, “Turn and withdraw! On the double!” He turns the gelding, noticing that some of the archers are glancing toward the hilltop. “Withdraw! Now!”
“Forward to the rear!” orders Moraris, urging his mount forward toward the end of the column that has become the van.
The squad starts downhill, but Lerial remains at the back. He tries a quick sensing of the wagons and gets the impression that as many as six may be in flames. Men are scurrying and pulling other wagons away. At least, that is the impression he gets—along with that feeling of building chaos.
The next firebolt is bigger than the previous one, but it arches down toward Lerial, almost as if the wizard intends to drop it right on him.
Lerial concentrates—this time with a terribly fine-lined twenty-strand order loop—and the firebolt strikes the hillside less than thirty yards behind the gelding. Heat hotter than an oven washes over Lerial, then dissipates.
“Captain?” comes a call from Moraris.
“I’m fine. Keep riding! There might be more fireballs.”
No sooner are the words out of Lerial’s mouth than he can sense more chaos building somewhere behind him, and he wonders if he can divert the next chaos-blast … and still function.
The third bolt is more whitish red, somehow nastier feeling.
Lerial doubts that he can survive another twenty-line diversion pattern, and he tries two linked ten-line patterns. His mouth opens as the firebolt just disintegrates in midair with streamers of reddish-white flames almost dribbling from the star-sprinkled night sky.
Over the next three or four hundred yards, he can sense no more chaos-fire concentration, but, once more, Lerial’s head aches, and tiny flashes of light erratically distort his vision. He keeps looking back, but there are no more firebolts, and once they are close to a kay away from the Meroweyan lines, he begins to breathe more easily. As fourth squad begins riding up the slope on the north side of the valley, back to the Lancer camp, Lerial realizes that, despite the evening chill, he is sweating and soaked, and his entire body is shaking. Just from diverting three firebolts? Three?
But then, he’d only managed two the last time.
He takes another look back across the valley. The flames have died down, but there are still some reddish-orange points of light and an overall fire glow. He almost smiles, until he thinks about how many white wizards the Meroweyans have … and the fact that at least one of them had known exactly where he had been.
He just wishes he could figure out a way to divert all that power in the chaos-bolts back to the wizards who are throwing it—or at least back at the Meroweyan camp. You’ll have to think about that. Except … to do that, he needs to work with wizard chaos, and that tends to be difficult when, if he fails, he’s likely to be incinerated on the spot.
Lerial is so exhausted by the time that he and fourth squad return that he really doesn’t want to do anything but collapse into sleep, but he needs to report to Altyrn. After unsaddling and grooming the gelding, quickly and not well, he makes his way to find the majer.
Altyrn is standing beside the awning tent, talking to Juist and Kusyl. Rather than interrupt, Lerial waits until they leave to step forward. “Ser?”
“I could see the fire from here. Did you take any casualties?”
“No, ser.”
“Good. Were there any problems or anything I should know immediately?”
“No problems, but they do have at least four white wizards, chaos mages.”
“I saw the firebolts. How far do you think the farthest one went?”
“A kay at most.”
Altyrn nods and then looks closely at Lerial in the dim light. “Get some sleep. You can tell me the rest in the morning. Early.”
“Yes, ser. Is there a problem?”
“Not unless you have one. I need to work out some things with fifth and sixth company.”
“No problems, ser.” Lerial nods and departs, wondering if and how he has disappointed the majer. He stifles a yawn.
He can worry about that in the morning … and he knows he will.
LVI
The next morning Lerial wakes up early, stiff from a night on a bedroll—especially in his shoulders and neck—and very worried. Although it is before sunrise, the gray has faded, and the sky is largely clear, but he can see a few scattered clouds on the horizon to the south, although it will be later in the day before those clouds get near enough for Lerial to determine whether they might bring rain. After readying himself for the day and then checking with his squad leaders, he hurries to find Altyrn.
