Kynstaar & Pemedra
The early-fall sun warms the midmorning air of Kynstaar as Alyiakal dons for the first time the green-trimmed formal whites of a Mirror Lancer officer, if without the silver bars that will soon confirm his father’s prediction. His eyes do not take in his image in the mirror, but are focused on certain pieces of the seemingly endless eightdays of the past three years …
The hard-faced squad leader extends a wooden wand with the grip of a lancer sabre to Alyiakal. “Take it.”
Alyiakal takes the wand, and the squad leader steps back.
“Undercaptain Faaryn says you’re pretty good with these, Candidate. That so?”
Alyiakal knows there is no good answer that is accurate and no accurate answer that will be acceptable. “I’ve had some training, Squad Leader, but I haven’t sparred with enough people to know if I even compare to an experienced lancer.”
The squad leader raises his sabre wand. “You’re about to find out, Candidate.”
Alyiakal raises his wand, but not too high, having seen earlier how the squad leader feints high and attacks low, except the instructor continues beyond the feint and Alyiakal barely slides the instructor’s wand away from his own body. Still he recovers, ignoring the apparent opening that has to be a trap, and angles his wand toward the squad leader’s knee, then shifts his attack as he senses the other’s intent, sidestepping, and deciding not to strike the other’s wrist, instead just deflecting another attack, before beating down the instructor’s wand and circling.
“Defense means nothing against a barbarian with a heavy blade,” declares the instructor, again attacking. “You have to strike quickly and move on to the next one.”
Alyiakal senses his chance, and makes two quick moves, disarming the squad leader, and then tapping him on the shoulder before stepping back.
The squad leader frowns, and his eyes narrow.
Alyiakal picks up the dropped wand and tenders it to the other, alert and ready to move if the instructor tries a surprise attack.
“Where did you learn that?”
“From a Mirror Lancer majer, Squad Leader.”
“How long did you work with him?”
“About three years.”
“You’ll spar with Squad Leader Ghaud or Captain Zuhland. If they’re not here, you’ll spend sparring time working with weights. Your technique’s good, but one of those burly barbarians could force your sabre from your hand … or lift you from the saddle with the impact on your blade. Start on the weights now.”
“Yes, Squad Leader,” replies Alyiakal. He has seen Captain Zuhland use a blade, and Zuhland is better than Alyiakal’s father. Much better … and that will lead to more bruises.
“Why do we use cupridium blades, Candidate Alyiakal?” asks the captain as he stands beside the classroom lectern.
Alyiakal can sense that the question is a trap. He knows that the Mirror Lancers have always used cupridium blades, and he knows their advantages, but not why they were first used. Or why they continue to be used. “Because they’re stronger and hold an edge longer than iron blades, ser?”
“That’s partly true enough, but only partly. Candidate Whasyl?”
“Because they’re the best blades in the world, ser?”
The captain shakes his head. “They’re not the best blades in the world. Does anyone know what the best blade in the world might be?”
Abruptly, Hyrsaal says, “The twin sabres of the second Emperor of Light, ser?”
“That’s right, Candidate. Can any of you now answer the original question?”
“Is it that cupridium blades are the best we can make without spending an inordinate amount of time, order, and chaos?” asks Alyiakal.
“That’s also true but not complete. Think about the processes.”
Alyiakal does so, and then wants to shake his head.
“Candidate Alyiakal, are you in pain or do you have a thought?”
“Cupridium blades are cast, and order and chaos are imbued in the process. An iron blade with equal strength has to be forge-welded with the aid of a magus—”
“Precisely. A cast cupridium blade is superior to all but the finest of mage-forged iron blades, and it takes a tiny fraction of the time and effort. Scores of cupridium blades can be created by an engineer smith and a journeyman magus with far less cost and effort than embodied in just one blade that would be superior to a cupridium blade. The same process is used with firelances. In fact, spent firelances can be used as regular lances effectively. But only as a last resort. Why is that, Candidate Ghelmyn?”
“Because you’d waste chaos, ser?”
“You weren’t listening. Candidate Whasyl?”
“Because you might damage the aiming or chaos mechanisms, ser?”
“Exactly, and that requires extensive engineering repairs.” The captain turns. “Candidate Baertal, why don’t we use firewagons to supply border outposts?”
Alyiakal remains intent on the captain, who can instantly discern who is tired or not paying attention …
The cold rain of early Winter pelts down on the roof as Alyiakal leaves the candidates’ mess. Although he has yet to receive a letter, he checks his postbox before he heads back to the barracks and is surprised to see that it contains a letter. Puzzled, he extracts the missive and breaks the seal. He immediately recognizes the handwriting.
Alyiakal—
I am certain that you have wondered why I have not written before this. It is not a lack of care or affection, but a result of the year I spent as an instructor at Kynstaar. Few candidates initially deluged by letters from family and others were successful. I would not do that to you. More than anything, I wish you success and fulfillment in what you set out to achieve.
As you have seen, the Rational Stars are far from rational in their impact on our lives. Happiness and love can be snatched away in an instant …
Alyiakal swallows at those words, words he had never heard from his father, then continues reading.
… so can position and golds or silvers. Rivalry and pettiness exist even within the Mirror Lancers, and they can be as deadly as a barbarian’s massive blade, both to the recipient of that pettiness and, in time, to the ones who foment evil out of their petty spirits. All we have, all you will ever have for certain, are the self-discipline you develop, the skills and knowledge you master, the affection you offer without conditions, and the respect others give you freely. Everything else can be taken in an instant. While this is more apparent to Mirror Lancers, and especially to officers, it is true for everyone in Cyador, from the lowest ranker to the Emperor of Light himself.
You have more raw ability than I ever had, and that is why I have always insisted on your doing the best you can do. All too often, those with great natural abilities fail because they do not understand that any ability, by itself, without the hard work to perfect it, is a fatal flaw that will destroy a man. For your own sake, never forget that.
From here on, I will write, but not frequently.
But it is signed “Father.”
Alyiakal feels the burning in his eyes. He slips the letter under his oiled waterproof and walks out into the rain, not that he feels it.
On a cool Spring morning the entire group of candidates, who had entered training the previous fall, stands mustered outside the barracks for inspection, as is the case every sevenday. The inspecting officer, one of the captains, is always accompanied by a squad leader with a stack of cards on which to note discrepancies … and there are always discrepancies, although Alyiakal has accumulated fewer than most, but not so few as Baertal.
As the inspecting officer walks toward the front of the formation, Alyiakal stiffens. Even without looking, which he cannot do, not and remain at attention, with his eyes forward, he can sense that someone else is with the officer, someone infused with the white of chaos.
A magus! The only reason a magus might wish to inspect the candidates is to determine if any of the candidates have discernible abilities with chaos.
While Alyiakal has continued working to improve his abilities, particularly concealments and shields, he’s been careful to do so in the dark, although he carries a light shield all the time, except when involved in arms practice. Still …
As he stands there, he contracts his shield closer to his body and does the best he can to match the pattern of order and chaos that other candidates manifest, if with a touch more order. Then he waits … and hopes.
“Candidate Alyiakal,” declares the captain, “uniform and boots satisfactory.” Then he looks to the white-clad magus.
“Slightly higher levels of order,” states the magus. “Additional training in field healing might be warranted, depending on practical abilities.”
Alyiakal maintains the slightly artificial levels of order and chaos in his shield until the magus is too far away to detect anything and the inspecting officer orders, “Dismissed for instruction.”
As Alyiakal walks toward the instructional building, Hyrsaal and Liathyr join him.
“What was that all about, do you think?” asks Liathyr. “Why was a magus inspecting us with the captain?”
“Looking for someone with chaos-using ability who might be a candidate for the Mirror Engineers,” suggests Hyrsaal. “Anyone with really strong abilities with order and chaos is likely already being trained as a magus.”
“They said something more to you, didn’t they?” Liathyr asks Alyiakal.
“The magus said I had slightly higher order levels and that I should be considered for additional training in field healing … if I turned out to be smart enough to learn it,” says Alyiakal wryly. “He didn’t say it that way, though.”
“Is that bad?” asks Hyrsaal.
“My father said that it never hurt for an officer to know more about field healing.”
“Makes sense,” says Liathyr.
Alyiakal still worries about field healing, but all full healers are women, and not Magi’i, but if he is selected for such training, he knows he’ll have to be very careful.
At least the magus didn’t discover too much.
Out of habit, after the evening meal, some two eightdays past midsummer, Alyiakal checks his message box. It is, of course, empty. That is not surprising. He never receives letters from anyone, except his father, and then only a few days after seasonturn. Five letters a year. To each, Alyiakal replies, informing his father of his progress.
Officer candidates are limited to four letters per season paid for by the Mirror Lancers … and as many as they can pay for beyond that, at a cost of a silver a letter, but most can’t afford many, given that their pay is five coppers an eightday. The only other people Alyiakal might consider writing are Magus Triamon and Adayal, but he wouldn’t have the faintest idea of where to send a letter for Adayal, except through Triamon. Nor would he wish to entrust what he might write to the eyes of anyone besides her, or, as a last resort, Triamon. And Adayal does know where you are and could write if she wanted. As for Triamon, there will be a letter, but only after Alyiakal becomes an undercaptain.
As he turns away from the message box, he stops short, sensing Hyrsaal, and that the other candidate is disturbed.
Hyrsaal looks up. “Oh, it’s you. I was afraid it might be Baertal or Ghallyr.”
“What about them?”
“They’ll make some comment about my unfortunate choice of friends.”
“You mean about Khaarl?” All Alyiakal knows is that Khaarl had disappeared between lamps-out and morning muster, but that is always the way it is with a candidate who is found unsatisfactory.
“I knew he was having trouble with reading the material and keeping up,” replies Hyrsaal, shaking his head, “but I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
“He’d likely still have made a better officer than Ghallyr.” Alyiakal also knows that there are other reasons, not all of them fair.
“He would, but we don’t make those decisions,” replies Hyrsaal. Then he offers an amused smile. “I do have something for you.”
Something for me? Alyiakal hasn’t the faintest idea why Hyrsaal, even as the closest person to a friend he has, would have anything for him. He gestures to the letters Hyrsaal holds. “I see you’re fortunate tonight.”
“Not exactly.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry…”
“You’re kind.” Hyrsaal pauses. “They’re all from family. My older brother…”
“The one who’s posted to Isahl? Has something happened?”
“It could have been worse,” says the redhead heavily. “He’ll get a stipend.”
Alyiakal waits.
“He lost his right leg at the knee. The letters are from my mother and my sisters.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“If you’re a Mirror Lancer officer, that’s always a possibility.” Hyrsaal forces a smile. “I said I had something for you.” He hands Alyiakal a smaller letter. “It’s from my younger sister Saelora. I mentioned you in one of my letters. She said I was boring and sent this, hoping you’d respond.” Hyrsaal grins. “I haven’t read it. I wouldn’t dare.”
Alyiakal looks down at the letter. Then he smiles. “Thank you.”
“Thank Saelora. It was her idea.”
“I will.”
Once back in the barracks, Alyiakal sits on the edge of the raised pallet bed, breaks the seal, and begins to read.
Alyiakal—
I hope you don’t mind my writing you. My brother has mentioned you, and that you had no sisters to write you. If you like, pretend I’m your sister and write back. You don’t have to. This is just an invitation …
Alyiakal shakes his head in amusement. How can you not write back? Besides, it would be nice to get an occasional letter.
In the heat of Harvest, seemingly hotter than even midsummer, Alyiakal is working with weights while the other candidates spar with each other, since neither Squad Leader Ghaud nor Captain Zuhland happens to be available. While working with the weights is boring, it has brought results in greater arm and upper-body strength. It also helps that Alyiakal has grown several digits and broadened, as his father predicted.
Alyiakal senses two candidates behind him, moving toward one of the practice circles. One is Baertal, whom he can recognize by his chaos patterns.
“… doesn’t spar too much … thinks he’s too good for us…” Baertal’s voice is quietly scornful.
“You think you’re as good as he is?” asks another voice, that of Captain Zuhland.
Alyiakal suspects that Baertal knew Zuhland was nearby and made the comment to have the chance to spar with Alyiakal.
“Candidate Baertal,” says Zuhland quietly. “Go to the circle there. Candidate Alyiakal will be there shortly.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal can sense the feel of triumph in Baertal, but lowers the weights and turns to see what the captain has to say.
“Give him some bruises. Then disarm him.”
“Yes, ser.” What Alyiakal knows, and what the captain likely does as well, is that Baertal will not stay within the parameters of sparring, and if caught, will claim that any untoward move was unintentional or merely a reaction to Alyiakal’s attack. All that makes Alyiakal’s task more difficult, but he merely picks up the sabre wand and walks to the circle. The captain stands, observing.
“You may begin, Candidate Alyiakal, since you were challenged,” declares Zuhland.
Alyiakal has watched Baertal enough to know that the moment he lifts his blade, Baertal will attempt an immediate and violent thrust. So he brings his wand up quickly, moves past Baertal’s wand, and strikes the back of Baertal’s arm below the shoulder hard, then steps back, knowing that will enrage the other.
“Sneaky bastard,” murmurs Baertal. “Son of a worthless majer.”
Alyiakal ignores the taunt, holding his guard for an instant, until he senses Baertal’s next move, which he counters, then slips past, jamming the padded blunt tip of the wand into Baertal’s chest before darting back.
“Frigging dancer, never survive a real fight.”
Alyiakal anticipates the other’s strike at his knee and again strikes Baertal’s sword arm, before slamming his wand down on the other’s wrist.
Baertal’s wand hits the dust.
“Enough!” snaps Zuhland.
Alyiakal steps back quickly, but does not lower his wand.
“Candidate Baertal,” declares Zuhland, his voice cold. “If you’d been using cupridium blades, you’d have been dead in moments. Go see a healer about that wrist. Now.” Almost without stopping, he goes on, “Candidate Alyiakal, you could use some understanding. From here on, you will spar with your left hand.”
Despite the coldness in Zuhland’s voice, Alyiakal can sense no anger at all, a feeling more like grim satisfaction.
Even as Baertal picks up the fallen wand with his left hand and moves away, his smoldering fury is likely obvious to everyone.
“Candidate Alyiakal … left hand. Candidate Fuhlart, take the circle.”
Alyiakal takes the wand in his left hand. It feels awkward, but he knows Fuhlart is only adequate with the wand. He only hopes he won’t have too many bruises before he becomes at least adequate left-handed. If not, the nearly two years left in training will feel even longer.
Alyiakal frowns as he extracts the letter from the message box, wondering who could have written him. Certainly not Saelora, because he had written her more than three eightdays ago, and had heard nothing. So who could it be?
He slips the letter inside his uniform tunic and walks back to the barracks and his bed, where he sits on the edge and breaks the seal, immediately noticing the precise and beautiful penmanship.
Alyiakal—
I’m so glad you wrote back. I’d hoped you would. I’m late in replying, but that is because Mother withheld your letter from me until Karola persuaded her that Hyrsaal would not have mentioned you if you didn’t meet his standards. His standards for friends are high, and he’s almost never wrong about character. He told Karola you were quiet, but honest, and very determined.
Right now, I’m an apprentice of sorts to the local scrivener here in Vaeyal. It’s a little town some ten kays south and west of Geliendra on the Great Canal. I can’t be an official apprentice because I’m a girl, but it was a way to help Buurel, and for me to learn more …
Alyiakal smiles as he continues to read.
As Alyiakal, Hyrsaal, and Liathyr leave the barracks for the mess and breakfast, Alyiakal can see that light snow has fallen across Kynstaar, which is unusual, even in mid-Winter, and which will likely melt as the day passes, despite the raw wind out of the west, which feels as though it has come directly from the Roof of the World.
Not that far behind walk Baertal and Ghallyr.
Baertal’s voice is loud, deliberately so, Alyiakal can tell.
“If you’re good with the sabre, or even the firelance, all that gets you is immediate duty fighting barbarians.” Baertal laughs sardonically. “The better you are, the more the Majer-Commander will keep you fighting barbarians, and the less likely you’ll ever see Cyad. The barbarians breed like coneys, and no matter how many you kill, even with blades in both hands, there are always more. Even majers with experience can die if they’re posted to the borders enough.”
Alyiakal smiles faintly at the backhanded reference to his growing ability to use a sabre effectively with his left hand.
“It takes more skills than weapons and tactics,” agrees Ghallyr sagely … and loudly.
“How would Ghallyr know?” mutters Liathyr. “He can barely spell ‘tactics.’”
“It’s also not wise to patronize your peers,” continues Baertal. “They might have better contacts and hidden talents.”
“So declares the greatest patronizer in the whole training corps,” murmurs Hyrsaal.
“He does have some points,” says Alyiakal quietly, “even if he doesn’t realize they apply to him as well.” Although he understands Baertal’s intent, Alyiakal still worries about what contacts and talents Baertal may have.
“Do you think they’ll have more than overcooked porridge and dried ham strips this morning?” asks Liathyr.
“Dream on,” replies Hyrsaal.
Outside the mess, Alyiakal checks his message box. There is a letter, from his father by the seal, not surprisingly since it is little more than an eightday after Summerturn, but he does not open the letter until he is back in the barracks.
Alyiakal—
My life here in Jakaafra continues much as it has. There are occasional incidents of trees falling across the Forest walls, with incursions by various creatures. The only occurrence of note has been the disappearance of a local magus, Triamon, I believe. No one knows quite what to make of it, but there are rumors that he was revealing Magi’i knowledge that disturbed the First of the Magi’i. If so, that was most unwise on his part, for the Magi’i keep their skills and secrets to themselves and apply strict discipline, if not worse, on any who discover or use those skills outside of their purview.
Alyiakal keeps an impassive expression as he reads those words, clearly as much a warning as “news” of Jakaafra, especially since his father has never been much interested in local events.
My tour at Northpoint is nearing its end. It’s likely I’ll be posted to command a border outpost in the north. It could be Inividra, Pemedra, or Lhaarat, or it could be something unanticipated. They won’t send me back to Isahl. I’ve heard nothing official to date.
I trust you’re paying close attention to your studies, especially to subject areas which do not presently interest you as much as others. Over the course of years, I’ve discovered that I have come to regret not paying close attention to all the subjects that came before me. I would urge you not to repeat my errors.
Two warnings in the same letter. Alyiakal pauses. He had earlier written that he enjoyed tactics and even logistics more than other subjects. Among the “other subjects” was the manual laying out basic administrative procedures, a manual he’d seen on his father’s desk and once glanced through and immediately turned from.
He also realizes that his father’s regular but infrequent letters have been written cautiously. Even the warning about Triamon does not reveal that Alyiakal had studied with the magus. But now there’s no way at all to write to Adayal.
Although Alyiakal has broken the seal, as he considers the caution with which his father has written, he studies the pieces with his order/chaos senses. He thinks there is a touch of chaos in the wax, as if chaos had been used to soften the wax to remove and then replace the seal.
