Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Then, just after that, the pipes shrill.

  “Second company! Fire at will!” Lerial orders.

  Arrows pour down at the Meroweyans, and Lerial can see that many glance off the shields of the still-advancing attackers, although the speed of the advance is slowing slightly as the Mereweyans start up the slope, and as some of the shieldmen fall.

  At that moment, Lerial realizes that the Meroweyans have not thrown a single firebolt. Not one. Someone has realized that he can only respond—not that they know who he is, only that whoever can use order is limited to responding—and they are going to storm the defenses on foot, then have the mounted troopers sweep around the ends of the trenches.

  But are you limited to responding … or only limited to using chaos through order? He knows the answer, but what other chaos is there to use?

  The chaos concealment screen! Can he draw on it … and perhaps create a miniature thunderstorm over the chaos wizards? There likely isn’t too much water in the air, but … You have to do something.

  He is still trying to think what he can do when the shieldwall halts, partway up the slope, less than fifty yards from the earth ramparts before the trenches. Then, seemingly from nowhere, comes a hail of javelins, javelins with dull metallic points.

  “Javelins! Company down!” Lerial drops to his knees just as the javelins arc down and pass through where he might have been standing, or at least close enough that there was a chance he might have been hit.

  He hears someone yell, but he cannot see who it might be or where … and there are other shouts and yells, but what they signify, it is impossible to tell. Before another set of javelins comes toward them, Lerial lifts his head, then sees one in the grass behind the trenches. He grabs it. Immediately, he can see that the tip is bent slightly, and the weapon feels heavier than it should. Lead! The points are cast from lead. That gives the javelin more weight … and if the head pierces a man and deforms …

  He wonders if he can fling it back. What if you use order to smooth its path, the way you were smoothing the air? He might as well try. He hurls it as his father once taught him to throw a spear, then reaches out with order to smooth its path.

  His mouth drops open as he senses the javelin rip through a shield and into the shieldman. Even though he knows that a few more wounded Meroweyans won’t make that much difference, he glances around until he sees the butt end of one in front of him, as if it had stuck in the front side of the packed earth rampart that shields—mostly—the trench in which he stands, his head slightly down. He grabs the javelin and drops back behind the earthen barrier.

  Another pipe signal blares, the one that signals the spear-throwers that Altyrn has posted to begin releasing their weapons. Lerial takes the second javelin and hurls it, this time using order not only to smooth and propel it, but to guide it toward the shieldman on the edge of a gap.

  The javelin hits with enough force to slam through the shield and throw the man bearing it back into the two foot armsmen behind him. Lerial looks around frantically, finally taking three quick steps to grab another javelin and hurl it back toward the other side of the gap in the shieldwall.

  “Fourth squad! Arrows into the gap!” Moraris’s voice is shrill, but loud.

  Lerial can sense the further slowing of the advancing attackers as shafts pour into the bodies of the armsmen who had held shields high.

  The hail of javelins slows, almost halting, perhaps in response to the Verdyn spears, but Lerial knows that respite will be slight.

  And still the chaos wizards have not thrown a single firebolt!

  What if … what if you act as if their shields and concealment screens are like the inside of a thundercloud … and just place what order you can above and around it?

  Knowing he only has moments to do something before the Verdyn forces must either fight hand-to-hand or beat an immediate and speedy retreat, he extends his order senses and begins to create order lines as parallel as he can make them to the dancing chaos behind the concealment and possible shields of the chaos wizards. A small dark thundercloud appears over the mounted formation within which are the chaos wizards … but nothing else occurs.

  Lerial feels that he can almost—but not quite—create the force he is seeking.

  How can you get more order? Is there order within things … not just around them? As there must be within a lodestone?

  He fumbles—or he feels like he is fumbling—trying to ease apart order and chaos in both the air above the concealment screen and in the ground below. Someone in the Meroweyan force must anticipate something, because the horn sounds, and the two mounted companies close on the other two surrounding the Meroweyan chaos wizards.