The majer is at the table under the awning, looking at the maps and talking to Juist. He beckons for Lerial to join them, but continues to talk to the acting undercaptain. “… can take the trail on the back side of the wash a kay west of the old quarry there … bring you within striking distance … bluff there … have the first three squads use their bows to target the rankers, and the archers put fire arrows into the supply wagons … no casualties … if possible…”
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“That’s going to make them mad,” observes Juist.
“It probably will. Since they intend to kill us all anyway, what difference does it make?”
At the ironic tone in the majer’s voice, Juist shakes his head and chuckles.
Lerial can sense that there is far more behind the majer’s comment, but not what.
“Do you want us to do anything on the way back?” asks Juist.
“Get close enough to the Meroweyan lines here that they can see you returning, but not close enough for them to be able to send out a force able to reach you before you rejoin us.”
Lerial can see the point of that.
“That’s all,” concludes Altyrn. “Set out as soon as you can.”
“Yes, ser.” Juist nods to the majer and turns, smiling wryly at Lerial as he departs.
Lerial steps closer and waits for the majer to speak.
“Give me a brief summary of your mission last night.”
“Yes, ser. We headed west in front of our lines until we were close to opposite the objective. Then we headed south, silent riding, and moving from various clumps of bushes at a deliberate pace…” Lerial goes on to give a brief description of what happened, but without mentioning his diversions of the firebolts, and only saying that the second one came so close that he felt as though his back had been in an oven.
“So … you accomplished your objective last night. No more and no less.”
“Yes, ser. We did so without casualties.”
“That’s always good.” Altyrn pauses. “You do realize that they have more than three thousand armsmen. The scouts have reported another five to ten companies on the road from Yakaat. Presumably they are headed here. They’ll arrive late this evening, or tomorrow. You heard the strategy I gave Juist for dealing with them.”
“It’s a variation on what we did last night,” offers Lerial
“That’s right. Last night, you provided a solid diversion. Very nicely done. It was just the thing to keep them from considering an immediate attack.”
A diversion?
“The fact that their firebolts aren’t doing the damage they should may be worth more than the casualties they’ve suffered.” Altyrn offers a wry smile. “I’m hoping it also suggests that they wait for reinforcements. Of course, there is the danger that there might be another white wizard with the reinforcements.” He looks directly at Lerial. “So far, all we’ve done is annoy them. We’ve removed perhaps a company and the supplies for two or three, maybe even five companies. That’s only until they get replacements.”
“Might I ask, ser, how we can stop so many of them?”
“By killing or wounding most of them. That’s the only way I know.” After a moment, the majer adds, “I’m working on that. But we need them to feel that, once they have all their armsmen, we’ll just whittle away their forces if they wait. They can’t live off the land, not unless they get into the Verd, and if they take a measured and slow approach, that will cost hundreds if not thousands of golds for supplies, not to mention the armsmen that Casseon will lose.”
“What if they advance with everything that they have once the additional armsmen arrive?”
“We withdraw into the Verd and force them to fight their way in. That will wear out their wizards and their armsmen. We can talk about that later. I want you and second company to make an attack before dawn tomorrow, while it is still dark, most likely on the companies on the eastern end of the Meroweyan lines. This will be an attack designed to see if they will attempt to attack you. So you will need to think about how to provoke them to ride after you and then ambush them when they do.”
“What if they don’t?”
“Then keep attacking them until you can do no more without incurring significant casualties. Study the lay of the land, and the position of their companies. Think about it, and then come to me this afternoon with your plan.”
“Yes, ser.”
After he leaves, Lerial reflects not only on what he has been asked to do, but on what the majer has said … and what he has not.
What are you missing?
Lerial does not know. All he knows at present is that he is indeed missing something and that every time he attempts to ask questions, the majer avoids answering them. Even if he were the heir—like Lephi—and insisted on answers, Lerial doubts that he would get any more information than he already has.
What can he do? For now, the only thing to do is to study the terrain and the enemy … and ask his squad leaders to do the same thing … and then see what they have seen before completing his own plan of attack.
All that will go for nothing if the Merowyans attack. But they won’t, Lerial suspects, because in everything, so far, the majer has been right. Is that just experience … or does he know something others don’t?