You’ll need to study all the seals on letters from now on.
The air is damp and sticky as Alyiakal reins up his mount, looking out at the obstacle course stretching across twenty hectares, waiting for orders from Undercaptain Faaryn, the only undercaptain Alyiakal has seen in Kynstaar, possibly because Faaryn is a former senior squad leader, and definitely a rarity. Behind Alyiakal is a half squad of ranker trainees, some of whom may even have failed out of candidate training. Formed up in double file, they carry mock firelances, as does Alyiakal.
While the officer candidates have been given real firelances, some rudimentary training, and exercises in firing them, that training has been limited. Alyiakal suspects that he might be able to direct the chaos with his abilities, beyond merely aiming the firelance, but that is not something he is about to try at present, not under close supervision.
The exercise to come looks simple. Alyiakal doubts that it will be. He’s never been in command of ten men before, but he has to guide them through the course, an exercise designed to give candidates and rankers-in-training a slight feel for what will be required when they face barbarians.
The undercaptain drops the signal flag.
“Squad! Forward!” orders Alyiakal. “On me!”
He leads the half squad to the first set of banners. “Squad left!”
Once the half squad is through the banners, heading south, Alyiakal senses that the rankers in the rear are lagging. He glances back, then orders, “Rear ranks! Close it up.”
For close to a glass, Alyiakal guides the rankers around the training course while Faaryn observes. Once the undercaptain signals the end of the exercise, Alyiakal gives the orders to return to the stables, then begins sensing each of the mounts, something he would have liked to do earlier, but he had to concentrate too much on keeping track of the rankers.
After all the mounts are groomed and Undercaptain Faaryn has dismissed the rankers to their other training, the undercaptain turns to Alyiakal.
“Your orders were clear and timely. Adequate, but not outstanding. You did a solid job of keeping track of your squad. Several times you got too far in front of them. You do that on a real patrol and you risk getting cut off. That never ends well…” When Faaryn finishes his debriefing, he asks, “Do you have any questions or anything to add?”
Alyiakal definitely feels that he should add something and says, “Ranker Zaudaal’s mount … I wonder if there’s a soreness or something. Toward the end of the exercise, there was something with the horse’s gait…” Actually, Alyiakal had sensed a bit of dull red in the muscles of one leg and then noticed the gait.
Faaryn nodded. “Good. You actually remembered his name, and noticed something wrong. If that had happened earlier, I would have pulled him out of the formation, but it happened just before I ordered you back.”
From the dull redness, Alyiakal knows that the injury occurred earlier. “Could it be a reinjury? I’m asking because there weren’t any tight turns or galloping immediately before I noticed it.”
“That’s possible. I’ll have the trainer look the horse over.” Faaryn pauses. “You’re out on patrol, and that happens. What would you do?”
“It would depend on where in the patrol it happened. If we were returning, and there was a spare mount—”
“What if you’re well away from the post and you don’t have any spare mounts? And you usually won’t, unless you’ve captured one.”
“I don’t have a good answer, ser.”
“Why not?”
“Because, if it’s a patrol, and I send him back alone, that’s one danger. If he stays, the same thing can happen. So much would depend on the circumstances.”
“You’re right, but … in those circumstances, you have to do what’s best for the squad or the company.”
“Then unless we were close to the post, I’d keep him with the company and watch closely.”
“Usually that would be the best course … and usually it won’t turn out well, whatever you do.” Faaryn pauses, then says, “That’s all, Candidate Alyiakal. You’re dismissed to your scheduled studies or duties.”
As he walks from the stables back toward the main part of the post, Alyiakal hopes that he hasn’t created expectations he cannot meet. But if you hadn’t mentioned the problem …
Even with less than a year left in training, nothing is certain.
There is a chill Autumn wind blowing out of the west when Alyiakal sees the letter in his message box, almost certainly a letter from Saelora, since the only letters he ever receives are from her and his father, and he has already received and replied to his father’s seasonturn letter. Still, he waits until he returns to the barracks to open the missive.
Alyiakal—
Congratulations! Hyrsaal wrote Karola that you and he and Liathyr are now in real officer training, not just candidate training. He said that meant it was very likely you’d all become officers if you didn’t do something stupid. Please don’t!
Alyiakal smiles wryly at the last two words because his father has already written a letter to the same effect, as well as informing Alyiakal that he has received orders to take command of the Mirror Lancer post at Inividra.
Alyiakal continues reading.
I have some news of my own. Buurel consulted with the Merchanters and discovered that I could be certified as a scrivener because there aren’t enough scriveners here in Vaeyal. So I’m now a certified scrivener, and they can’t take it away even if more men become scriveners. That won’t happen, though. Most of the men work on the Great Canal, and they make more than scriveners do.
I’m working part-time for a small trader. He thinks I could even become a junior enumerator if I work hard …
Thinking about how hard it appears Saelora works, Alyiakal smiles again. Someday, you might even meet her.
“Candidate Hyrsaal, why do we have to spend so much effort fighting off the barbarians to the north?”
“Because they keep attacking us, ser.”
“And why do they keep attacking Cyador?”
“Because they think that we took their land, ser?”
Majer Phannyl turns. “Did the First really do that, Candidate Baertal?”
“No, ser. The first and second Emperors of Light wrested the land from the Accursed Forest. The barbarians believe that because that’s what the Merchanters and rulers of the scattered lands to the north tell them.”
“Why would they do that?” presses the majer. “And why would the barbarians believe them?”
“It’s to the advantage of those rulers and Merchanters,” replies Baertal in an assured tone. “That way the barbarians are less likely to attack them. The barbarians can also feel better about not attacking their own people. More important, our people have more goods of value, and our women are in better health. So, when the barbarians do succeed, their plunder is better.”
“All that is logical, Candidate Baertal, but why are there barbarians at all? Wouldn’t it make more sense for the local rulers to wipe them out?”
“If they could, ser, it might. It takes a significant force of Mirror Lancers to keep the barbarians in check. We have better weapons, better commanders, and better-trained men. I doubt that the scattered local rulers can muster that kind of effort.”
Phannyl shakes his head. “You’re half right, Candidate Baertal.”
Alyiakal considers what Phannyl and Baertal have said, and the only logical conclusion he can come to is that it makes no sense for the local rulers to eliminate the barbarians.
But why? After a moment, he wants to nod. He does not, because he does not want the majer to ask him, although, put in context, it’s obvious. Leaving the barbarians where they are protects the rulers in a way nothing else they could do would.
“Candidate Vordahl, you look like you might have some inkling of an answer.”
“Ser, no one local ruler can remove the barbarians. They’d only move.”
“That’s true, but there’s more to it than that, Candidates. I’ll leave you all to think about it.”
As the candidates approach their mess for the evening meal, an undercaptain steps toward the group. “Candidate Alyiakal, this way.”
“Ser?” asks Alyiakal politely.
“Subcommander Ciasyrt would like to see you. It’s not a disciplinary matter. Beyond that, he did not say.”
Not a disciplinary matter? Then why does the subcommander wish to see me? Alyiakal does not question. He just follows the undercaptain to the sunstone headquarters building, not that he has ever been inside, and to a study.
As he enters, Subcommander Ciasyrt stands and says quietly, “Candidate Alyiakal, please take a seat.”
As the subcommander sits back down behind the goldenwood desk, Alyiakal takes the straight-backed chair directly facing the subcommander. He still worries what he may have done wrong.
“You didn’t do anything wrong or even misguided. In a way, I wish you had. An occurrence like that can be corrected, especially in the case of a candidate who works as diligently as you do.”
Alyiakal can sense a touch of chaos, of feeling, not of force or illness, and he fears what the subcommander will say next. He waits.
“You know your father was posted to Inividra?”
“Yes, ser,” Alyiakal manages, even though he knows those words from the subcommander signify that something has happened to his father. “How bad is it?”
“He was riding a routine patrol. His heart … just stopped. He clutched at his chest … and he was gone. There were no barbarians around. There were no healers, either.”
While Alyiakal can sense that the subcommander is withholding nothing, for the next several moments, he also does not hear anything the subcommander might have said.
His heart just stopped. No battle. No storm. No lightning. No chaos bolts. His heart just stopped.
“Ser?” Alyiakal doesn’t know what else to say. What is there to say?
“Your father was an outstanding officer. Because of his death and because you are his only heir, you can request to be released from training and from any further obligation … if you choose.”
Alyiakal can also sense the truth of that statement. But what else would you do? The Magi’i won’t have you. He also knows that while he may be able to enter the Great Forest, that is not his future.
“Alyiakal?” prompts the subcommander.
“Thank you for letting me know that, ser, but I belong here.”
“I’ll leave that option open, in case you change your mind.”
“Thank you, ser.” But Alyiakal knows that his decision was made even before his father’s death.
At the end of the morning formation announcements, right after Harvestturn, Undercaptain Faaryn announces, “Candidates Alyiakal, Jhoald, and Naeyal remain here.”
Alyiakal cannot sense any chaos or disturbance, but that means nothing. Removing candidates from consideration can happen at any time. All he can do is wait.
Once the others are dismissed to duties, Faaryn approaches Alyiakal first. “You don’t need any more arms or academic training, Candidate Alyiakal. There’s a magus recommendation that you be given a short but intensive training in field healing. You’re to report to the infirmary immediately. You’ll be spending most of your eightdays until commissioning there.”
Alyiakal’s first reaction is relief, the second puzzlement. “Ser?”
“Why so late when that was recommended over a year ago?” asks the undercaptain. “Because there’s no point in wasting field-healing training on someone who’s not getting his bars.” His smile turns wry. “It’s not light duty. You’ll be working harder there than the other candidates will be. But if you’re good, it might save your life, one way or another.”
“Yes, ser.” Alyiakal nods. He recalls what both his father and Triamon had said. And they’re both dead.
“I thought you’d understand. On your way, Candidate.”
Alyiakal focuses again on his reflection in the mirror, letting the recollections recede in his memory, not that he will forget any of what he has learned in the past three years. Then he nods, turns from the image that represents only a fraction of who he is and what he has learned, and walks from the barracks toward the formality of the ceremony to come.
Standing at attention in his green-edged formal whites in the late-Harvest heat, his white visor cap firmly in place, Alyiakal concentrates not only on what the graying Mirror Lancer commander is proclaiming to the score and a half of newly coined undercaptains formed up on the sunstone pavement before the nearly empty seats of the arena, but on the surroundings and any possible order or chaos flows that he might sense.
As first of the graduated undercaptains, Baertal stands at the left end of the initial rank. Next is Vordahl, the son of Commander Dahlvor, who is addressing the undercaptains. Third is Alyiakal. Hyrsaal is sixth and stands at the far left in the second rank. All in all, there are twenty-nine junior undercaptains, less than half of those who arrived nearly three years ago remaining, and but a third of those who had attempted only the final year.
But the ones who only trained a year weren’t obligated to become rankers for four years. That rankles Alyiakal, even though he understands the political reality associated with the privileged sons of elthage, high altage, or wealthy Merchanter families.
He forces his attention back to the necessary platitudes being earnestly delivered by Commander Dahlvor.
“… you are here to defend a land that offers more to its people than any ever has … to protect the eternal light of Cyador against the darkness and unfocused chaos of the barbarians of the north … you are the heirs to a proud tradition of duty and sacrifice, heirs to a greatness that carved a land of peace and prosperity out of forest darkness and bestial cruelty. May you all carry on that proud tradition…”
When the commander finishes his speech, he pauses, then declares, “Step forward when your name is called.”
“Undercaptain Baertal’alt,” announces Subcommander Ciasyrt. Once Baertal comes to attention before the commander and subcommander, the subcommander presents the silver bars and says a few words quietly.
Then the same happens with Vordahl, although the commander is the one to present the bars to his son.
“Undercaptain Alyiakal’alt.”
Alyiakal steps forward.
Subcommander Ciasyrt presents the bars, then says, “Your father would have been proud of you. You also have a recommendation from the head healer. That’s never happened while I’ve been here. Congratulations.” He lowers his voice and adds, “I’ll need to see you before you pick up your orders, say, in a glass or so.”
“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.”
“You earned those bars, Undercaptain.” The subcommander’s voice is more than perfunctory.
Alyiakal returns to his place in formation, wondering about why he’s been ordered to see Subcommander Ciasyrt before picking up his orders. It has to be something about the orders, but what?
He still smiles when Hyrsaal and Liathyr receive their bars … and wonders slightly how Ghallyr ever managed to make it through, even next to last. Because Baertal helped him more than a little?
Once the final undercaptain has received his bars and the formation is dismissed, Alyiakal turns to Hyrsaal. “We made it, and so did Liathyr.”
As the two walk toward Liathyr, Alyiakal cannot help but notice that Baertal is talking with Vordahl and his father the commander, definitely an officer of influence, given that there are fewer than a half score of commanders in the entire corps of the Mirror Lancers.
“Baertal didn’t waste any time getting to the commander,” says Hyrsaal quietly.
“That surprises you?” replies Alyiakal. “He’s been close to Vordahl since he arrived last year.”
“They’ll still have to deal with barbarians or the Accursed Forest,” interjects Liathyr as he joins them. “So where will they send us?”
“The ones who aren’t quite hopeless, like Ghallyr,” says Hyrsaal, “will get assigned to port detachments and end up as dead-end overcaptains … sub-majers at best.”
“Doesn’t seem quite fair,” replies Liathyr. “We’re not that well-connected, and most of us will be fortunate to make sub-majer.”
Those the barbarians don’t get. Alyiakal doesn’t voice the thought he knows the other two share.
“Taking a lot more risks,” agrees Hyrsaal. “But we’ll at least have some hope of doing better. Those like Ghallyr likely won’t.”
Liathyr looks to Alyiakal, and then to Hyrsaal. “You two won’t have to wait long tomorrow to pick up your orders from Majer Phannyl. You’re near the head of the list.”
“You’re nowhere near the bottom,” counters Hyrsaal. “There won’t be more than two glasses between when we find out and when you do.”
As the other two continue their repartee, Alyiakal wonders why the subcommander wants to see him before he receives his orders. The only reason he can think of is that there’s something unusual or different from what he should be able to expect from being one of the top three out of all the graduating undercaptains.
After a time, he excuses himself and heads back to the barracks, where he goes over his kit, with all the new uniforms. He thinks about writing Saelora but decides against it until he knows where he’ll be posted. Finally, he walks to the headquarters building and to the subcommander’s study.
The ranker at the desk looks up.
“Undercaptain Alyiakal’alt, reporting as requested.”
“One moment, ser.” The ranker rises and knocks on the door to the inner study. “Undercaptain Alyiakal.”
“Have him come in.”
Just as Alyiakal has felt the ranker’s initial doubt, he also senses the surprise at the subcommander’s order.
“You’re to go in, ser.”
When Alyiakal enters, Subcommander Ciasyrt gestures for him to close the door and then to the chairs in front of the goldenwood desk. He waits until Alyiakal seats himself, if on the front section of the chair, before saying, “You’re quite prompt, Undercaptain, but that’s not surprising. You’re doubtless wondering why I requested you come to see me.”
“Yes, ser.”
“As all of you who were commissioned today know, it’s usual for the top five undercaptains to receive orders to a post such as Syadtar, Assyadt, or Geliendra, where they have the opportunity to show their worth directly to more senior Mirror Lancer officers. In your instance, I felt such a posting was unwise.” Ciasyrt pauses. “Would you care to speculate why I feel that way?”
Alyiakal has his suspicions, but he is certainly not going to give the subcommander additional reasons, in case his suspicions are incorrect. “No, ser.”
Ciasyrt laughs softly, but not unkindly, then says, “Very wise of you. I knew your father briefly. He should have been a subcommander, possibly more. But he was honest and effective without looking heroic and without high-positioned officers looking after him in his early years. Those are difficult obstacles to overcome … and then when he consorted a woman not of the altage…” Ciasyrt shakes his head.
That was something his father had never mentioned to Alyiakal.
“You have an outstanding record,” continues the subcommander, “but you’re not politically sociable enough, especially to those you don’t care for or see through to their underlying character. If I recommended that you be sent to one of the more prestigious posts for junior officers you’d likely receive a marginal assessment report, even if your accomplishments were solid or even excellent.
“Despite what we’ve tried to do, Undercaptain Baertal has convinced the more politically connected staff officers and many of the undercaptains who were commissioned this morning that you are merely a training undercaptain … that you really can’t stand up to the rigors of a border post or any other difficult assignment. I’m convinced otherwise, but what I, Captain Zuhland, or Undercaptain Faaryn know won’t change a perception that’s too widespread among your influential peers. The only things that will change that are, first, that you perform well in a difficult situation, and, second, that you build a solid reputation wherever you’re posted.
“You’re being sent to Pemedra. It’s not prestigious, but it has one advantage. It was originally built when the previous emperor planned to expand the borders of Cyador. It was planned as the main post for another line of posts to the northeast, but those plans were never fulfilled, for reasons we all know.”
Alyiakal allows himself a nod. The early and untimely death of the Emperor Kieffal, a death many suspected was not the accident it appeared to be.
“As a result, the majer in command still reports directly to the Majer-Commander of the Mirror Lancers. Sooner or later, I imagine, the post commander at Pemedra will report to the commander at Syadtar, but that hasn’t happened yet. So … for very practical reasons, that majer in command at Pemedra is almost always in his last assignment and is more interested in holding the barbarians at bay than in attempting to obtain a prestigious staff position in Cyad. That could work to your benefit. It will certainly not harm you. You may even find other officers there more interested in strengthening the Empire of Light than in bolstering their immediate or future reputation in Cyad.”
Alyiakal can sense not a shred of chaos or deception in the words that the subcommander has spoken. “Thank you, ser. I appreciate the explanation.” Left unsaid is the fact that repeating what the subcommander has conveyed will undermine any benefit such a posting could have for Alyiakal.
The question Alyiakal would like to ask is why Ciasyrt has told him. Because he doesn’t want you to be bitter and turn against the Mirror Lancers? Because it is all he can do, given Baertal’s and Vordahl’s ties to high officers? Because he couldn’t do more for your father? Or for some other reason?
“Do you have any other questions, Undercaptain?”
“Not at this time, ser.” Alyiakal manages a wry smile. “I’ll likely think of such questions only after I can’t ask them.” He pauses. “I do appreciate the explanation and what you’ve done.”
“You may not once you first arrive in Pemedra. Don’t be quick to judge.” The subcommander stands.
Alyiakal immediately does as well and inclines his head.
He can sense a mixture of order and chaos swirling around Ciasyrt as he leaves the study.
When he reaches the area outside the mess, Hyrsaal breaks away from Liathyr and Fuhlart and immediately says, “Ghallyr was telling Baertal that you must already be in trouble because he saw you headed into headquarters.”