  Abruptly, Lerial can sense, almost with brilliant light, the interplay between another level of order and chaos, an interplay within all things, from the air he breathes to the ground on which he stands. With that understanding, he begins to separate order and chaos in the ground under the mounted Meroweyan formation.

  He has barely begun—or so he thinks—when he senses something—immense power—and he frantically drops trying more order-chaos separation and flings up a triple ten-line order coil with the power going anywhere but along the Verdyn trenches.

  HSSSST!!!!

  Lightning flares from ground and sky, crisscrossing and searing men, grass, shields, and mounts. Thunder with the force of mighty winds slams into everything, and Lerial can sense armsmen before the earthworks being flattened—just before he is flung against the back of the trench with enough force that for several moments, he cannot move or breathe. Then he struggles up and looks over the embankment as a wave of the unseen silver-gray flows over him. His head feels as though it is being pounded with a wooden mallet, and his eyes burn, leaving his vision blurry. He squints. That sharpens his sight enough that he can make out what lies below the low rise.

  Half, if not more, of the Meroweyan foot force is strewn across the grass, much of which retains its tan-tipped green, if with an irregular crosshatched pattern of black lightning burns.

  “Fifth company! Charge!”

  From the west, Shaskyn’s two squads race toward the disorganized remnants of the cavalry around the chaos wizards and, most likely, the force commander … if they have even survived. Shaskyn leads that charge, a sabre in each hand, guiding his mount with his legs and knees. Then a squad of first company’s Lancers charges on foot from the trenches toward the Meroweyan armsmen remaining in front of the trenches, with fourth company’s Lancers following.

  Lerial thinks about having second company follow that example, but his eyes go to the mounted riders still swirling around the rear—and Shaskyn’s outnumbered squads. “Second company! Lancers! Mount up!” Then he hurries around one of the stick figures, and is about to leap out of the trench, only to hear someone moaning.

  That someone is Korlyn, half sitting, half propped against the back of the trench between two stick figures—with a javelin through his lower chest just below his breastbone.

  “Ser…”

  Lerial glances from Korlyn back across the embankment to the south, where he sees the scattered remnants of the mounted troopers starting to regroup, and regrouping around a chaos concealment screen. Frig! He glances at Korlyn, seeing the pleading look. He can sense that in all likelihood, nothing he can do will save Korlyn. In all likelihood …

  “Ser…”

  Nothing he can likely do will save Korlyn from that kind of wound. Yet … he might …

  He wants to shake his head, because the last thing he wants is the Meroweyans to reform and rally to destroy the Verdyn Lancers. If that should occur … he doesn’t have time to think about that. He has to act. While second company may be tired, the mounts aren’t. He looks to Korlyn. “I’ll be back,” he says, knowing that he will not see the squad leader alive again. “Second company! Mount up! Now!”

  “Ser?” calls Bhurl.

  “We have to stop them from re-forming…” Lerial doesn’t need to explain. “Mount up!
Now! On me!” He is already trotting back to where the mounts are. “Moraris! Mount the archers and hold them here!”

  “Mount up!” echoes Fhentaar.

  “Squad one! Mount up! On me!” Lerial yells again.

  Lerial chafes at the time it takes before the first three squads are moving around the end of the trenches with three squads abreast in a five-man front. Before them lies a confusion of fallen men, patches of burning grass, and swirls of gray and black smoke. Although he has not heard any commands, the two squads from first company have already joined the fray around where the Meroweyan wizards were, and where, from the diminished chaos shield he senses, one still is. While fifth company is attacking from the west and first from the east, even with blurred vision Lerial can see that the Meroweyans are beginning to re-form in the middle … and that is where he leads second company.

  “Sabres ready!” Lerial orders, belatedly, hoping that the Lancers have anticipated him and, with a quick glance around and behind him, seeing that some have not and are struggling to draw weapons. With that observation, a single thought crosses his mind. Is this really a good idea? Bad idea or not, he and second company are committed, and he scans the still somewhat disorganized Meroweyan horse troopers less than fifty yards away.