After gathering his squad leaders and asking them to watch the Meroweyans, as they can, over the next few glasses, Lerial decides on riding east to observe what he cannot from camp, and asks Fhentaar to detail four rankers from third squad to accompany him.
“You don’t want the whole squad, ser? How about ten men?”
“Four will be fine. I’m not going that close to their lines. I don’t want to tire any more horses than necessary in case the Meroweyans change their minds and decide to attack today.”
“Yes, ser.” The squad leader’s voice verges on doubtful.
“The majer says they won’t, and I’m not about to question him on that.”
In less than half a glass, Lerial leads the four rankers away from camp, riding eastward, staying close to the low stone wall that appears to border the forest, but they have only ridden a few hundred yards when he realizes again and belatedly, that he is not headed due east, but more east–southeast … and that a kay or so farther east, the forest gradually extends, if at a gentle angle more to the south. As he rides slowly through the knee-high grass, green at its base and partway up each stalk, but winter-or-drought-browned at the ends, he keeps a close eye on the enemy lines and reaches out with his order-senses for anyone—especially a mage or wizard—who might be approaching.
All he senses are riders within a few hundred yards of the Meroweyan position. Once they are well east of the end of the last Meroweyan armsmen, he eases the gelding more to the south and downslope so that he can look at the approaches open to second company. One of the first things he notices has nothing to do with the Meroweyans, but with the Verdyn rankers accompanying him. There is not even a hint of a murmur between any of them, unlike any Mirror Lancer squad with which he has ridden.
Lerial does not wish to get too close to his target, nor to stop and study any one point for long, fearing that such might well alert a sharp Meroweyan to a specific point to defend. For that reason, he continues to ride to the southeast, trying to give the impression of surveying the entire east end of the Meroweyan position. For the most part, the slope up to the ends of the ridge shows the same mix of grass and bushes as on the northern side of the ridge, but what Lerial has not realized is that the eastern end extends far more to the south than does the western end, so that the ridge top is roughly triangular.
Would an attack from farther south be more successful? Lerial decides he will have to think about that, since there is also a gully of sorts that runs down from the top of the ridge roughly a half kay south of the front of the Meroweyan position. Attacking from north of the gully could result in being trapped if the Meroweyans sweep downhill and eastward quickly enough. And to attack from south of the gully would require riding up onto the ridge. But you’d be behind them …
The other thing he notices is that there are tents set up at the rear of the Meroweyan position. Tents may be flammable, and so might their contents—another possibility to consider.
More than a glass later, Lerial and the rankers ride back past the outriders serving as sentries and into what he suspects will be a very temporary camp. Once he has dismounted and unsaddled the gelding, he walks back toward the woods, thinking. The
majer wants him to set up an attack, followed by an ambush, but for any attack and ambush to be successful, second company will need more arrows. Fire arrows will suffice for the initial attack, the one to rouse the Meroweyans to come after second company, but to kill or wound armsmen will take more than that.
What about chaos-firebolts?
The only thing Lerial can think about is spreading the archers who will loose the fire arrows far enough apart that it will take a separate fireball for each, with himself amid them, close enough to divert any that might strike an archer—with the rest of the company far enough away that the chaos mages would have difficulty throwing firebolts that far. He considers the terrain once more, then returns to second company to talk to the squad leaders one by one.
Since Fhentaar appears to be the closest, Lerial seeks him out first. “What have you noticed about the Meroweyans?”
“Ser … I can’t claim to have seen much. Does seem to me that they don’t want to fight much unless they got wizards nearby. We attacked the other day. Armsmen didn’t move until fireballs were flying…”
The big squad leader doesn’t have much to add to that, and Lerial moves on to talk to Moraris, whom Lerial cannot help but think of as a would-be trader, and who confirms that opinion to some degree when he says, “They get more upset when they lose goods. Maybe their armsmen know it. Could be they’re not too anxious to stick their necks out.”
“Why do you think that?” Lerial asks in return.
Cyador’s Heirs Page 40