Alyiakal shakes his head. “It was personal. He wanted to tell me how much he respected my father, and he hoped that I could be as good an officer.” The last sentence had been implied, rather than spoken, but Alyiakal doubts that the subcommander would have disagreed. “He said that wherever I was posted I’d be judged by my behavior and my accomplishments.”
“Won’t we all?” replies Hyrsaal.
“Some might be judged more by their political behavior,” says Alyiakal dryly. “The rest of us need to rely on the performance of our duties.”
Hyrsaal laughs sardonically.
The heavy-laden firewagon continues toward Syadtar, and Alyiakal feels that they must be drawing close, only because it is late afternoon and the sun hangs low over the Grass Hills west of the road, not that there aren’t similar hills to the east. Scattered farmhouses lie closer to the road. The off-white shades of the walls of houses and outbuildings differ from stead to stead, but they all share the green tile roofs and their external green ceramic privacy screens and green shutters.
He looks around the forward compartment, first at the sleeping figure of Fuhlart, who is being posted to Isahl, and then at Naeyal, also sleeping, who is posted to Syadtar, and at a silver-haired woman in a Mirror Lancer uniform of healer green without rank insignia, who had joined them at the last stop. The silver hair is not of age, but a natural shade some few children are born with. The healer sits on the same side of the compartment as Alyiakal and has to be at least a good decade older than any of the undercaptains.
There is something about the aura of the healer that reminds him of Adayal, but that’s not surprising, given that Adayal has magely talents and could most likely have been a healer. Despite her parting words, he still feels that there should have been some way they could have stayed together.
Except she isn’t truly alive away from the Great Forest, and the Forest isn’t really for you, not without her, anyway.
Besides Alyiakal, the healer is the only one awake. He has already sensed that she has shields that reveal nothing, and such shields suggest as great an ability as many of the Magi’i. Although he is familiar with Mirror Lancer healers from his field-healing instruction, none of those healers had showed shields. That this healer does puzzles him, as does the fact that he’d never heard anything about healers in any of the border posts, but he isn’t about to say anything, not when other lancers are around.
“You’re being posted to Pemedra, aren’t you?” says the healer quietly.
“I am,” he replies softly. “How did you know?”
“You have too much order and chaos behind that shield.”
“Is it that obvious?”
She shakes her head. “Only to the most able of the Magi’i. But you’ll need to strengthen your shields—and you should develop two—if you ever want to get to Cyad … and survive there. The Magi’i don’t tolerate competition, and the Mirror Lancers don’t allow those with order/chaos abilities to become or remain senior officers.”
“But how can you—”
“Because I’m a woman?”
Alyiakal inclines his head. “I apologize. I did not mean to cast aspersions on your abilities, only upon those who will not recognize them.”
The healer laughs softly.
“Where can I find you in Syadtar?”
“In the infirmary. Just ask for the healer.”
Fuhlart yawns, opens his eyes, then stretches and straightens himself on the barely padded seat. “Are we getting close to Syadtar?”
“Perhaps another five kays,” says the healer.
Fuhlart closes his eyes again.
Before that long—perhaps two quints—the firewagon approaches the whitestone city walls and passes through the open white-oak gates.
“You’ve made it easier for me,” says the healer, as the firewagon reaches what seems to be the central square and turns north.
“How so?” asks Naeyal.
“If most of the passengers in the front compartment are officers, and if most of those in the rear are rankers, the drivers have to go all the way to the post gates.”
“Easier for us, too.” Fuhlart looks to Alyiakal and adds, “Baertal’s got another day before he gets to Assyadt.”
“That’s what he wanted, I imagine.” Alyiakal keeps his voice pleasantly noncommittal, looking out the window as the firewagon passes the green and white awning of a coffee shop, and then a square containing a statue, most likely either the first or the second Emperor of Light, since Alyiakal has never heard of statues of any emperors besides those two. Then the firewagon turns north and comes to a small circle, where it slows to a halt before the open gates.
Moments later, the driver opens the door. “Syadtar Post, Lady Healer, sers.”
The healer pulls a small satchel from under the seat and steps out of the firewagon, nodding to Alyiakal, and then turning and walking through the gates past the pair of guards, who incline their heads to her.
“You talk much to the healer?” Fuhlart asks Alyiakal.
“Not much. She got on at the last stop and immediately took a nap. Then I did.”
“What’s a healer doing here?” asks Naeyal.
“I have no idea,” replies Alyiakal, “but the gate guards know her.”
Unlike the healer, each of the three undercaptains has to show his seal ring to the guards before entering the post.
“If you’re posted to Syadtar, you go to the headquarters building,” explains one of the guards. “If you’re posted anywhere else, you go to the smaller building to the north of headquarters.”
Lugging his duffel, Naeyal hurries ahead to the headquarters building, vanishing inside before Fuhlart and Alyiakal pass the entrance on their way to the second building.
Immediately inside the second building, Alyiakal and Fuhlart find an anteroom with several benches and a single desk, without anyone around.
“I have the feeling we weren’t expected,” says Fuhlart.
“Or not at the moment,” adds Alyiakal.
Even as he speaks, he hears boots coming from one of the side corridors that branch out from the anteroom.
Then a senior squad leader appears, accompanied by a ranker.
“Undercaptain Alyiakal, reporting.”
“Undercaptain Fuhlart.”
“You’re a bit early, sers. Firewagon bring you all the way to the gates?”
“Everyone in the front compartment was coming here,” adds Alyiakal.
“That explains it.” The grizzled senior squad leader looks to Fuhlart. “They’ve been waiting for you and several of the rankers. Ghausyn, here, will take care of you, Undercaptain Fuhlart. You’ll only be here one night, and you’ll ride out with the replacements, firelances, and supplies for Isahl first thing tomorrow morning.”
“This way, if you would, ser?” the ranker says to Fuhlart.
Once Fuhlart and the ranker have departed, the senior squad leader turns to Alyiakal. “Ser, it’s going to be almost an eightday before the supplies and replacement rankers will be ready to leave for Pemedra…”
Alyiakal nods. “That might be for the best.”
“Ser?”
“I got some training in field healing at Kynstaar, but it would be good if I could work with the healers here.”
“I don’t know about that, ser. Overcaptain Usaahl’s in charge of transfer undercaptains.”
“Then it has to be his decision. I’ll ask him. If he agrees, that’s what I’ll do. If I’m supposed to do something else, I’ll do that.”
“Just a moment, ser.”
The senior squad leader turns and heads down the corridor to the right, returning almost immediately with a narrow-faced and balding overcaptain.
“The senior squad leader said you wanted to do temporary duty with the healers until the replacements and supplies head out for Pemedra?”
“If that’s possible, ser. If not, I understand.”
“You do any healing work at all?”
“Not quite a season at Kynstaar, ser, half a day every day. But I didn’t have much experience with wounds.”
The overcaptain looks to the senior squad leader.
“It’s in his transfer orders.”
Usaahl takes the folder and looks through it, then closes it and hands it back to the senior squad leader. “Even a recommendation. It’s still up to the senior healer.” From Usaahl’s tone of voice, Alyiakal can tell the undercaptain doesn’t think much of the idea.
“If I can learn even a little more here,” says Alyiakal, “it might make a difference to wounded lancers.”
“Your job is to kill barbarians and survive, Undercaptain.”
“Yes, ser. But after the fighting, there are still wounded men.”
Usaahl does not quite sigh, but says grudgingly, “True enough.” After a moment, he adds, “There’s not much else you could do here that’d make much difference in an eightday. But it’s up to the healer.”
“Yes, ser.”
Usaahl looks to the senior squad leader. “I’ll be back shortly.” He turns to Alyiakal. “Leave your kit here. Even if she agrees, you’ll need to take care of things here. No sense lugging your gear over there and then back.”
Alyiakal appreciates that, especially once they reach the infirmary, because it is almost half a kay from the transfer building.
A ranker sits at the table in the entrance hall of the infirmary, a modest one-story sunstone structure.
Alyiakal can faintly sense something, almost like ancient wound chaos. Can that seep into the stone?
“I need a few moments with Healer Vayidra,” declares the overcaptain politely.
“Yes, ser. She just got back. I think she’s still in her study.”
In moments, the ranker returns with the healer.
As Alyiakal suspects, the senior healer is the woman who had been in the firewagon with him and the others, but her eyes remain on Usaahl. “Yes, Overcaptain?”
“Healer Vayidra, Undercaptain Alyiakal is posted to Pemedra. While he is waiting, he believes he can learn something while helping you…” Usaahl explains briefly.
Alyiakal is pleasantly surprised that the overcaptain mentions not only his brief training but the recommendation.
“We’d be happy to have him help around here, Overcaptain. Anything he can learn will be of benefit in the field, and we are shorthanded at the moment. He can certainly help with the basics.” She turns to Alyiakal. “You’ll need to eat at the early duty mess and come here immediately. We’ll find some old greens for you, and you can change here.”
“Yes, Healer Vayidra.” Alyiakal doesn’t know what else to call her.
A faint smile crosses Usaahl’s face, then vanishes. “I need to get his paperwork taken care of.”
“Always the paperwork, Overcaptain.” Her eyes go back to Alyiakal. “I’ll see you in the morning, Undercaptain.”
Alyiakal inclines his head to her respectfully, then walks back to the transfer building with Overcaptain Usaahl. There he receives his quarters assignment, and then carries his kit to his quarters—a narrow room with a single bed, a wall desk, and a chair, the most space he has had to himself in three years.
He barely has time to use the cold-water shower at the end of the hall and change into a clean uniform before heading out of the officers’ quarters. He meets Fuhlart outside the mess.
“Overcaptain Usaahl thinks you’re chaos-touched,” says Fuhlart.
“Maybe I am,” replies Alyiakal, “but several officers told me that looking out for your men pays off. Most officers know more about that than I do.” He glances to one side where he sees Naeyal nearing the building with another undercaptain. Naeyal appears engaged with the other undercaptain. At least, he doesn’t acknowledge either Fuhlart or Alyiakal, who lag back slightly, then follow the two into the mess, where slightly fewer than twoscore officers are gathered.
At first, Alyiakal is surprised at how comparatively few officers appear, given the size of the post, but as he takes in the ranks of those standing and waiting for the senior officer to appear, he is reminded that there are actually more patrols operating out of the smaller border posts than at Syadtar, which is more of an administrative and logistics center.
“Informal seating!” announces someone.
Alyiakal interprets that, from what he sees, as meaning taking seats roughly, but not scrupulously, by rank. He and Fuhlart sit almost at the foot of the table for junior officers.
“Which of you two is headed to Isahl and which to Pemedra?” asks the undercaptain seated beside Fuhlart. “Not that it makes much difference. One’s as bad as the other.”
Since it doesn’t seem to make any difference to the undercaptain, Alyiakal doesn’t answer the question and asks his own. “Do the patrols operating from here run across many barbarians?”
“Enough,” replies the undercaptain. “There are more barbarian towns, if you can call them that, to the north and northeast, as well as some beyond the eastern hills. They try to raid the smaller towns and hamlets east and southeast of here.”
“Are there more raids than usual?” asks Alyiakal.
“I’ve only been here a year, and I don’t see much change. Subcommander Munnyr has to know, but if there’s much difference over time I haven’t heard.”
“What about raids around Isahl and Lhaarat?” asks Fuhlart.
“Except in Winter and early Spring, the barbarians’ll keep you busy. Angel-fire, they keep all of us busy.”
“Why?” says Alyiakal quietly.
“What do you mean ‘why’? Because they’re barbarians.”
“They have more than enough land,” replies Alyiakal.
“They don’t have enough women, and the ones they have would leave in a moment if they could. A cupridium sabre’s worth five of those iron bars they call swords, maybe more, and so are lots of things we take for granted that they don’t have.”
Alyiakal is about to ask what else might be so valuable to the barbarians when one of the ranker servers delivers his platter, and another fills the heavy wineglass.
“Why don’t they trade for them?” asks Fuhlart.
The other undercaptain snorts. “What do they have to offer in return?”
“I can see that,” replies Fuhlart.
There must be something that they could trade. While Alyiakal has that thought, he is too tired to think what that might be. Then, perhaps the other undercaptain might be right.
He concentrates on eating, and on not drinking too much wine.
Then, after eating, he makes his way back to his temporary quarters. When he steps into the small room and sees the wall desk, he thinks about writing Saelora, but he can hardly keep his eyes open.
Tomorrow … I’ll write her tomorrow.
Tired as he is, Alyiakal wakes early enough to make it to the early duty mess with time to spare, where he finds Fuhlart and sits next to him.
“Why are you up this early?” asks Fuhlart.
“I could say I’m here to see you off,” replies Alyiakal with a smile, “but getting a little more healing experience means I have to wake early, possibly every morning until I leave for Pemedra.” The healer hadn’t made that clear, but Alyiakal has the feeling that was what she had meant.
Fuhlart laughs. “I hope it’s worth it.”
“So do I. It might be seasons before I learn that.” If not longer. Alyiakal shrugs. “But I might never get another chance to work with healers, and I’d be doing some work here anyway.”
Breakfast consists of ham strips embedded in some sort of egg and cheese casserole with fresh-baked bread and a choice of ale or redberry juice. Alyiakal takes the redberry, but doubts he’ll have that choice once he gets to Pemedra.
They both begin to eat quickly.
As they finish, Fuhlart says quietly, “If you don’t want to answer, I’ll understand, but why did Naeyal get assigned here, and you’re being posted to Pemedra? You ranked higher than he did.”
“Apparently, the Mirror Lancers feel I’ll do better in Pemedra than here.”
Fuhlart frowns. “Did Baertal have anything to do with it?”
“Not directly,” lies Alyiakal, “but I suspect that it has to do with the fact that I’ve always tried to let accomplishments speak for themselves. Others have a different approach.”
For a moment, Fuhlart looks puzzled; then he offers a wry smile. “Like when you made Baertal look like an idiot sparring and the captain made you spar left-handed with me? I could barely keep from getting hit even then, and you were better than anyone using either hand by the time you got your bars. But you never said anything.”
“My father was insistent that acts spoke for an officer better than words.”
“Not always,” replies Fuhlart. “Especially in Cyad, or so I’ve heard.”
“We’ll have to see. I won’t worry about that unless I get to Cyad.” And that won’t be soon for any of us.
“Until you get to Cyad.”
Alyiakal grins. “That, too.”
Fuhlart shakes his head. “We’d better get moving.”
The two leave the mess, and once outside, Alyiakal says, “Best of fortune … and take care.”
“You, too.”
Alyiakal watches Fuhlart for a moment, then heads for the infirmary. As he walks quickly, he finds he is surprised that the early-morning air is not noticeably cooler than at Kynstaar, even though Syadtar lies hundreds of kays farther north.
When he steps into the infirmary, the ranker at the front desk immediately stands and says, “Undercaptain Alyiakal, ser, this way,” then escorts him to a small room with open wooden cabinets, some holding ranker uniforms. Beside an empty one hangs a set of greens. “You’ll need to change here, ser. All the men wearing greens use this room.”
Meaning that there aren’t any other officers involved in healing duties. “Thank you.”
“Once you’re changed, Healer Vayidra wants to see you in her study. I’ll take you there.”
Alyiakal nods to the ranker, then changes. He does keep his wallet and seal ring with him and makes his way back to the entry. In moments, he is stepping into Healer Vayidra’s study.
“Ryndaar, if you’d close the door.”
“Yes, Healer.”
Vayidra motions for Alyiakal to sit down.
Alyiakal looks intently, if momentarily, at the silver-haired healer, who definitely reminds him of Adayal, although Healer Vayidra appears considerably older than Adayal. The sense of power and of order more than chaos?
“You’re here on time. That’s a start,” says the healer dryly. “Did you have any healing training before your basic field-healing training?”
“Some very basic training before I was sent to officer candidate training.”
“What sort of training?” The healer seems almost relaxed, as if the question is one she has to ask.
Alyiakal begins, “How to distinguish the various kinds of wound chaos…” From there he summarizes what Triamon had taught him and what he has learned from sensing various animals.
“A magus taught you all that?” Her tone is not quite believing.
“I don’t think he was supposed to. He vanished over a year ago.”
“That’s not surprising, but why didn’t anyone test you?”
“I’d been gone for almost two years. A mage at Kynstaar screened all of the candidates. He said I had somewhat higher order levels.”
Vayidra shakes her head, then says, “Knowing that, are you willing to take the risks of having someone learn that you’re more than you seem? There won’t be any risk here. I can take care of that, but later you’ll be on your own.”
“You’d know better than I would, but I would think that the more I can learn, in time, the risks will be lower.”
“In time. But you’ll need to survive.”
“I’ll take that risk.”
Vayidra nods. “Then we’ll begin. There are some basic rules you need to follow. All the time. First, you wash your hands after working with any patient, if you even barely touch them, and before working with the next one.”
Alyiakal raises his eyebrows.
“For some reason, it reduces the amount of wound chaos,” replies the healer. “You may not be able to do that in the field, but dusting your hands with traces of order helps. Second, you will not use any order or chaos manipulation on a patient except under my supervision or at my express direction.”
“I can certainly see that.”
“Third, in return for what I can teach you, you will undertake whatever tasks I ask of you. That’s another reason for the greens. Some … individuals might find it … beneath the image of an officer to have him doing distasteful tasks on patients he outranks.”
That also doesn’t surprise Alyiakal.
She stands. “Now, we’ll take a tour of a few of the current patients. You’re to observe each both visually and with your order and chaos senses. You are not to comment until we are alone and away from any patient—or anyone else. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Healer.”
The first patient is a fresh-faced young man with his left leg bound in a splint.
“How are you feeling today, Waaltyn?” asks the healer.
“About the same, Healer. Maybe a little better.”
Vayidra looks to Alyiakal and says, “He lost an argument with a wagon when a wheel collapsed. He was lucky it happened here. He could have lost his leg.”
“Or more,” says the ranker almost cheerfully.
Alyiakal lets his senses range over the leg and the rest of the man’s body. There is a massive amount of red-gray chaos in the leg, even around where the ends of the broken bones seem to be set, but he does not sense the whitish red of severe wound chaos.
Once they leave the room and are alone in the hallway, Vayidra looks at him.
Alyiakal tells her what he has sensed.
She simply nods.
The next chamber holds two men. One is unconscious or sleeping, the other moaning and loosely restrained.
Alyiakal studies the unconscious man first, noticing that a dull red mist seems to surround him, something he has never sensed before. He concentrates more intently, before he finds dull reddish wound chaos at the end of the man’s right arm—and that the hand is missing, most likely recently amputated. The second man moans again, and Alyiakal turns to him, discovering tiny bits of orange-reddish-white chaos seemingly everywhere in his body. He wonders how much longer the man will survive.
“Do you need any more time?” asks Vayidra.
“No,” replies Alyiakal quietly.
Once back in the hall, he relates what he has sensed.
After that, the healer takes him through several more rooms, with less seriously ill or injured patients, after which she says, “Back to my study.” Her tone is clipped.