  The very emergence of another company from the swirling smoke prompts some of the Meroweyans to turn their horses and attempt to flee, but most spur their mounts toward second company, if in a ragged and very uneven line, with gaps here and there. Before Lerial almost knows it, a tall Meroweyan rider waving a very long blade, or so it seems to Lerial, is bearing down on him.

  Lerial flattens himself under the wild cut, then uses a thrusting slash, guided more by order-sense than vision, into the brown-uniformed horse trooper’s shoulder, half yanking, half slipping his sabre away from the wounded man and using it almost as a short lance against the next trooper—who does not even see it coming. After that, he barely manages to block a side cut from another Meroweyan, and has to lean to one side in the saddle, almost unbalancing himself before managing to regain balance and initiative.

  While he is alternately attacking and defending himself, he can sense that the chaos shield is moving away—toward the south, back toward Merowey, and there is nothing he can do about it. Not yet. All he can do is cut, thrust, parry, duck, twist … whatever it takes to avoid getting hit, reacting to what his order-senses tell him is likely coming.

  Then … suddenly, it seems, there is no one left to fight, and second company is near the trees on the south side of the meadow, not all that far from the road that leads south back to empty or destroyed hamlets … and to Merowey.

  Much as Lerial has tried to cut through the disorganized Meroweyan forces quickly, the small band of Meroweyans that surround the chaos wizard are close to a kay south of the meadow.

  “Second company! Re-form! On me! Second squad forward.” Lerial has to repeat the command several times. Although it seems as though it takes glasses before the company is in a column heading south, with Bhurl riding beside him, second squad behind, followed by first squad, and then third squad, he doubts that it has taken more than a fifth of a glass.

  He sets the pace at a walk, a good walk, but running the horses won’t help. The Meroweyans have run theirs, and they are already slowing. But he cannot allow the Meroweyans to escape, even if his head continues to throb and his vision to blur.

  That he knows, even if he could not explain why that is so.

  In less than a fraction of a glass after Lerial begins the pursuit of the remaining Meroweyan forces, he realizes that no one, especially Altyrn, will know what he is doing. He should have thought of that, but it is hard to think of everything. Especially when your head feels like it’s splitting. For a moment, he looks to find Korlyn, then realizes, with a sinking feeling, that he will not see that round cheerful face again.

  He looks to the second squad leader, who has been riding silently beside him. “Bhurl? Is there anyone with us who is only slightly wounded? Someone who could carry a message back to Majer Altyrn?”

  “Yes, ser. Jharem could. Slash on his arm. Insisted he could still fight.”

  “Have him come forward.”

  In a few moments, a fresh-faced Lancer with his left sleeve cut away and a dressing bound around his arm eases his mount up beside Lerial. Lerial cannot help but think how young he looks … and almost smiles when he thinks that Jharem is still probably older than he is.

  “Ser? I can still ride.”

  “I know. That’s what I need you to do. Majer Altyrn doesn’t know where second company is. He needs to know that. You’re to ride back and find him. Avoid any Meroweyans. The message is more important. Tell the majer that second company is pursuing the last company of Meroweyans. Also tell him that there is one chaos wizard with them.”

  “That’s all, ser?”

  “That’s all. That’s what he needs to know.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lerial watches for a moment, as well as he can, as the young Lancer turns his mount and rides back along the shoulder of the forest road.

  “He’s a good Lancer, ser,” Bhurl remarks. “He’ll do fine.” After a moment, he says, “Ser … how long…?”

  “Until we catch them. That’s why we’re not straining the mounts. They’re only about a kay ahead of us.”

  “You know that, ser?”