Alyiakal wonders what he did wrong. Once they enter her study, he closes the door, knowing that whatever she has to say is between the two of them.
She does not sit down, but stands beside the desk. “You shouldn’t even be a lancer. You’re more suited to be a magus.” She pauses, then says, “Show me what you did when that magus screened you.”
Alyiakal does.
She smiles sardonically. “That is the shield you should carry all the time, with a stronger one hidden behind it. That’s if you want to survive as a Mirror Lancer officer.”
“I’ve never tried to carry two shields at once.”
“You should have time to figure that out here and at Pemedra. After that, it will likely be too late.”
The cold certainty in her voice chills Alyiakal, but he says quietly, “In the meantime, what can I do here?”
“First, hold the shield you just showed. All the time. Second, if you ever use chaos, always surround it with order, and keep all free chaos away from your body. Otherwise, you’ll die young…”
The matter-of-fact way in which she offers the warning confirms what Triamon had once said, but in a colder way.
“… Third, you’re going to learn something about being a healer. Right now. You’ll accompany me to the morning sick call. I’ll explain that you’re a beginning healer, and we’ll go from there.” She pauses. “Have you ever used free order to lessen wound chaos?”
“Not with people,” Alyiakal confesses. “Only dogs and cats.”
“Did it work?”
“It changed the whitish-red chaos to dull red, and they got better. They might have without what I did.”
Vayidra nods. “That’s possible, but unlikely, if the wound chaos was whitish-red and much more than a small point. At least you didn’t use too much order, either. That can kill the tissue, and it will putrefy from inside the body.”
That was something that Triamon had not mentioned. “Couldn’t free chaos destroy the putrefying tissue?”
“It could, but the heat released would likely kill the patient. That’s why healers have to be cautious, especially young healers. We need to get to sick bay.” She heads for the study door. “At sick call, all you’re to do is to watch. Carefully. Don’t say anything, and save any questions for later.”
Sick bay consists of an anteroom where lancers wait to be seen and a pair of small treatment rooms off the corridor behind the anteroom.
The ranker at the anteroom desk looks up, quizzically.
“He’s a field healer who will be helping for a few days,” replies Vayidra to the unasked question. “Is there anyone who needs immediate treatment?”
“Not this morning, Healer.”
Alyiakal follows Vayidra to one of the treatment rooms, which contains little but a raised pallet bed, a chair, a doorless cabinet containing dressings and supplies, and a high table with several cupridium trays on which are various instruments, also all of cupridium.
Alyiakal quickly studies the room and everything in it, then turns his attention to the older lancer ranker who enters, his left arm in a splint.
“Let’s take a look at that arm.” Vayidra touches, barely, the dressing above the point where the bones are splinted together, as she draws together a tiny black point of order and eases it into bright red chaos surrounding the point where the bones are splinted together. The bright red fades, but not to the dull grayish red. She glances at Alyiakal, who nods.
Then she eases an even smaller amount of order to the same point, and the last of the brighter red vanishes. She says to the older ranker, “That should feel a little better now. Come back tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Healer.” He nods to Vayidra, ignoring Alyiakal.
That’s fine with Alyiakal. He’d rather not be noticed.
The next lancer has a heavy dressing over his left hand, which Vayidra deftly cuts away with a pair of cupridium scissors. She checks the stitches across the man’s palm, then cleans the area, dusts it lightly with order, and re-dresses it. After the ranker leaves, Vayidra murmurs to Alyiakal, “Some of them are careless with the dressings, and it’s easier to spend a little time each day until the skin heals enough to seal the wound.”
Alyiakal wonders how the man could even get cut that way, but does not ask.
For the next glass or so, he watches closely everything that the healer does, saying nothing.
Then, two lancer rankers bring in a lancer limp on a stretcher with the shoulder area of his uniform covered in blood.
The squad leader behind the three immediately says, “He was unloading crates from a supply wagon. He tripped over something. He must have hit the side of the wagon, because he gashed his head, and fell on a produce crate. The crate must have had a weak board, ’cause it jammed into his shoulder…”
For all of the improbability of that explanation, Alyiakal can sense no chaos surrounding the junior squad leader. Sometimes, the improbable does happen.
For the next half glass, Alyiakal observes and stays out of the way, while Vayidra stops the bleeding, cleans the jagged but not terribly deep shoulder wound, and then infuses order to keep the chaos beneath the skull from expanding.
After that, she turns to him. “If you’d help Saakkyn clean up the room. Then come find me.”
“Yes, Healer.”
With the blood and everything else tracked in, it’s almost a glass later before he and the other aide finish. He then finds Vayidra in her study, but he waits outside in the hall until a captain he has never met departs. Then he knocks.
“You can come in.”
Alyiakal enters and closes the door.
“We’ll make another set of rounds, now. I’ll watch you try to deal with wound chaos in one or two patients.”
“The one who’s dying?”
Vayidra nods. “If you’re good, you can reduce the level of pain. He’ll be more comfortable for a little while.”
The two return to the second room they had visited.
The bed of the man who had lost a hand is empty, but the other man is still occasionally moaning.
“Go ahead. See if you can reduce some of that chaos.”
Alyiakal senses a larger concentration of chaos in the dying man’s shoulder. Following Vayidra’s example, he gathers tiny concentrations of order and targets specific points. Because the healer’s shields are so good, he cannot tell what she feels.
“That’s enough,” she says gently. “Any more won’t make any difference.”
“You wanted to see what I could do, didn’t you?”
“Of course. Now, we’ll finish the rounds.”
Over the next glass, Alyiakal accompanies her. In two cases, she quietly asks him to reduce wound chaos, and he does.
When they are back in her study, she looks at him. “You could be a healer, but there aren’t any men healers.”
“Just like there aren’t any women Magi’i?”
She nods, then says, “Now, you’re going to help with changing beds and laundry.”
Alyiakal can’t say he expected otherwise.
For the next five days, even on eightday, Alyiakal’s schedule at the infirmary is essentially the same as it was on fourday. He manages to write Saelora in between those duties and studying the healers’ manual that Vayidra has lent him. He also wishes, far from the first time, that he had a safe way, or any real way, to write Adayal.
He has barely finished changing into his uniform late on oneday afternoon when Ryndaar enters the changing room.
“Ser, Healer Vayidra would like to see you before you leave.”
“I’ll be right there, Ryndaar. Thank you.”
When Alyiakal enters Vayidra’s study, she motions for him to take a seat, then says, “Overcaptain Usaahl stopped by earlier this afternoon. He wanted me to convey to you that you’re to report to him immediately after you finish here today. He also wanted my written evaluation of your performance as a healer aide. I provided it. I wrote that you were as well-trained and capable as possible without combat experience, and that you’d worked long and hard here.” She pauses and offers an amused smile. “What I didn’t say was that, in handling order and chaos, you’re better than most beginning healers and many who have years of experience. From what I’ve seen, your bonesetting experience is adequate.” She pauses once more. “I’d recommend that you limit your surgery to wound cleaning and closure. Unless the patient would absolutely die.”
Alyiakal has no intention of getting involved in any major surgery. And you hope you’re never faced with that possibility.
Vayidra points to a small satchel on the corner of the desk. “That’s for you. Officially, on our records, it’s a replacement of medical instruments for Pemedra. But since no documentation will be sent to the post, it’s essentially yours to use as you can.” She stands. “It’s been a pleasure to have you here, even if we did work you hard. Now … you’d best not keep the overcaptain waiting.”
Alyiakal immediately stands as well. “Thank you, Healer Vayidra. I’ve learned a great deal over the past days. I’ll never be able to adequately repay you.”
“Everyone you heal is part of that repayment. I don’t envy you. You are a healer and a self-trained magus required to be an effective lancer. Being successful at all three will be difficult.”
Alyiakal understands what she is really saying—that if you don’t succeed at all three, you likely won’t survive.
“You’ve seen much more than I have. Have you encountered … others … like me?”
“Not that I’m aware … and you do need to go, Undercaptain.”
He inclines his head respectfully. “Again … my thanks and appreciation.”
“You’re welcome.” She pauses, then adds, in an amused tone, “You need more work on those shields.”
He smiles, picks up the instrument satchel, then turns and leaves the study.
Once outside in the afternoon sun, he walks quickly to the transfer building, where he says to the duty ranker, “Undercaptain Alyiakal, reporting as requested by Overcaptain Usaahl.”
“This way, ser.”
The balding Usaahl barely looks at Alyiakal before motioning for him to take a seat and returning his attention to a sheet of paper on his desk.
Alyiakal sits down and waits.
After a time, the overcaptain looks up. “You came here straight from the infirmary?”
“Yes, ser.”
“This late every day?”
“Yes, ser. A little later today. Healer Vayidra debriefed me on my strengths and weaknesses as a field healer. Or in real terms, an after-the-fight healer.”
“She said that?”
“No, ser. You emphasized that.”
Usaahl shows a trace of a smile that instantly vanishes. “Keep that in mind, although I doubt circumstances will leave you any real choice. Tomorrow morning, be at the stables with your gear immediately after the early mess. The replenishment force for Pemedra will leave from there. Captain Draakyr will be in charge. He’ll be taking over a company at Pemedra, as will you, at least technically. There will be three squads’ worth of replacements and four horse-drawn wagons of supplies. I’d suggest you go to the stables now and pick out your mount. It will make things easier for you tomorrow.”
“Yes, ser.”
Usaahl extends a large envelope to Alyiakal. “I’m returning your orders with the endorsements of your time and training duty here.”
“Thank you, ser.” Alyiakal pauses, then asks, “Do you know where Captain Draakyr might be at the moment?”
“He said he was going to the stables. If you hurry you might catch him there.”
“By your leave, ser?”
“Of course.”
Alyiakal hurries toward the stables, satchel and orders in hand.
Once inside the stables, he sees a short and wiry captain talking to one of the ostlers, and he moves closer, but does not approach, not until the other officer turns and gestures.
As Alyiakal catches sight of the captain, he realizes that the captain is much older than almost all the junior officers he has met, except Undercaptain Faaryn.
“What is it, Undercaptain?”
“Might you be Captain Draakyr, ser?”
“I am.” The indifferent expression turns to one of mild interest. “Undercaptain Alyiakal?”
“Yes, ser.”
“We arrived over a glass ago. What took you so long?”
“I didn’t finish my training duty until a quint ago, and I had to pick up my orders from Overcaptain Usaahl.”
“Training duty?”
“Field healing, ser. Since I had to wait almost an eightday, I was working as a healer aide in the infirmary.”
“I think Majer Klaavyl will be more interested in your blade skills, Undercaptain.”
“Yes, ser,” replies Alyiakal, feeling that any other response would be inappropriate.
“Top of your graduating group? Or bottom?”
“Number three, ser.”
“What makes you a problem, then?”
“I’m not especially political, ser, and I don’t scheme.”
“You mean you don’t scheme well?”
“No, ser. I don’t scheme. I do my best, and let what I do speak for me.”
For the first time, Draakyr looks amused. “Would the subcommander at Kynstaar agree with that assessment?”
“Yes, ser.”
Draakyr shakes his head. “Why are you here, now?”
Alyiakal suspects that the captain is not totally pleased, but somehow not personally upset with him. “To meet you and to pick a mount, if that’s possible.”
Draakyr nods. “Good idea. I need a mount as well. The ostler said that we can choose from the horses on the south side of the stable.”
Alyiakal slips the envelope with his orders into the satchel as they walk toward the nearest stall.
“What do you think of this one?” asks Draakyr casually.
As he nears the chestnut gelding, Alyiakal studies the mount. The gelding edges back. “He looks healthy, but we’re not threatening him, and he’s backing off.”
Draakyr says nothing, but keeps walking.
The next horse is a smallish mare who studies Alyiakal intently, but Alyiakal senses something about her back, and shakes his head. The third horse is a dunskin gelding who lifts his head from the manger.
“This one looks promising,” says Draakyr.
Alyiakal can sense nothing obviously amiss, but doesn’t feel particularly attracted.
The two officers walk the length of the stable. Alyiakal is most interested in a slightly smaller bay gelding, whose order and chaos balance suggests that the gelding is stronger than he looks, but he goes through all the possible mounts before he goes back. “This one, I think.”
“Those runt bays sometimes have attitudes,” offers Draakyr.
“I suppose I should find out now,” says Alyiakal, setting down the satchel before opening the stall door and stepping inside. He is careful not to move quickly and creates the same warm order mist that has worked with other horses.
Then he stands quietly by the gelding’s shoulder for a time before patting it firmly. “I think we’ll do just fine.”
Several moments pass, and the gelding nuzzles his arm.
After a short time, Alyiakal leaves the stall and retrieves the satchel.
“Have you worked a lot with horses?” asks the captain.
“Not much more than in training, ser. I tried to pick up what the better riders did.”
Draakyr frowns momentarily, then heads back to the dunskin gelding, finally deciding on him. Then they find the ostler and convey their choices.
The ranker looks at Alyiakal. “Did you enter the stall?”
“I did. We talked for a bit. He seemed fine.”
The ostler and the captain exchange glances, and the ostler says, “We’ll have them ready in the morning.”
“Thank you,” returns the captain, who then gestures toward the stable doors.
They haven’t quite reached the open doors when a squad leader walks swiftly through them.
“Here comes Juast,” says Draakyr. “He’s from Pemedra, and he’ll be riding back with us and the replacements.”
“Good afternoon, sers.” A cheerful smile accompanies the words.
“The same to you. Juast, this is Undercaptain Alyiakal. Pemedra will be his first permanent assignment.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Squad Leader.”
“Just Juast, ser, unless you’re giving orders.”
Alyiakal smiles in return. “Most of the orders will be from the captain.”
“Never can tell, ser. Not even on resupply runs.”
“True enough,” says Draakyr, adding, “We’ve settled on our mounts. I won’t have the final supply manifest until first thing in the morning, but I’ve been told there won’t be anything unusual in the wagons.” He adds dryly, “Supposedly.”
“The replacements are settled for now,” reports Juast. “They’ll draw mounts in the morning. We’ll have a few spares, and we’ll work out any problems on the way. We’ve got four scouts who escorted the officers and rankers being transferred from Pemedra and the wagons with the depleted firelances.”
“How many of the replacements have any experience?”
“Half score, roughly.”
Draakyr frowns. “Discipline cases?”
“Yes, ser. Mostly from the Forest companies.”
“At least they’ll know one end of a firelance from the other. What about replacement firelances?”
“Five hundred. Take up pretty much all of one wagon. They might last until Winter, but I wouldn’t count on it. Be a help if the Magi’i would build a Mirror Tower somewhere out here.”
“It would, but they can’t. All the towers were built by the First of the Magi’i. They say it can’t be done now.”
“I’ve heard that.” Juast’s expression conveys more than a little doubt.
“You’ve seen the effort it takes to transport spent lances and then ship back the recharged ones,” says Draakyr. “If they could avoid that, don’t you think they would?”
“Still makes a man wonder, ser.”
Draakyr’s laugh is sardonic and harsh. Then he smiles and says, “We’ll see you early tomorrow.”
“Yes, ser,” replies the squad leader, smiling back.
When the two officers are well away from the stables and the squad leader, Draakyr says, “If you’re fortunate, you’ll get a senior squad leader like Juast. Even if you don’t, listen to your squad leaders. They’ll have more experience than you’ll have for years. Or ever, if you don’t listen.”
“Yes, ser.”
“And save the ‘yes, ser’ for when it’s absolutely necessary.”
“For when you need to know that I actually understand and will follow orders?”
“That’s right.”
Alyiakal resists the urge to say “Yes, ser” again.
“I’ll see you first thing tomorrow. I still have a few matters to take care of. You have any questions, we’ll have three long days to get to know each other better.”
“Until then, ser.”
Draakyr nods, then strides off.
As he walks back to his temporary quarters, Alyiakal thinks about Draakyr. The captain seems competent and effective, and it’s obvious that Draakyr has spent time as a ranker, and squad leader.
On twoday morning, Alyiakal makes certain that he is up and at the officers’ mess the moment it opens. He eats quickly, occasionally looking around, but even when he finishes and leaves, he doesn’t see Captain Draakyr. He returns to his quarters only to pick up his kit and the healer’s satchel, then hurries to the stable, where he finds his mount and straps his gear in place, spending a little time talking to the bay before leading him out to where the supply wagons are formed up.
Alyiakal sees a cart to one side and right before the lead wagon, with two mounted Mirror Lancers posted beside the cart, their presence making immediate sense, given the firelances the cart contains. Another lancer stands beside the cart.
At that moment, Squad Leader Juast rides up, followed by Draakyr. Both ride toward the cart. Alyiakal mounts and follows their example, receiving a firelance from the lancer standing beside the cart after Draakyr does. He slips the firelance into its leather holder.
“Follow me,” says the captain. “Juast will form up the replacements.”
Alyiakal does as Draakyr orders, and when the captain reins up, so does Alyiakal, if beside the captain, rather than behind.
“We’re three days’ ride from Pemedra,” says Draakyr. “There aren’t likely to be any barbarians within a day of Syadtar. So why are we having the replacements pick up firelances now?”
“Squad Leader Juast said that only ten or so of the three score had any experience,” says Alyiakal. “You could give them some training in at least basic formations along the way.”
Draakyr nods. “We could, but they’ll likely be split up and go to different companies once they get to Pemedra.”
Alyiakal considers for several moments what Draakyr said earlier, then says, “We have four wagons of supplies. We’re into Autumn, after Harvest. The weather isn’t that bad yet. You said that there aren’t any barbarians within a day of Syadtar, but that leaves two possible days—”
“That’s right. What you wouldn’t know is that the whole north had heavy late-Spring rains and a dry, hot Summer. The barbarians likely had an early and poor harvest in most places. They know we try to supply the outlying posts in mid-to-late Autumn. That raises the odds that there will be some raiders looking to ambush any resupply group. Even seeing troopers carrying lances at the ready will discourage most, but you never know.”
“And not carrying lances at the ready might tempt them even more?”
“We always want to fight on our terms, not theirs. Sometimes, we don’t have that choice, but it’s stupid not to put the odds in our favor. We will do a little formation training along the way. Enough that the replacements will resemble a company, at least from a distance.”
Once the replacement lancers have been issued their firelances, and Juast has them formed up three abreast, Captain Draakyr nods to Alyiakal, and the two officers ride to a point in front of the main column, but behind the scouts. Juast eases his mount up beside the captain’s mount.
Then Draakyr nods to the squad leader.
“Company! Forward!”
The de facto replenishment company leaves the post by the north gates in the wall on a sunstone pavement that ends in less than a kay, where it splits into two roads, one heading north-northwest to Isahl, the other going north toward Pemedra. Both roads are of gravel packed into clay, what Alyiakal’s father had called metaled roads, a term Alyiakal never quite understood, but which his father had explained by saying, “It’s a term that came from the Rational Stars.”
None of the scattered men working in the steads flanking the north road near Syadtar gives even a passing glance to the column. For another two kays or so the road remains wide enough for three mounts abreast. Then it narrows, and the roadbed changes to mostly clay.
“Re-form! Two abreast.”
Juast drops back behind the officers.
Alyiakal notices that only three scouts remain ahead of the column, and they are widening the distance between themselves and the head of the column. “Ser, is the fourth scout in the rear?”
“He is, along with two experienced rankers.”
Alyiakal has the feeling he shouldn’t have asked the question, given how obvious it was.
Draakyr says quietly, “Right now, you can ask questions that seem dumb. Some aren’t, and you’ll learn from the others. But now is about the only time you can.”
“Thank you, ser.”
After a time, the captain asks, “What’s the longest you’ve been in the saddle, how many days of more than six glasses?”
“Six days, but only once, and that was three years ago.”
“How did that happen?”
“I rode with the Great Forest wall patrols from Jakaafra to Geliendra. There wasn’t any other way to get to candidate training.”
Draakyr offers a short and amused laugh. “You’re one of the few undercaptains who has that kind of experience—even once. You’re the only one I’ve run across. Any other surprises?”
“I don’t know about surprises. My father and grandfather were both majers. Both died on duty.”
“How’s your mother feel about that?”
“She died when I was eight.” Anticipating the next question, Alyiakal adds, “I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
“Your father died recently, then?”
“Not quite a year ago.”
After another long pause, Draakyr says, “I usually don’t offer undercaptains advice because they usually don’t take it. I will offer you one observation. It’s an old saying, but true. There are bold officers, and there are old officers. There are no bold old officers … for many reasons.” He smiles wryly and adds, “By the same token, there are no old cowardly officers. Success for a Mirror Lancer officer is a narrow and dangerous path.”
“I’ve thought that, ser, but no one ever said it that clearly. What else can you tell me that junior undercaptains think they know and don’t?”
Draakyr laughs loudly. “That might take more time than the ride to Pemedra.”
As Alyiakal waits to see if the captain will say more, he studies the road, and the lands bordering it. The traces of winter graying color the scattered bushes dotting the Grass Hills through which the road to Pemedra passes—a road meant to be temporary. The ill-fated Emperor Kieffal had planned for Pemedra to be a post like Syadtar, with a town growing around it and a sunstone highway branching off the narrow north highway, a highway never built because of the emperor’s death.
Finally, Draakyr speaks again. “Success and failure have one thing in common. They’re made of smaller details. There are exceptions, but they’re rare. That’s why discipline, especially self-discipline, is so important. You do everything right all the time, you’re not going to make many mistakes. Quick and careless, on the other hand…”
Even as Alyiakal studies the road, and the land, he listens …
Slightly after noon on threeday, the wind shifts. Rather than having a gentle, cool, but not unpleasant breeze at his back, Alyiakal finds he’s riding into a colder wind with a bite that blows in from the northeast. For some reason, that requires more effort to maintain his inner shield, but he persists, largely because he recalls the absolute ordered feel of Healer Vayidra’s observations about the need for two strong sets of shields.
The road follows ridgelines wherever possible, which allows the lancers the high ground, but leaves the column exposed to the wind. Alyiakal notices that the wind picks up the dry dust from the scouts ahead and blows it toward him. The distance is great enough that the dust settles before reaching the main body, but whatever dust his bay kicks up is certainly being blown into the riders behind him.
“If this wind’s any sign,” observes Draakyr, “it might be a long cold Winter. But by eightday, it might feel like Harvest. You never know. Like the barbarians.”
“When do you expect them to show up?” Alyiakal shifts his weight in the saddle, since he’s still unaccustomed to riding so many glasses at a time. As he moves, the bay offers a sound that might be a snort or a sigh, but his ears remain alert but relaxed.
“If we see them at all, it will be this afternoon or early tomorrow. I’d also be surprised if they don’t have a few scouts, out far enough that we can’t easily spot them.”
“Looking for an opportunity?”
“Or waiting for reinforcements.”
If not both. “Do you know if the barbarians have ever used a magus in battle?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard, but it wouldn’t make sense. A firelance throws chaos stronger than almost any magus, except the highest.”
And with sixty Mirror Lancers in a company, that would be a waste of a magus. Alyiakal nods. His legs and thighs feel sore, as he knew they would, but not as sore as he’d been on the ride from Jakaafra to Geliendra. Even so, he’ll be glad when they stop for the day. The road from Syadtar to Pemedra lacks way stations, according to Draakyr, because the barbarians would strip them of anything of possible value, but the scouts do know the best sites for stopping.
A quint passes, then another, before one of the scouts rides back toward the column. The other two scouts rein up at the end of a rise, beyond which the road descends into a long swale or valley. Alyiakal cannot see what lies below the end of the rise. His order/chaos senses offer no help because his eyes can see farther than he can sense—a great deal farther. During the day, anyway.
“They’ve spotted something,” says Draakyr. “Question is whether it’s scouts or a larger force.”
The one scout backtracks along the dusty road toward the resupply force, finally easing his mount in beside the captain, who has kept the column moving.
“Barbarians ahead, ser. On a rise west of the road where it runs through the valley. Looks to be about a score of ’em. No signs of any others. Looks like they’ve been waiting there for a while.”
“Are there any other places where they could have other riders hidden?” asks Draakyr.
“No, ser. The valley widens and flattens north of here. Goes on for kays that way. Stays pretty flat until the road gets closer to the post. There’s a spring on the north end of the rise where they’re drawn up.”
“That’s one of the places where we could stop?”
“Usually stop there on the way to Syadtar, ser. Ten kays farther is where we usually stop going north.”
“If we stop where the scouts are, they’d have to come uphill at us?”
“Yes, ser. It’s a long and gradual slope.”
“But there’s no water close by except where they are or farther ahead?”
“No, ser.”
Draakyr looks to Juast. “Then we’ll see what they do. First, we’ll form up just above where the road begins to slope and give the men and mounts a little rest. I’d like a good look at the road before deciding.”
“Yes, ser,” replies the squad leader.
When the column comes to a halt at the point where the road slopes down, Alyiakal studies the gradual incline that extends a good two kays. The rise holding the barbarian force looks more like a hillock to Alyiakal, its top only a few yards higher than the road.
After a brief time, Draakyr turns to Juast. “You said the experienced lancers are up front?”
“Yes, ser, except for two with the scout in the rear. You want the others in the front, ser?”
“We’ll wait here for a quint, and if they don’t ride toward us, we’ll start down toward them. I’d guess they won’t attack until we’re near the end of the incline. If they do, we’ll halt and let them come to us.”
“Yes, ser.”
Draakyr then turns to Alyiakal. “How accurate are you with a firelance?”
“Better than most other undercaptains in training, ser.”
“We’ll see how that works here. If they start an attack, you and I and Juast will fire first. If we hit enough of them, they might break off the attack. If not, they’ll lose a lot of men, and we’ll waste a lot of firelance chaos.” Draakyr offers a resigned smile.
After what seems far longer than a quint, during which the barbarians do not move at all, Juast reports, “Lancers in position, ser.”
“Time to see what they have in mind, Squad Leader.”
“Yes, ser. Company! Forward!”
Alyiakal notices that the three scouts have moved back behind the first ranks of lancers and that he, Draakyr, and Juast lead the column.
“When the barbarians attack, we’ll move to the right of the column,” says Draakyr, “to give the front ranks clear fire. Only if necessary.”
“You think they’ll attack, then?”
“They’ll at least start an attack to see if they have a chance at those supply wagons. With barbarians, you never can tell. You have to be prepared for anything. The one thing you don’t want to do is back down. There are times to avoid fighting, and you have to recognize those times and learn how to do that without giving the appearance of backing down.”
Alyiakal watches the riders on the hillock below for the more than the two quints it takes for the head of the column to near the point where the road flattens.
Abruptly, the barbarian force rides down from the hillock, turning onto the road, heading south toward the Cyadoran force, initially at a walk, given that almost a kay separates the two forces.
“Company! Halt!” orders Juast. “Eight-man front! Flank formation.”
The resupply company immediately halts, and the first three ranks of Mirror Lancers re-form into a line across the road and the shoulders on both sides. Alyiakal stays beside Draakyr as the captain eases his dunskin to the right of the column. For good measure, once they are in position, Alyiakal leans forward and pats the bay on the shoulder, giving the gelding a touch of what he now knows is reassuring order.
Alyiakal can’t see all the barbarians closely, but they appear to number about a score. As they near the Cyadoran force, they spread out. For a moment, Alyiakal wonders why, then realizes that if they ride too close together a firelance bolt has a much better chance of hitting someone, even if badly aimed.
“We want to give them every opportunity to break off,” says Draakyr. “Our first bolts will be at the edge of effective range. I’ll tell you when to fire.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal has been told that while firelances can be effective at slightly over two hundred cubits, most Mirror Lancers do better at half that distance. He wonders how close Draakyr will let the barbarians get before giving the order.
At a distance of three hundred yards, the barbarians urge their mounts into a gallop. When they reach a point that looks to be well over two hundred cubits from Alyiakal, Draakyr snaps, “Fire now!” His bolt leaves the firelance even as he finishes the order.
Alyiakal makes certain his first burst is short. He succeeds, but the chaos bolt barely misses the barbarian, who leans away from it.
“Aim for their guts!” snaps Draakyr.
Alyiakal does just that with his short second bolt, his third, and a fourth. One barbarian drops from his mount. The other two slump in the saddle, but Alyiakal can sense three brief cold mists, mists that mean death. He doesn’t get off a fifth bolt, because Draakyr orders, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
Almost absently, Alyiakal realizes that the barbarians have turned and quickly retreated north along the road. He has the definite feeling that they will not stop as they pass the hillock. After a moment, he eases the firelance into its holder.
“Three out of four,” says the captain to Alyiakal. “Not bad. Even better that you kept the bolts short.”
“I appreciated the advice,” replies Alyiakal. And I won’t make that mistake again.
“They got the message,” says Juast dryly, then orders, “Scouts! Recover those mounts! Straak! Duclaas! Take care of the bodies!”
Alyiakal hadn’t even thought about recovering mounts, but he immediately realizes that two barbarian mounts are down, one screaming, and four are in various places, seemingly unhurt.
“You’d think that they’d learn,” says Draakyr conversationally. “They lost eight men in moments, but they’ll keep trying.”
“Against firelances?” asks Alyiakal.
“They wanted the supplies. To them it was worth an attempt. Most of the time, they attack hamlets and steads, for livestock and women, or the few coins that the steadholders have. We patrol to keep them from attacking the most vulnerable, and they try to avoid our patrols.”
Alyiakal watches as Juast orders a handful of lancers to take the weapons from the dead men, and the tack from the fallen mounts. The squad leader uses a quick firebolt to kill the horse that had been screaming.
Alyiakal looks more closely at the nearest body, that of a youth, years younger than himself, as several lancers drag the bodies out into the tall grass. He turns to Draakyr.
Before he can speak, the captain says, “The grass cats will take care of the bodies in glasses, if not sooner.”
Alyiakal asks, “They start fighting that young?”
“Sometimes younger. They have no position, and no girl or woman will look at them until they prove themselves in raids or battle. The older and successful warriors have their pick of the most desirable young women. Those that there are.”
Barbarians, indeed.
Draakyr snorts. “They’re a plague on the land, but it’s not worth the cost in lives and chaos to wipe them out. Besides, another bunch would show up in a few years, and we’d have to do it all over again and waste more men and chaos.”
Alyiakal wonders if any Majer-Commander of the Mirror Lancers will ever think differently, but pushes that thought away. There’s nothing he can do about a situation that’s existed since almost the beginning of the Empire of Light.
But the image of the young barbarian lingers … as does the suddenness of death, and the cold black order mists that accompanied those deaths.
Less than two quints pass before the resupply company is again riding north toward Pemedra.
… the Great Forest kept the riches of the lands that are now Cyador from use by the peoples of the north and the east. Now that Cyador has been able to contain the Forest, those peoples feel that we are usurpers who arrived from the Rational Stars and wrested the lands, not from the Forest, but from them.
They ignore the fact that they had neither the ability nor the will to constrain the Forest and can only see the prosperity of the Empire of Light as a theft from them. When Cyador falls, many centuries from now, I would hope, for in time all cultures and empires fall, the barbarians of the north and northeast will again fail, and the Forest will regain its former primacy, for only the marshaling of mastered chaos and order will contain the Forest, and only a people determined and united can create a large enough concentration of order and chaos.
That principle applies as well to Cyador itself, in that the Magi’i, the Mirror Lancers, and the Merchanters must remain united and steadfast, with each upholding its role in maintaining the internal dedication and discipline. None of the three can dominate the other two if Cyador is to remain whole and prosperous. In that respect, the role of the Emperor of Light must always be to assure that no one of the three becomes predominant, for the strength of each is vital …
Fragment, Mirror Lancer Archives
Zaenth’alt, Captain-Commander
Cyad, 45 A.F.
About a glass after noon on fourday, the de facto resupply company passes a small hamlet west of the road nestled between two low ridges covered with grass and sparse clumps of bushes with graying leaves. A mud-brick wall, slightly more than three cubits high—enough to stop a group of riders, but not a determined attack—surrounds the houses and low barns. A short line of scrub trees on the south side of the hamlet suggests a stream. Several kays farther east and west of the hamlet, the Grass Hills rise higher than they have been farther south.
Alyiakal wonders if the hamlet has a name, but then, from what he has heard, most don’t.
In the distance, rising above the dried tan grass that covers the largely flat terrain directly ahead, is a white spot, behind which are yet more of the Grass Hills, hills more rugged than those Alyiakal has seen so far, covered more by reddish rock and scrub evergreens than grass.
“That white point is Pemedra,” says Juast. “We won’t get there until sunset, maybe later. This time of year, we won’t see many barbarian raiders, if any. There’s a fair number of hamlets like that one, and you never know when they’ll take a liking to attacking one, even if there’s not much to raid. That’s why the majer sends patrols south every so often.”
The company has traveled for another glass when Alyiakal sees a trace of smoke several kays ahead to the left of the road, which runs straight as a lance toward Pemedra. “That smoke ahead?”
“Another hamlet,” replies Juast. “Herders. They supply mutton, beef, pork, and fowl to the post. There must be a score here and there. Never kept track, except for those closer to the post. One has orchards—pearapples, even.”
“How do they get other supplies?” asks Alyiakal.
“They take advantage of supply runs. They follow us a couple times a year. Or they’ll ride to Syadtar during Spring planting time when there’s not much chance of being raided. There’s also a lot of trickle trade.”
“Trickle trade?” Alyiakal has never heard that term.
“Trade between hamlets. Stuff from Syadtar works its way north. Less often the other way,” replies Juast.
Over the next three glasses, Alyiakal sees four more hamlets, all with mud-brick walls around the buildings, but all at least a third of a kay from the road. As Juast has said, one does boast orchards, possibly because of a stream, its course indicated by a straggly line of trees, a type he does not recognize.
As the company nears Pemedra in the fading light, Alyiakal sees two more hamlets, one a kay or so west of the post, along what Alyiakal suspects is the same stream that bordered the last hamlet they passed, and another more than a kay to the southeast.
Alyiakal now understands why the Emperor Kieffal situated the post where it stands. It dominates the narrowing area immediately south of more rugged and taller hills, many of which show more rock bluffs and scree than grass or other vegetation.
“There aren’t many trees on the hills to the north,” he says.
“You’ll see why when the wind blows,” returns Juast. “Especially in the Winter and at Springturn.”
Smooth-finished gray stone walls, close to ten cubits high, completely surround the post, and form a hexagon, each section roughly half a kay on a side. A short stone watchtower tops each of the corners of the walls, although Alyiakal has the feeling that those towers are unmanned. The last half kay of the road leading to the white-oak gates is also stone-paved.
“It’s not exactly the usual border post,” says Juast dryly, as his mount’s hoofs click on the first stones of the pavement.
“Keep that in mind,” adds Draakyr, looking at Alyiakal.
While Alyiakal understands that from what the other two have said on the ride from Syadtar, he can’t help but wonder why both of them have emphasized the point.
Two Mirror Lancers on foot guard the gates, each with a short firelance.
“Resupply company, returning,” says Juast to the two guards. “Is there anyone else out on patrol?”
“First Company, Squad Leader.”
“Thank you.”
Neither lancer looks happy, and Alyiakal tries to sense why from their order/chaos. After they pass the guards, he asks, “Is gate guarding extra duty?”
Both Draakyr and Juast smile.
“Often, but not always,” replies the squad leader.
Once inside the gates, Alyiakal manages to keep his jaw in place, because most of the space within the walls is empty. Although the avenue from the gate leads to a circular plaza or square, the pedestal in the center is vacant.
Meant for a statue of the Emperor Kieffal?
Behind the square, a group of stone-walled buildings sits on both sides of the avenue, including obvious barracks and stables. Beyond those, the avenue stretches north to another set of gates through ground empty of anything but the walls and a series of corrals more like wood-fenced pastures. Alyiakal can’t help wondering from where the timber for the pasture fences came, given the scarcity of nearby trees.
Pemedra really was meant to be much more. He shakes his head.
“I had the same feeling, ser,” says Juast, “when I first came through the gates.”
Alyiakal glances toward Draakyr, whose face is impassive. He’s been here before. As a ranker? That’s a question Alyiakal will not, cannot, ask.
The massive, long stables are a good third of a kay from the other buildings, but built of the same gray stone, suggesting that the construction of other buildings had once been planned for the intervening space.
“The Winters here are hard?” Alyiakal asks as they near the stable doors, on the west side of the stone-paved avenue that runs to the north gates.
Draakyr nods. “The pasture corrals are for the good weather. Better for the horses. Winter can get cold enough to freeze a horse.”
Even so, when Alyiakal leads the bay into the stables, he almost gapes. The number of stalls could easily accommodate the mounts of eight companies, and from what Juast has said, Pemedra has never had more than five, but only four in recent years.
“I’ll handle the supplies, sers,” declares Juast. “After you take care of your mounts, get your gear and report. Majer Klaavyl will likely be waiting.”
“We appreciate it, Squad Leader,” says Draakyr as two ostlers hurry up.
“The stalls for officers’ mounts are on the left. Take any one that doesn’t have a mount or a name on the stall door.”
Alyiakal lets Draakyr pick a stall first. He takes the adjoining stall, putting the bay in the farthest stall from the stable doors. His bay seemed to get along with Draakyr’s dunskin, and most horses seemed to like being close to other horses, or those they like or tolerate.
After setting his gear outside the stall and racking the saddle and tack, Alyiakal begins grooming the bay, talking to him quietly as he does. He doesn’t take that much longer than Draakyr, then picks up his gear, and joins the captain, who waits by the stable doors.
“We’ll drop our gear in the officers’ quarters,” says Draakyr, “and then go straight to the headquarters building and report to the majer.”
“What can you tell me about the majer, ser?”