  Lerial nods, his eyes taking in the hoofprints on the road … and a wad of bloody cloth on the shoulder. He looks for other signs that might indicate the state of those they pursue, but there are only the tracks on the road, the occasional burned-out isolated stead dwelling … and the continuing quiet in the surrounding woods, as if the smoke and violence had silenced the birds—even the usually raucous traitor birds—and even the insects.

  As Lerial rides, trying to ignore the air of unreality created by the alternation of seemingly untouched woods with burned-out hamlets or those clearly damaged just out of vengeance or spite, his thoughts go back to the wounded Korlyn, and the plea in the young man’s eyes. Maybe … just maybe …

  He shakes his head. You can’t second-guess everything … and there will be a greater cost if you don’t stop that wizard from returning to Nubyat. Still … he has the feeling that he will always recall the expression on Korlyn’s face.

  Lerial takes a deep breath … only to find himself thinking about all that has happened … and Alaynara, who had understood him, almost just by looking at him. What can you say to her father that’s not trite and meaningless … or incredibly presumptuous?

  Inadvertently, he finds himself shaking his head once more.

  “Ser?” asks Bhurl, riding beside him.

  “Just … just the … the waste of it all,” he finally says, unwilling to say exactly what troubles him.

  “Yes, ser. Seems like Duke Casseon’d been better not to force himself on people minding their own business.”

  “You could say that about more than Duke Casseon, but it doesn’t seem that some rulers think about that.”

  “Your father … I mean Duke Kiedron … he seems to.”

  “He can’t afford to waste Lancers or golds in trying to force people to do what they don’t want to do.”

  “Be good if more rulers felt that way.”

  “It would.” But it’s not going to happen. Lerial even has his doubts about whether Lephi would be able to refrain from imposing his will by force. Except Father and Lephi will never have that kind of force. So it won’t come to that.

  Lerial retreats into himself, and Bhurl does not press. The two continue to lead the pursuit of the Meroweyans without speaking.

  Third glass comes … and goes, and still second company is a little less than a kay behind the Meroweyans, who now travel with several wagons, most likely supply wagons joining them from the last Meroweyan encampment, although Lerial had not noticed through his order-senses exactly when that had occurred. The wagons have slowed the retreating Meroweyan horse, but only slightly, and Lerial do
esn’t want to push his men or mounts. Even at a fast traveling pace, it will be at least another two days before they reach the edge of the Verd.

  LXXVI

  After another day and a half of pursuing the Meroweyans, Lerial’s headache has faded, and the blurred vision has finally vanished. What has not changed is that the Meroweyans remain ahead of them. He is convinced that—just as he can sense the chaos wizard—the chaos wizard can also sense him, because any time that he picks up the pace to try to close the distance between the two groups, within a short time, the Meroweyans also pick up their pace. Even so, by noon on sixday, second company is less than a kay behind the main body of the Meroweyans, possibly even only a bit more than half a kay behind the rearguard. Lerial is beginning to tire of the terrier-and-rat game, and although he would like to think that second company is the terrier, he wonders at times. He is also now easily recognizing the area though which they are passing, especially once they have ridden past the stone posts of Ironwood and are nearing Nevnarnia—or its charred ruins. Close as second company is, they are not close enough … yet. Deciding that a sustained pursuit of any sort will turn into a race, he needs to try something different, because, with his forces still outnumbered, he doesn’t want to confront the Meroweyans when his men and especially mounts are more tired than theirs are. Since there is often a time gap between when he picks up the pace for second company and when the Meroweyans respond, he has an idea.

  He turns slightly in the saddle and looks to the second squad leader. “Bhurl … on my command, we’ll canter for just a hundred yards or so, and when I give the second order, we’ll go back to a walk. We’ll be doing this on and off for a time. Pass it to the other squads.”

  The squad leader’s puzzled expression is but momentary. “Yes, ser.”

  Once the order has been passed, Lerial calls out, “Company! Forward!”

  Just on his feelings, although he senses nothing, after only about a hundred and fifty yards, Lerial calls out, “Company! Walk!”