“I’ve never met him. He has to be good to be in command here. I understand he can be harsh on what he regards as incompetence or foolishness.”
Since most Mirror Lancers are harsh that way, the majer is likely more so. “Thank you.”
The headquarters building faces the square on the east side of the avenue. The stone masonry looks even more polished and crisp than the headquarters building in Syadtar, but the bronze main door, for all its gleaming finish, looks worn.
At the back of the entry hall, an older squad leader sits at a small, plain oak table, watching as the two officers approach.
“Captain Draakyr and Undercaptain Alyiakal reporting for duty,” declares Draakyr.
“The majer’s expecting you, sers. He’ll see you first, Captain. The first door on the left, ser.” The squad leader then turns and gestures to the chairs to one side of the desk. “Undercaptain, you can take any of the chairs or stand, as you wish.”
Alyiakal takes one of the chairs and seats himself.
Draakyr reappears in roughly a quint. “He said for you to go on in. I’ll see you in quarters or at the mess.”
Alyiakal stands and makes his way down the corridor to the first door, which is open, and steps inside. His eyes center on the majer behind the desk, a broad-shouldered but spare figure with short-cut iron-gray hair and watery gray eyes. On one side of the desk is a map, angled so that the majer can read it while writing.
“You can close the door, Undercaptain.” Klaavyl gestures to the chairs before the desk.
Alyiakal lays his orders on the desk, then takes the center chair and waits. Announcing himself would be superfluous. Instead he uses his senses to study the post commander, but finds nothing remarkable about the senior officer in terms of order and chaos.
The majer begins to read through the orders Alyiakal has handed him. He frowns once, finishes reading, and sets the papers aside. He looks intently at Alyiakal, then says, “Your father was an excellent officer. He might have been my successor, but there’s no point in mourning over might-have-beens. He trained you in bladework, didn’t he?”
“Yes, ser.”
Klaavyl nods. “Your records show that you’re too good to have learned it all in training. Why did you request additional healing instruction in Syadtar?”
“I thought I could learn more, ser.”
“I’d normally say it would have been better to work on other skills, but with your training record and Captain Draakyr’s assessment of your skills with a firelance, that healing training may not have been a total waste. Remember that healing has to wait until all immediate combat threats have been destroyed. You’ve doubtless been told that, but never forget it.”
“Yes, ser.”
The majer’s lips quirk. “What do you think is the greatest danger for a young officer here at Pemedra? Don’t give me a general saying, either.”
“Thinking I know things that I really don’t, ser.”
“Who told you that?”
“In those words, no one, ser. But my father told me there was always more to learn, and that, if I weren’t careful, I’d think I know more than I actually do.”
The majer gives a short, harsh laugh.
Alyiakal waits.
Abruptly, Klaavyl states, “You’ll be in command of Fourth Company. You and Fourth Company will be riding patrol with Captain Lyung on sixday. After that, Fourth Company will initially go on two-company patrols. You will follow all commands of the senior officer and listen to your senior squad leader. Fourth Company’s senior squad leader is Maaslar.”
“Yes, ser.” Maaslar. Alyiakal fixes the name in his memory.
“That’s all I have for you, Undercaptain. I’ll see you at the mess shortly.”
“Yes, ser.” Alyiakal rises, inclines his head politely, then turns and leaves the majer’s study. The matter-of-fact way in which the majer had read his orders and accepted his assignment has definitely surprised him.
Then, what else could he do? But Alyiakal had detected no signs of tension or anger.
The greater surprise lay in the words about his father, brief as they were, which suggest some level of acquaintance, although Alyiakal is fairly certain he had never heard the majer’s name from his father.
After leaving headquarters, Alyiakal walks back to the officers’ quarters, where a ranker gives him the key to his room and directions to the mess. He carries his gear to the room, then brushes his uniform and washes up before hurrying to the mess in the building adjoining the officers’ quarters.
The officers’ mess is a modest chamber, paneled in aged but well-oiled golden oak, with a polished gray stone floor. The mess table, likely dating from the time of Kieffal, could hold fifteen or more officers, but is set for five, all around one end. Alyiakal sees Draakyr talking to two other officers, another captain and an overcaptain.
The lanky overcaptain immediately turns and walks to meet Alyiakal. The lines on his face and the mixed white and black hair suggest to Alyiakal that the overcaptain is even older than Majer Klaavyl.
“Undercaptain, welcome to Pemedra, the best-appointed border post in all Cyador. I’m Overcaptain Tygael, the titular deputy commander. What that means is that I handle all the paperwork that goes to the Majer-Commander as well as procurement and supply matters.”
“Undercaptain Alyiakal, ser.” He smiles warmly. “About as inexperienced as any fresh undercaptain.”
“You last a year here and you’ll have more useful experience than any of this year’s undercaptains. That’s why Subcommander Ciasyrt sent you here.” Tygael’s lips curl into a sardonic expression that somehow conveys warmth. “That’s true of all the undercaptains who are sent here.” He turns toward the door. “Here comes the majer. We should take our seats. No precedence, except that the majer’s at the head of the table.”
Even so, the overcaptain and the captain to whom Draakyr had been talking sit next to the majer, while Draakyr is beside the overcaptain and Alyiakal beside the other captain, who immediately says, “I’m Lyung.”
“Alyiakal, ser.”
Lyung laughs. “At mess, the only ‘ser’s are for the majer and overcaptain, and then only in response to duties or responsibilities.”
Once the ranker server has filled all the wineglasses—and Alyiakal is more than glad that it’s wine and not ale—the majer lifts his glass. “To our new officers.”
After the brief toast, a platter of a fowl slices in a white sauce circulates, followed by one of cheesed lumps that might be potatoes, and a large bowl of buttered beans—an amber speckled variety that Alyiakal has never seen. Out of caution, he takes a small helping.
“They’re spring beans,” says Draakyr. “They call them that because they’ll grow all Summer and well into Harvest if they get enough water in the Spring. They’re not bad.”
After taking a small bite of the beans, Alyiakal agrees that they aren’t bad. They’re edible, but not particularly good, unlike the fowl, which is better than decent. By comparison to the beans, and only by comparison, the might-be potatoes taste good.
On fiveday morning, after arranging for all but one of his duty uniforms to be washed, that being the one he wears, Alyiakal is at the mess as soon as it opens, and so are Draakyr and Lyung.
Breakfast consists of ham strips, fried eggs over something like oatcakes, and ale. The ale is different from anything Alyiakal has tasted, but then, supposedly ales vary from place to place, and he hasn’t been many places.
For a time Alyiakal listens as Draakyr and Lyung talk, mainly about the weather and how it affects what the barbarians may do, but also about the replacement lancers.
“… only ten with any experience…”
“… life’s getting too easy in Cyador…”
“… used to be that younger sons of steaders flocked to be lancer recruits…”
Alyiakal is thinking about how to leave gracefully when Overcaptain Tygael appears and heads toward Alyiakal.
Alyiakal is immediately on his feet, waiting.
“Undercaptain … the majer forgot to give this to you.” The overcaptain extends a key attached to a belt clip. “It’s to the Fourth Company strongbox in the officers’ study. That’s where your copies of the company rosters and patrol reports are kept.”
“Thank you, ser. I was wondering about records.”
“You’ll find everything there. By midmorning, we’ll have a list of the Fourth Company replacements in your box, along with their orders and files for you to go over with your senior squad leader.” Tygael smiles pleasantly, then turns and moves to join Majer Klaavyl.
Alyiakal says to the two captains, “I think I’m already behind. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Every undercaptain starts out behind,” replies Lyung cheerfully.
Draakyr just offers an amused smile.
From the mess, Alyiakal makes his way across the hall to the officers’ study. The study is empty, but he notices that there are five desks, and four of the five have locked strongboxes on them, each topped with a brass plate. He finds the desk holding the strongbox bearing the plate inscribed FOURTH COMPANY. The key fits the lock, and he opens the strongbox.
The strongbox is separated into three sections. The largest contains thin folders. Alyiakal picks up the first folder. On the outside is a name—Atkaar. Under the name is written “First squad.”
Alyiakal flips through the folders, counting them as he does. There are thirty-eight for the three squads. Given that the standard squad contains twenty lancers, that means Fourth Company is twenty-two rankers short.
The second section contains a short stack of directives from Mirror Lancer headquarters, outlining various policies. At first glance, none seem of immediate concern, and the most recent is dated threeday, third eightday of Summer, 95 A.F., nearly two seasons ago. Alyiakal decides reading those in detail can wait, and turns to the third section of the strongbox, which contains a set of maps and a bound book the size of a standard sheet of paper. He opens it to the first page, entitled “Patrol reports, Fourth Company, Pemedra.” The first report is dated oneday, first eightday of Spring, 94 A.F. It is signed by Prekius’alt, Undercaptain.
While Alyiakal knows he needs to read through all the reports in the book, he turns to the last one, which is written in a different hand. The report is short … and chilling. His eyes go to the last lines.
… Undercaptain Prekius was killed by the landslide started by the barbarian force. Half the mounts of first squad were also so badly hurt they could not be saved. Thirteen lancers were killed, three injured or wounded.
Landslide? How in the name of the Rational Stars did Prekius get caught in that? His eyes go to the signature—“Shaalt, Squad Leader.”
After sitting there for several moments, Alyiakal turns back to the previous report and reads it, and then the one before that … and a few even before that. Then he shakes his head and stands.
Time to find Senior Squad Leader Maaslar.
Alyiakal doesn’t have any difficulty with that, since Maaslar is alone in the large study shared by the four senior squad leaders and seated at a table desk under a placard stating FOURTH COMPANY.
Maaslar—a short and muscular figure with flame-red hair—stands the moment Alyiakal enters the study. “Undercaptain, ser.”
“As you were, Squad Leader.” Alyiakal picks up a nearby chair, sets it at one end of the narrow desk that faces the wall, and gestures for Maaslar to sit back down. “For the record, I’m Undercaptain Alyiakal. I’m presuming you’re Senior Squad Leader Maaslar.”
“Yes, ser.” Maaslar’s tone of voice is pleasant, but not enthusiastic.
“I’ve taken a brief look through the Fourth Company records, but right now, and for some time to come, you know more than I do. After reading the last patrol report, it’s clear that I need to hear what you think I should know immediately, especially things that I probably don’t.” Alyiakal smiles ruefully.
“Ser, you make it easy, starting that way. Most undercaptains say something like that. Too many of them don’t really mean it.”
“My father told me that fresh undercaptains don’t know sowshit, and that a good senior squad leader could teach me more than I could possibly learn on my own. He also said that listening to that senior squad leader would keep me from losing lancers unnecessarily.” Alyiakal grins. “Now, where do you suggest we start?” He tries to sense Maaslar’s reaction to his words … and thinks the squad leader is warily accepting.
“With the company, ser.”
“The other two squad leaders, first?”
Maaslar nods. “Yurak’s the most senior. Been a squad leader for four years. Last tour was at Westend. Elbaar got his stripe this past Summer.”
Alyiakal waits, looking at Maaslar attentively.
“They’re both solid,” adds Maaslar.
Alyiakal suspects that Yurak and Elbaar will follow orders exactly as issued, but decides not to question further. “Right now, which squads do they lead?”
“Elbaar has second squad, Yurak third.”
“What happened to Shaalt?”
“His legs were so messed up that he was stipended out.”
“He was the senior squad leader?”
“Yes, ser.”
“Were Yurak and Elbaar both on that last patrol?”
“Yes, ser.” Maaslar pauses. “Might have been worse if Yurak hadn’t been there.”
“No one’s said anything to me, but, after reading the patrol report, was Undercaptain Prekius … just unfortunate? Or am I missing something?”
“Ser, I wouldn’t know. I was transferred from First Company three eightdays ago. I’m not sure anyone who would know survived. I did hear that the three squads were somewhat separated.”
Meaning that Prekius was likely as careless or stupid as you think, but that no one wants to say so and there’s no point in saying more about it. “Then you’re one of the most experienced and likely the best senior squad leader here at Pemedra?”
“Some might say that Nyltaar is, ser.”
Alyiakal suspects that Majer Klaavyl would not be among those who think that way.
“Overcaptain Tygael told me we’d get the names of replacements sometime around midmorning. Then we’ll need to decide how to balance the squads.” Alyiakal offers an amused smile. “That means you’re going to balance the squads and explain to me why we should be doing it that way—and I’ll learn something in the process.”
“We’ll both likely learn something in the process, ser.”
Alyiakal has no doubt that he’ll learn more, but he only asks, “What should I expect from the barbarians?”
“That would take more time than we’ve got before tomorrow’s patrol, ser.”
“Then … the one or two most important things. The things that are so obvious to you, but that I wouldn’t necessarily know or think of.”
Maaslar frowns, then says, “They won’t accept mercy, and they won’t give it. They’ll die before being captured. You could torture them to death or promise them freedom and a hundred golds, and they still wouldn’t tell you an angel-fired thing.”
“Are there any conditions when they won’t fight?”
“If it’s Winter and they’re massively outnumbered … or if they’re dead. They will avoid a stupid battle or confrontation. Unless they don’t have any way out.”
In short, don’t back them into a corner unless it’s necessary and you can kill them all with few, if any, casualties.
Alyiakal can feel that Maaslar doesn’t want to talk much more, and he stands. “Thank you, Senior Squad Leader. I appreciate it. I’ll find you when I get the information about the replacements.”
“I’ll be here or in the stables, ser.”
After leaving Maaslar, Alyiakal heads back to the stables to check on his bay before returning to the officers’ study. He has a lot of reading ahead, some maps to study, and more than a little thinking to do. He also needs to meet both Elbaar and Yurak, but that will come after he gets the list of replacements and meets again with Maaslar.
Early as Alyiakal gets to the mess on sixday, Captain Lyung is there earlier and gestures for Alyiakal to join him.
“We need to go over a few things,” says the other captain as Alyiakal sits down across the table from him.
“Yes, ser.”
“I saw you studying the maps yesterday. That’s good, but you’ll find that even the most accurate map doesn’t show everything you need to know. Today will be a single-day patrol, but a long day. With the wind, you’ll likely be cold. What we’ll be doing is as much an exercise and a way to get you and the new lancers familiar with the area around the post and the way we do things. We might run into a barbarian scouting party or a small group of raiders. That’s always possible. It’s less likely right now because we won’t be going as far from the post.” Lyung pauses, then asks, “Why do you think we get new undercaptains and replacements in the fall?”
Alyiakal hasn’t even considered that.
The captain smiles, then says, “Because that gives them more time to learn. Raiding’s cold and dangerous in late Autumn and Winter. Early Spring is when the barbarians plant. The raids get dangerous in late Spring and Summer. That’s when they’re short on food and more men are free to raid. That doesn’t mean there aren’t raids now, but they’re fewer. The barbarians are unpredictable. You can count on that…”
As Alyiakal eats, he listens intently to the captain.
After he leaves the mess, he returns to his quarters, where he retrieves the healing satchel, dons his winter riding jacket, and tucks his gloves into the inside pocket. When he reaches the stable, he sees that Maaslar and Captain Lyung also wear heavy riding jackets. Neither looks in his direction.
Before saddling the bay, Alyiakal spends a little time talking to him, quietly, as he worries about how Fourth Company will perform. While all three squad leaders are experienced, he certainly has no experience, and more than a third of the lancers don’t, either.
Once he saddles the bay, he straps the satchel behind the saddle and the daypack that contains an oilskin and a blanket. He fills the water bottles and adds the slightest touch of order to them to counter any possible chaos in the water, a technique mentioned in passing years before by Triamon. Then he leads the bay to the stable entrance, where he picks up his firelance from the junior squad leader, and uses his senses to make sure it is chaos-filled, after which he mounts, riding to where Maaslar and the other two squad leaders are mustering and forming up Fourth Company.
Shortly, Captain Lyung rides over to Alyiakal, and Maaslar immediately joins them.
“Third Company will lead,” declares Lyung, looking at Alyiakal. “We’ll take the north road until we reach the fork below the barrier hills. From there we’ll head west. Along the way, after we clear the north gates, I expect you to shift formations from three abreast to double file and back to four abreast. Keep varying the formations so the replacements get used to shifting quickly.”
“Yes, ser,” replies Alyiakal.
After Lyung rides back toward the head of the formation, Elbaar and Yurak ride up, and Maaslar reports, “First squad, formed up and ready, ser.”
“Second squad, formed up and ready, ser.”
“Third squad, formed up and ready, ser.”
“Once we clear the north gates, we’ll be ordering formation shifts to accustom the replacements to such shifts.”
All three squad leaders reply, “Yes, ser.”
“Return to your squads.”
Once Elbaar and Yurak leave, Alyiakal turns to Maaslar. “How far is the road wide enough for four- or five-man fronts?”
Maaslar offers an amused smile. “About a kay. There are a few places later that will allow shifts to a three- or four-man front.”
“In what order would you suggest we shift?”
“Two to three, then back to two, up to five, back to two, up to four, and then back to two. That’s if the replacements can manage it.”
Alyiakal understands the rationale behind Maaslar’s recommendation. Because the company will usually be riding two abreast, most formation shifts would start from that formation.
As Fourth Company rides north past the fenced corral pastures toward the north gates, Alyiakal says to Maaslar, “The maps show a river to the northwest of here.”
“That’d be the West Branch of the Jeryna River,” replies Maaslar. “Barely a stream. Rocky, and the hills are more stone than grass. No one lives there. Farther east is the South Branch. Good grassland. That’s where most of the raiders live.”
“And beyond that?”
“Some call it Cerlyn, I’m told. Most don’t call it anything.”
“They mine copper somewhere in that area,” says Alyiakal. “But they send it downriver to Rulyarth and then ship it to Summerdock or Fyrad. I always wondered why, but looking at the Grass Hills, it makes sense.”
“I wouldn’t know, ser.”
“Are there any barbarian hamlets in the hills?”
“Not on our side, ser.”
Alyiakal says nothing, but waits to see if Maaslar will say more.
“Three years ago, the overcaptain took Second Company to the north side of the highest hills. Nyltaar—he was with Second then—he said they could see a bunch of hamlets. Some of them new. A lot more than what you’ll see north of here before you get to the real hills.”
“Thank you. I wondered.”
“We don’t go that far. Most of the barbarians aren’t raiders. Our job is to stop the ones who are. Not turn the rest of them into raiders.”
Alyiakal suppresses a frown. While what the majer, the overcaptain, and Maaslar have told him all fits together, he has the feeling something is missing.
Whether it is or isn’t, you’ll find out in time, and right now you need to concentrate on learning how to be a good undercaptain.
Once past the north gates, following Maaslar’s recommendations, Alyiakal orders the various formation shifts, which are accomplished awkwardly, but without mishaps, before the sunstone pavement ends.
“They’re going to need more practice,” he says quietly.
“Yes, ser,” agrees Maaslar.
The two companies continue north, and Alyiakal orders formation shifts from two abreast to three abreast and back again while the dirt road on which the company rides remains wide enough for a three-abreast formation.
They pass several more hamlets, walled and spread apart, and with buildings and walls built largely of mud brick, before he says to Maaslar, “There must be a reason why the hamlets are so small and separated.”
“Water, ser. There aren’t any rivers here, and the streams are tiny. Pemedra holds the only spring.”
Recalling what Draakyr had said about beans, Alyiakal asks, “Then there’s little snow, and most of the rain comes in early Spring?”
“There’s snow. It’s so dry that when it melts it barely wets the dust.”
Alyiakal decides against more questions about anything except barbarians or matters directly related to Fourth Company and orders another formation shift. He does notice, however, if from a distance, that none of the dwellings feature the privacy screens before their doors, unlike most dwellings in Cyador.
A glass later, the two companies reach the point where the main road splits into three roads, or rather two trails and one road. One dusty trail heads north-northeast toward a pass or valley between two taller hills, about a kay or so away. The second trail leads north-northwest toward a similar gap in the hills. Third Company takes the third way, more of a road, heading mostly west, roughly a kay from where the ground begins to rise.
All Alyiakal sees to the south is grass and more grass in the process of turning winter-gray, while the red rock hills to the north occasionally sport scrub bushes and scattered low and gnarled evergreens.
What’s the point of even having a post here? There’s nothing of value to protect. He doesn’t voice this.
Some three kays west of where the roads separate, Alyiakal sees a collapsed mud-brick wall and some charred timbers, partly covered by bushes and tan and gray grass, on the south side of the road.
Surprisingly, Maaslar answers the unasked question: “That was the closest successful raid ever on a hamlet south of the hills. Happened before my time. Almost ten years ago.”
Another half glass has passed when the bay lifts his head slightly, turning to the right and into the light breeze, then snorts. Alyiakal senses a touch of chaos in the gelding’s order/chaos aura. “There’s something different to the left.”
“Most likely a grass cat,” says Maaslar. “They’re everywhere, but they don’t attack groups. They’ll go for single riders, though. That’s why couriers ride in pairs. Over a quarter kay or less the cats can outrun a horse.”
Alyiakal takes in the information, but has his doubts. “What about a barbarian scout? Do they post scouts along the trails out of Pemedra?”
“In the Spring and Summer. Never run across one in late Autumn or Winter.”
The remainder of the patrol is as uneventful as the first few glasses, but, at least by the time Fourth Company returns to the post, the formation shifts that Alyiakal orders aren’t as ragged and he feels as though he has a slightly better feel for Maaslar and the area closer to the post.
Just slightly.
The early-evening wind moans, rather than howls, as Alyiakal leaves the stable after grooming the bay. During the previous two-day patrol just completed, the only thing moving north of Pemedra the entire time had been smoke plumes from the chimneys of herder hamlets and winter-gray grass swaying and flattening in the wind. He had seen older hoofprints in the road, most of them made by lancer mounts, and a few sets of cart tracks.
He knows that he’ll need to write up two copies of his patrol report immediately after the evening meal and leave one copy for Majer Klaavyl, but so long as that report is ready before midnight on the day the patrol is completed, neither the majer nor Overcaptain Tygael will say anything.
He stops by the message box on the way to his quarters to wash up before dinner and is pleasantly surprised to find a letter addressed to Undercaptain Alyiakal’alt. He smiles as he recognizes Saelora’s elegant but precise script, but carries the unopened missive to his room and leaves it on the night table while he washes up. Only then does he pick up the letter, letting his senses range over the seal, which has been loosened and reheated, he can tell, from the order/chaos patterns in the wax.
He shakes his head. As if there’d be anything of interest to the Mirror Lancers in the thoughts of a young woman. Then he breaks the seal and begins to read.
It was so good to hear from you and to know that you arrived safely in Pemedra. Sooner or later, that additional training in healing will prove useful. Hyrsaal is envious that you got a patrol assignment. They sent him to Summerdock. He’s in charge of a company that patrols the coast to catch smugglers. He wrote that they even caught some when he’d only been there an eightday.
I was surprised to hear that you haven’t run into many barbarians so far. Everyone talks about how awful they are. Just be careful.
I do have some news of my own. I passed the test to become a probationary junior enumerator. Vassyl was as pleased as I am. I don’t get paid that much more, but I can wear enumerator blues, and I’m one of the few women …
Alyiakal smiles as he reads about what she has been learning and what is happening in Vaeyal and along the Great Canal. Right now, her life is more interesting than yours.
But then, Alyiakal knows that could change at any time, and certainly will in the Spring, if not sooner.
He adds the letter to the small file with her previous correspondence, because he likely won’t be able to write her back until the following evening, since the patrol report comes first. Much of tomorrow will be spent going over the patrol with the squad leaders and dealing with supply issues. He wants to work on the map he’s slowly drawing, based on the ones in the Fourth Company officer’s chest and on his personal observations. The map helps him remember details, and he’d like to have one that’s his, although he couldn’t say why he feels it’s important.
There’s no hurry to write Saelora because it will be two days before the dispatch riders make their next trip to Syadtar.
When he reaches the mess, Draakyr and Lyung are already there. Thallyr, Tygael, and the majer arrive within moments, and all six seat themselves.
After the server fills all the wineglasses, and the majer lifts his glass, Alyiakal and the others follow the majer’s example, while the server brings out the serving platters and the large basket of bread. Alyiakal can see that the meat looks to be lamb or mutton in a white gravy, with more spring beans, and false potatoes, which, to Alyiakal, taste like they’re half turnip, half potato. With the gravy, they’re better than merely edible.
“You got back late this afternoon,” says Draakyr to Alyiakal. “Did you see anything up north?”
“Not anything moving. There were some cart tracks heading north.”
“Likely those traders that came by here yesterday.”
“Traders? Isn’t that dangerous for them?”
From beside Draakyr, Lyung laughs. “Everyone leaves them alone. Well, at least inside Cyador. Traders are too scarce to kill. They’re also the only source of coins for folks in the hamlets, and sometimes, even the barbarians. If anyone robbed or killed them, they wouldn’t last an eightday.”
Alyiakal wonders about that, but asks only, “What do the barbarians have to trade?”
“Wool and hides mostly,” replies Lyung. “Sometimes, grass-cat pelts. They’re scarce and valuable. The cats won’t get near anything that people have touched so they’re hard to trap.”
“Smart, too,” adds Tygael.
“It’s clouding up to the northeast,” says Draakyr. “We might get a bit of snow.”
The majer shakes his head. “Enough wind to blow off loose shutters, and maybe a finger’s worth of snow so light it’d barely wet the ground.”
“Except the ground’s not warm enough to melt anything now,” returns Lyung. “Still say it’s colder here than in Inividra, even if it’s maybe a hundred and fifty kays farther north.”
“Doesn’t matter,” says Tygael. “In Winter they’re both colder than an angel’s heart.”
Not for the first time, as he helps himself to a healthy helping of the mutton, Alyiakal wonders how that phrase came to be.
Under a clear and cold green-blue sky, the wind cuts through Alyiakal’s winter jacket, gloves, and even the garrison cap with earflaps, as Fourth Company rides up the trail through the Grass Hills following the tracks of raiders who had made a quick strike at one of the few hamlets in the grasslands north of Pemedra.
Why did the majer send an entire company to track little more than a half score of raiders? Especially since they weren’t that successful? Because he thinks that they’re a lure? Or because we need more experience?
Whatever the reason, Majer Klaavyl hadn’t explained and sent Alyiakal and Fourth Company off with the order to find out what they could along with the admonition not to waste lancers.
How can I waste lancers when we haven’t so much as seen a barbarian rider in almost a season? But then, over the past season and all the generally uneventful patrols, the majer and every other officer in the post had cautioned Alyiakal that the barbarians were anything but predictable.
He studies the trail and the uneven ground on each side. The ground gradually rises into barren slopes containing only flattened tan and gray grass, rocks, and low bushes and scrub evergreens too sparse to hide a man, let alone a horse. His eyes go back to the trail. For the first time, the tracks in the near-frozen ground look far clearer. “Those tracks look more recent,” he says to Maaslar.
“Might only be a few glasses old. Maybe less,” replies the senior squad leader. “Thought they might have stopped back in that vale.”
Alyiakal nods, although he wouldn’t have called the rocky flat behind them where the valley narrowed slightly a vale.
As the company reaches a slight rise, Alyiakal sees tracks heading northwest away from the trail along a path toward the crest of a smaller hill overlooking the main trail two kays farther north. He can’t discern how the path reaches the hill as it twists behind a rocky outcrop. “Some of them broke off.”
“Looks like half of them left the trail and headed up that slope,” says Maaslar.
“Could they get up higher and roll rocks down?”
“They’ve done that before. They could also be trying to split us up, or get us strung out single file. Doesn’t look like that path they’re on will allow two abreast for much more than a few hundred cubits. Can’t tell beyond that outcrop. Best we send a scout. See if he can determine where they’ve gone.”
“We’re on higher ground here. Halt the company,” orders Alyiakal.
“Company! Halt!” commands Maaslar. “Rear scout to the company!”
As the scout turns and rides back up the trail separating him from the rest of the company, Alyiakal looks again beyond the prints on the side path. He sees no sign of any trail or path nearing the top of the smaller hill. But it could curve back around closer to the main trail.
The scout reins up facing both Maaslar and Alyiakal.
“Baaryn, follow those tracks for a bit,” orders the first squad leader. “See if you can tell where they’re headed. Don’t get too close to that outcrop, and be ready to head back if there’s any sign the raiders might be close.”
The scout nods. “On my way, Squad Leader.”
While the scout rides slowly up the path taken by some of the raiders, Alyiakal looks at the tracks on the main trail, which curves slowly downhill and to the northeast along the north side of the ridge where Fourth Company has halted.
The bay gives a quiet snort as the wind picks up out of the north-northeast, and Alyiakal feels unease in the gelding. He says evenly, “They’re closer than we thought.” He tries to sense ahead around the downhill curve, but feels only a vague sense of chaos, and cannot determine how far from the company that chaos might be.
Maaslar frowns. “Ser?”
“Hold here,” says Alyiakal. “Have first squad set up a five-man front and have the files behind face outward with lances ready. I’m riding back to check something.” That’s true, but only so far as it goes, because he has a feeling that there’s something … more than a rider or two … to the east of the trail.
Alyiakal has just about reached the end of first squad when he sees and senses riders galloping along the ridge to the east. “Second squad, right file! Outward face! Ready! Lances! Left file! Outward face! Ready! Lances!” He glances back to the front of the company, but can’t see or sense riders nearing from the north, not that they couldn’t be riding up the trail or back down the side path toward Fourth Company.
The rankers in second squad pivot and raise their lances.
Almost belatedly, Alyiakal raises his, but he waits until the raiders are less than a hundred cubits away. “Second squad! Open! Fire! Short bursts!” Then he aims at the chest and legs of the lead raider’s horse.
The horse goes down, as does the mount following closely.
Alyiakal picks off two riders, then turns and urges the bay back toward the front of the company, where Maaslar has re-formed first squad into a five-man front to face what looks to be almost twoscore raiders riding up the gentle incline, along with riders coming back down the side path.
The leading riders coming up the main trail go down, but the raiders continue to charge—until the number of downed men and mounts make progress impossible. Alyiakal targets the last raider moving forward and fires—willing the short burst toward the barbarian. The rider ducks, but the chaos burst drops and flares into the rider.
How did I do that? Alyiakal has no idea, but worrying about it can wait. He looks for another target, but, suddenly, there are no more barbarians—mounted, in any case. He glances toward the northwest path, but only two charred forms lie there, as if the raiders realized that they’d failed to catch Fourth Company unaware and had immediately withdrawn.
He eases the bay up beside Maaslar’s big white gelding and halts. Farther downhill, beyond the northeastern curve where the road becomes visible heading northward, he sees riders. “They’re not staying to deal with their wounded or dead?” Even as he says that, Alyiakal realizes he sounds stupid, and quickly adds, “Or will they come back later?”
“Firelances don’t leave many wounded,” replies Maaslar. “They don’t have much use for wounded or dead warriors, and they figure we’ll collect any weapons. The grass cats and the other scavengers will take care of the bodies within days, maybe sooner.” Then he turns his mount. “Third and fourth ranks. Search the bodies for anything usable. Make it quick. First and second ranks. Lances ready! Give them cover.”
The order for cover turns out to be unnecessary, and in less than a quint, the company has loaded the blades and other usable items on three captured mounts.
“No casualties for first squad, ser,” reports Maaslar. “Eight barbarians killed. No mounts recovered.”
Elbaar reins up short of Alyiakal and Maaslar. “Second squad. No casualties. Seven barbarians killed. Three mounts and gear recovered. Spoils turned in.”
Yurak reports, “Third squad. No casualties. No spoils.”
Left unsaid is that third squad hadn’t been in a position to be attacked.
But if we’d continued down the trail, it would have been different.
The few coppers and pieces of personal jewelry recovered from dead raiders have been turned over to Maaslar.
Except for small items likely hidden by the collecting rankers.
Once Elbaar and Yurak return to their squads, Maaslar turns in the saddle. “Now what, ser?”
“Unless you suggest otherwise, I’d say we’ve done what the majer had in mind, and it’s time to head back to Pemedra.”
“Ser?”
“The majer was clear: Find out what they’re up to and don’t waste lancers. The whole point of that ineffectual hamlet raid was to get a company out here for an ambush. Fortunately, my horse has a sensitive nose and I realized it.” Alyiakal smiles pleasantly. “I’m new to this, Senior Squad Leader. You aren’t. Are we likely to find out any more by following these raiders all the way through the hills? Except perhaps getting caught in another ambush?”
Maaslar offers a wry grin. “Not that I can see, ser.”
Because Fourth Company does not reach Pemedra until after dark, Alyiakal does not finish his log entry for the patrol until close to midnight. He is less than surprised to find himself summoned to meet with Majer Klaavyl little more than a glass after the morning mess, while he is updating and adding to his personal maps.
He stops at the doorway to the sparely furnished office and raps on the half-open door. “Majer, ser?”
Klaavyl gestures for Alyiakal to enter and says, “Close the door.”
Alyiakal does, then takes the chair to which the majer has gestured.
“What were my orders, Undercaptain?”
“You ordered me to take Fourth Company to follow the barbarian raiders. We were to follow them and discover their purpose, and to destroy them if possible, but not to waste lancers in doing so.”
“How many barbarians did Fourth Company face?”
“Roughly two score. There might have been another half score concealed by the terrain that we did not see.”
“Why didn’t you check, Undercaptain?”
“Because trying to find out would have risked losing lancers unnecessarily. The attack on Fourth Company made it clear that the small group of raiders that attacked the hamlet were a lure and that they intended to attack us on terrain unfavorable to us. By pursuing downhill into an area offering concealment—”
“That’s enough, Undercaptain. I read your patrol report. I also took the liberty of talking with Senior Squad Leader Maaslar. He was blunter than you were, but you both agree on what happened. He also said that you handled the matter effectively.”
Meaning that you did it differently from the way he would have, but that you didn’t screw it up. Not too much, anyway.
“… He also said that you realized they were near before he did. How did you know that?”
“I didn’t. My mount did. He’s sensitive to any strange smells or sounds before the other mounts are, I noticed that after the first few times I rode him. I can’t always tell what it is, but if he notices something, it’s there.”
Klaavyl half shakes his head. “I’d discount that, except Undercaptain Faaryn put a note in your file that you’re better than most undercaptains with mounts. From him, it means something.” The majer hesitates, then asks, “You’ve suggested that the raid and the attack were planned. Why do you think that?”
“Ser, you’d likely know better than I, but my thought is that the raiders who attacked the resupply company reported the number of replacements to someone. They might have learned in previous years that the Mirror Lancers send new and replacement officers in the fall. Someone might have put the two together and decided that they could inflict significant losses by making an unexpected attack.”
Especially on a company with an inexperienced undercaptain and a large number of lancer replacements.
“To what end?”
“Perhaps to reduce the number of lancers available later in the year so that later raids would be more productive?”
“That suggests a great deal more thought and planning than we’ve seen before,” says Klaavyl evenly.
“I wouldn’t know, ser. That was the only possibility I could think of.”
“You may be right. We’ll have to see.” Klaavyl gives a short harsh laugh, then says, “That’s all for now, Undercaptain.”
“Yes, ser.” Alyiakal stands, inclines his head, and leaves the study.
As he walks from the headquarters building, Alyiakal can’t help but wonder what Maaslar told the majer … and what the senior squad leader might be saying in other circumstances.
But how can you find out?
After what Healer Vayidra had told him in Pemedra, Alyiakal has been working to improve his shields, but shields or order/chaos fluctuations won’t reveal thoughts. What about using the kind of concealment you used in the Great Forest?
He shakes his head, knowing that he will need something different. Then he turns his steps toward the mess kitchen.
Once he’s inside the kitchen, one of the mess orderlies appears.
“Do you have a spare carrot or turnip? Raw?”
“Ser…”
“I’m sure it won’t be that big a problem.”
“Ah … yes, ser.”
Shortly, the orderly reappears with a midsized carrot.
“Excellent. Thank you.”
From the mess kitchen, Alyiakal makes his way to the stable.
As he enters the main door, one of the ostlers immediately walks toward him. “Ser? Do you need something?”
Alyiakal shakes his head. “I want to thank my mount. Even if he won’t understand why.”
The ostler looks puzzled.
“He smelled raiders before we saw them.” With a smile, Alyiakal continues toward the bay’s stall.
As he enters the stall and closes the door behind himself, the bay turns his head.
“I brought you a bit of a treat.”
The bay nuzzles Alyiakal, but clearly smells the carrot, and Alyiakal offers it. The gelding makes short work of it, then gives Alyiakal another insistent nuzzle.
“That’s all I’ve got.”
As he stands beside the gelding, Alyiakal works at creating a concealment, something he hasn’t done for some time. The bay doesn’t seem to notice that much, except he nuzzles Alyiakal, as if to make sure that he is still there. Then Alyiakal eases toward the stall door and extends his senses. He can’t sense the ostler anywhere close. So he eases the door open, by feel and by order sense, since he can’t see anything; steps out; and closes the stall door, walking slowly in the direction he’d seen the ostler go.
He moves deliberately and slowly because what he senses isn’t as clear as what he could see, but after possibly a score of steps he can sense two figures talking by a doorway. Belatedly, Alyiakal realizes it must be the doorway to the tack room and he halts, moving back against the wall.
So far they haven’t seen or sensed you.
“Undercaptain Alyiakal came in. Said he had to thank his mount.”
“For what?”
“He said the horse smelled the barbarians before he or anyone saw them.”
“Why not? Horses smell everything, and the barbarians stink. Wouldn’t think an undercaptain would notice, though.”
“He talks to that bay.”
“Glad he can. That gelding barely tolerates any of us.” The second ostler turns. “I need to get that saddle from Captain Lyung’s stall.”
Alyiakal has to step back as the second ostler turns back. Clearly, neither man has seen him. He eases away quietly, back the way he had come. He doesn’t drop the concealment until he stands by the bay’s stall door. Even if anyone is looking, they’ll think he stepped out of the stall, but from what he can tell, no one is nearby.
Besides, no one is that interested or concerned with raw undercaptains.
From the stables, he walks to the building holding the mess and the studies for officers and squad leaders. As he nears the entrance, he sees Juast going through the door.
Alyiakal decides to follow Juast, since there’s a good possibility he’s headed to the same place as Alyiakal. Once inside, Alyiakal glances around. No one is in the corridor except Juast, who doesn’t look back. Alyiakal raises a concealment again, then carefully makes his way into the study through the half-open door.
By the time he eases into a position against the wall and near enough to overhear, Juast is already talking to Maaslar.
“… heard you got called in to see the majer. He want to hear about your patrol?”
“What else?”
“How did it go?”
“He asked a few questions. He always does about new undercaptains.”
“You still wary about your undercaptain? He hasn’t done anything stupid yet, has he?”
Alyiakal has the impression that Maaslar shakes his head, but he can’t tell for certain.
“Not yet. He’s polite. Careful and asks me.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“He’s the kind that won’t make any of the little stupid mistakes. Because he won’t, his first mistake will be big. I don’t want to be there when it happens.”
“Why do you think that?” asks Juast.
“He sees too much, and he’s angel-fired good with a lance.”
“I saw that on the supply run. Didn’t seem to me that he’s the cocky type. He listened.”
“Now. I’ve never seen an undercaptain that cool who wasn’t full of himself behind that shield they all have.”
Alyiakal stiffens at the word “shield,” but relaxes somewhat at the words that follow, although he is aware of a headache that gets more painful moment by moment.
“I’ll be interested to see how he turns out over the next year.”
“Two’ll get you five,” replies Maaslar, “that he’s either killed or loses more than a squad … if not both.”
“I’ll risk a silver on that,” counters Juast.
The tone in Juast’s voice suggests, at least to Alyiakal, a smile of sorts.
“Your loss,” replies Maaslar.
“My gain,” answers Juast, with a laugh, “and yours, because, if I win, you’re more likely to be alive to pay me.”
Alyiakal eases away, moving slowly and carefully, trying not to make a sound as he leaves the squad leaders’ study and also struggling to hold on to the concealment. Once he is out in the corridor and clear, sensing no one near, he releases the concealment, sighing quietly. Then he massages his forehead with his left hand, though it doesn’t help much.
Absently, he wonders why his head aches, since it hadn’t when he’d used a concealment to walk through the Great Forest.
I wasn’t carrying two levels of shields … and I’m out of practice. He resumes walking toward the officers’ study and makes his way to the Fourth Company desk, his until he’s given another duty assignment … or until Juast has to pay Maaslar.
Thankful he’s alone, he takes out his maps and begins to compare what the map shows and what he recalls of the patrol, then looks at what the map indicates farther to the north and northeast. Then he begins to add the details to the company map and to his own maps. He is still working on the maps when a voice calls from the study door.
“The maps aren’t everything, remember?”
Alyiakal senses that the speaker is Captain Lyung even before he turns and replies, “I know, but they help me recall.”
Lyung walks from the door to stand beside the desk. “I heard Fourth Company was attacked. Mind telling me about it?”
“We’d stopped at the top of a rise in the trail…” Alyiakal goes on to give a brief description of what happened.
Lyung frowns, then says, “First time I ever heard an undercaptain give credit to a horse.” He smiles warmly.
“He deserved it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Keep paying attention to him.” After a pause, the captain asks, “Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”
“Ser … I haven’t been here long enough to know that. They didn’t yell or make any noise, they just rode toward us with blades out.”
“How did you know to face the lancers out?”
“It made sense. There wasn’t any place else the raiders could have come from.”
“What about spoils?”
“Except for blades and three scrawny horses, only a few coppers.”
“It sounds like they were desperate.”
“There were around two score of them.”
“Didn’t they attack the resupply force?”
“Yes, ser.”
“The hamlets to the north might see raids even before Spring. We’ll have to watch for that.” Lyung steps back. “Keep that in mind.”
“I will.”
“I need to get moving,” adds Lyung. “The majer’s accompanying us on patrol.”
Better you than me. But Alyiakal knows his turn will come as well.
After the captain leaves, Alyiakal closes his eyes for a time, trying to let his headache subside. In time, it does, but he still feels tired, as if holding the concealment takes more effort.
He stands and walks into the mess, passing a tray of hard biscuits and a small keg of ale. He takes two biscuits and pours half a mug of the cool ale. Then he slowly chews one biscuit, with the help of the ale, which still tastes slightly odd to him, followed by the other before walking back to his desk in the officers’ study. In less than a quint the headache is gone, and he feels far less tired.
Another frigging thing to keep in mind. And something neither Triamon nor Vayidra had told him.
He shakes his head and goes back to the maps.
Neither Overcaptain Tygael nor Captain Thallyr appears in the mess at the evening meal, and Alyiakal finds himself seated across from Draakyr.
After several bites, Draakyr looks across the table. “You didn’t lose any men. Don’t think it’ll be that easy again.”
“I know we were fortunate. If we’d gone any farther, they’d have caught us where it would have been difficult to use firelances.”
“That’s always their strategy. One way or another.”
“I read the patrol report about their rolling boulders down on Fourth Company last year.”
“That’s why you need to avoid narrow passages unless you already control the higher ground.”
“I didn’t see any bows or archers,” says Alyiakal.
“You likely won’t. Not here. There aren’t any trees suitable for self bows, and the barbarians can barely afford to buy or forge swords.”
Alyiakal frowns. “Self bows?”
“Made out of a single length of wood. There are two kinds of bows. Self bows and horn bows. Horn bows take time and craft. Also, there aren’t that many horned animals around here because of the grass cats. The most numerous are the grass antelopes, and their horns aren’t that good…”
Alyiakal takes a sip of the wine and continues to listen.
The Grass Hills of the north will not remain as unpopulated as they now are, not when the peoples of Jerans and the petty warlords west of the great peaks of the Westhorns continue to breed like the rodents they are. The Second Emperor of Light foresaw that probability and began the building of Mirror Lancer posts to protect the northern borders of Cyador …
Those posts effectively define the extent of Cyador, both at present and for the future, given the limited, if large, number of chaos towers, now that it has been conclusively determined that those towers cannot be duplicated or replicated, either through technical methods or through any known application of magery, even by the strongest and most capable of the Magi’i. In his wisdom, the late emperor decreed that the chaos produced by the towers be limited to those uses already established. Those edicts do not forbid any use or application of chaos gathered or created by individuals of the Magi’i, provided such uses are in accord with the laws and customs of Cyador and do not adversely impact the chaos towers, especially since such a proscription might inhibit future advances in applied magery that could conceivably extend the existence of the towers.
As always, the use of chaos in firelances should be restricted to where absolutely necessary to maintain order or to defend borders against incursion, as determined by the local Mirror Lancer commander …
Fragment, Mirror Lancer Archives
Zaenth’alt, Captain-Commander
Cyad, 45 A.F.
Although the green-blue sky is clear, the late-winter white sun offers little heat even in midmorning as Alyiakal and Fourth Company follow First Company along a trail leading northwest from Pemedra. While the trail winds around, and occasionally over, the hills, the map Alyiakal has studied indicates it will take them to the valley holding the springs that are the headwaters for the West Branch of the Jeryna River.
Over the course of late Autumn and Winter, Alyiakal and Fourth Company have made almost a score of patrols—long and short through wind and snow—with only the one attack in late Autumn by raiders. On two other patrols Alyiakal caught his only other sight of any barbarians, and in both instances, a handful of riders immediately rode off when they caught sight of Fourth Company. In the second instance, Majer Klaavyl had accompanied Fourth Company, but he had made no suggestions, nor had he even summoned Alyiakal to discuss his patrol report. Not that there was a reason to, Alyiakal supposes, not unless Alyiakal had misstated something.
This patrol is different. According to a dispatch from Syadtar, conveyed by Captain Thallyr, the barbarians have built hamlets and even a town in the valley, and those communities have supported a continuing series of raids on Cyadoran hamlets.
So … because the barbarians here are behaving themselves, we’ve been ordered to look into the situation and take appropriate action, if warranted.
Given what Alyiakal has heard of Captain Thallyr, “appropriate action” will likely require firelances and dead barbarians—assuming that the reports about hamlets and raiders are in fact correct. Perhaps even if they’re not.
When Thallyr orders a brief rest stop at noon at the top of a rise, from which anyone approaching would be visible for close to a kay, not that the scouts have seen anyone, Maaslar eases his mount up beside Alyiakal’s bay and says, quietly, “Ser … there wasn’t much of a briefing this morning.”
Alyiakal smiles wryly. “I didn’t get any more of a briefing, either, except that the orders came from Mirror Lancer headquarters. I’d guess, and it’s only a guess, that, Winter or no Winter, there have been more raids around Isahl, and that they’ve taken heavy casualties. We’re the closest other post to Isahl, and we haven’t suffered any casualties so far this Winter. What do you think?”
“Pretty much the same, ser.”
“What else, Maaslar? You have that worried expression.”
The senior squad leader’s face has been expressionless, but from working with Maaslar, and sensing his order/chaos patterns, Alyiakal is now able to discern more of what the senior squad leader does not reveal through words or body posture.
“Don’t know as Pemedra’s ever gotten an order like this, ser, even from Mirror Lancer headquarters.”
“Meaning that it’s much worse than anyone’s telling us?”
“Could be, ser.”
Alyiakal also knows what Maaslar is not saying—that it’s likely Fourth Company is accompanying First Company because Majer Klaavyl doesn’t want unnecessary casualties to more than one of his more experienced companies.
Although he’d claim that it’s to give us experience.
By late afternoon the wind from the east picks up, and it feels to Alyiakal as if it comes straight from the heights of the icy peaks of the Westhorns.
After the two companies make camp, with mounts picketed, and sentries posted, Alyiakal gathers his squad leaders together, but before he can say anything of import, Thallyr approaches. “Undercaptain … a word with you.”
“Yes, ser.” Alyiakal steps away from the squad leaders and joins the square-faced captain.
“I’m sure you know this isn’t just a scouting patrol,” begins Thallyr.
“I had some doubts, ser. Two companies seem excessive for scouting, but, given my lack of experience, I wasn’t about to offer that opinion.”
“Wise of you.” Thallyr pauses. “The barbarians have done considerable damage to the Cyadoran hamlets near Isahl and inflicted significant casualties on the companies there.”
Significant casualties? Against firelances? “Are they doing something different, or are they attacking in greater force?”
“They have some kind of device that flings giant arrows or light spears at a much greater distance than we’ve encountered before. They concealed the spear-throwers behind the first riders, who used some sort of buckler or shield to deflect firelance bolts. The bucklers aren’t completely effective, of course.”
In the momentary silence, almost belatedly, Alyiakal recalls that Fuhlart is posted at Isahl. Was he one of the casualties?
Before Alyiakal can fully consider that possibility, Thallyr asks, “How would you defend against such an attack?”
“Take out the horses first,” replies Alyiakal. “That should expose the spear-throwers.”
“That was my thought as well, but I can’t believe that experienced captains wouldn’t have immediately adopted that tactic. That suggests there’s more to the matter.” Thallyr fingers his very square chin. “Considerably more.”
“Did they have archers as well?”
“There was no mention of archers, but no bow could launch even a small spear. We don’t see many archers among the barbarians around Pemedra, but those along the rivers may have more resources for making and using bows. Or they may have some other tactic or weapon. The dispatch to Majer Klaavyl was … less than explicit. I wanted you to be aware of the possibilities.”
“I appreciate the information, ser.”
“We’ll be heading out early, Undercaptain.”
“Yes, ser. Fourth Company will be ready.”
Once Thallyr turns and walks away, Alyiakal returns to the three squad leaders. “Captain Thallyr is concerned that the barbarians along the West Branch may have a greater range of weapons…” When he finishes, he asks, “What are your thoughts?”
“More archers,” suggests Yurak. “Has to be something that strikes from farther away than a firelance.”
“Might be the shields, especially if the lancers didn’t know about them, or if they’ve got a lot of green replacements,” adds Elbaar.
Since the senior squad leader has been quiet, Alyiakal looks to him. “Do you have anything to add?”
“No, ser. I think it has to be something else. I don’t have any idea what that might be, though.”
“All of you might be right. I tend to agree with Maaslar, but I don’t have the faintest idea, either.”
Except that it’s effective and something Subcommander Munnyr doesn’t want to put in writing. “Captain Thallyr also said that we’d be moving out early tomorrow,” adds Alyiakal. “Not that any of us expected otherwise.”
Maaslar nods, as does Yurak. Elbaar offers a sardonic smile.
Before sunrise, First and Fourth Companies are back on the trail that serves as a road, and Alyiakal’s bay gelding exhales white puffs in the Winter air. Captain Thallyr has not provided additional information, telling Alyiakal only that he will brief him and all the squad leaders at the first rest stop.
Three glasses later, Thallyr calls a halt and, true to his word, gathers together the six squad leaders and Alyiakal.
“We’re being sent to teach the barbarians a lesson,” begins the captain. “Unlike the patrols from Isahl, we should have some element of surprise. We’ll be making our approach to the valley from the east. The forces from Isahl always approached from the south or west roads as there’s no feasible way to circle and attack from the north from Isahl, and it would take longer than a day for them to use our route. They’ve never been attacked from this direction, even before the establishment of Pemedra.”
Perhaps because the “road” we’re following is barely a trail, even by barbarian standards. Alyiakal sees no point in voicing the obvious.
“We do know,” continues Thallyr, “that when the lancers from Isahl attacked the barbarians outside the largest hamlet, they encountered a great number of spears that were effective from a greater distance, and that shield-bearers protected these assets. That suggests this site was carefully prepared, and that it would be to our advantage to avoid such a situation.”
In short, the lancers from Isahl likely rode in with firelances leveled, thinking that superior weapons would make short work of the barbarians. Alyiakal avoids the sardonic smile he feels, because, if the barbarians refuse to move from a prepared site, First and Fourth Companies aren’t exactly equipped to spend days waiting them out.
“We will not be attacking,” concludes the captain, “until we fully understand the situation. Then … we will do what is necessary. Now … back to your men.”
The two companies ride for another glass, along the trail that curves to the west and is now wide enough to be called a road, with blurred hoofprints in places. After two more glasses and another stop, the two companies gradually descend through a valley too narrow for Alyiakal’s comfort, even though Thallyr sends out additional scouts, along the road as well as the higher ground to each side.
The scouts discover nothing, but continue to flank the companies, riding through flattened grass, bushes, and the occasional isolated squat evergreen.
Alyiakal’s bay occasionally raises his head, if briefly, but does not seem disturbed. Alyiakal himself cannot see anything out of the ordinary ahead, and he has no sense of anyone following.
Less than a glass later, at the top of a slight ridge, Thallyr halts the column and sends a ranker to summon Alyiakal to join him. Even before Alyiakal reaches the captain, he sees that the road ahead flattens out, and the valley the companies have followed opens onto a broader expanse. A meandering line of trees perhaps some five kays to the northwest marks the course of the West Branch of the Jeryna River. To the west, some bare fields look to have been tilled, with small huts adjoining them.
Farther west, Alyiakal sees what might be a large hamlet or small town, backed by rising hills beyond. Thin trails of smoke rise from the nearer huts, trails that dissipate quickly. As he reins up, he sees that the captain is studying the wide valley—and frowning.
“Ser?”
After shaking his head, Thallyr turns to Alyiakal. “Good example of why you can’t always trust maps. We’re almost ten kays from the town where the raiders are based, and it’s late afternoon. We’ll have to use that stead off the road ahead as a place to stop. On the way down, keep a sharp eye out. Don’t let anyone get around you, even if it means killing them. I may have additional duties for Fourth Company once we’re settled in.”
“How long do we plan to be here, ser?”
“As long as it takes, and that depends on the barbarians.” Thallyr pauses, then adds, “That’s all for now, Undercaptain.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal turns the bay and rides back to Fourth Company, where he relays Thallyr’s orders for first squad to Maaslar.
“Yes, ser,” replies the senior squad leader. “Did the captain say how long we’ll be here?”
“As long as it takes. Those were his exact words.”
“Thank you, ser.”
Alyiakal can definitely sense that Maaslar isn’t happy with Thallyr’s words. Neither is Alyiakal, but the raiders started the problem by attacking Cyadoran hamlets and refusing to stop raiding. They didn’t have to raid. In fact, over time some of the barbarians have slipped into Cyador and become growers and herders, and the Imperial policy states that, so long as they pay their tariffs and taxes, they are welcome.
For those who continue to raid, what else can we do? They can always attack when and where we’re not patrolling.
“Company! Forward!” Alyiakal orders.
On the ride down the last slope, he studies the larger valley, noting other steads to the west, but the closest appears to be at least two kays away. As the road flattens, Alyiakal sees another less prominent road angling back to the northeast from a point several hundred yards east of the stead that Thallyr has selected as temporary quarters for the night, hopefully not longer.
Even before Fourth Company reaches the flatter land of the large valley, the squad from First Company has moved well west to control the eastern road, and Alyiakal finds himself again summoned to meet with Thallyr. He has barely ridden up beside the captain when Thallyr speaks.
“There’s another stead half a kay east of this one, Undercaptain. As soon as we reach the side road leading to that stead, Fourth Company is to move out and occupy it. Send one squad farther northeast on that road to make sure there’s no other road leading to the town. Also look for any steads farther out who could inform the town of our presence without using the roads we control. Holding two steads won’t leave us as cramped. Make certain no one leaves that stead and no one passes on that road.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal immediately returns to Fourth Company and passes on the captain’s latest orders.
“This valley’s bigger than I thought,” offers Elbaar after Alyiakal finishes.
“I suspect it’s bigger than the captain thought,” replies Maaslar dryly, “with more barbarians.”
Yurak’s only comment is an almost inaudible grunt.
Before long, Fourth Company rides northeast on the side road.
“Maaslar, first squad might be the best for scouting and securing the road beyond the stead ahead. Or would you suggest third squad?”
“First squad, ser. Might be a good idea to hold back third squad on the road short of the stead. That way, Yurak can cut off anyone who’s away from the stead house and might try to sneak off.”
“Then that’s the way we’ll do it.”
When Fourth Company is still several hundred yards from the stead house, Alyiakal turns in the saddle. “First squad! Secure the northeast road!” He waits until first squad is well away before his next order. “Third squad, hold the road. Don’t let anyone pass!”
Alyiakal and second squad ride toward the oblong stead house, a strange mixture of shoulder-high turf walls topped with peeled logs covered by grass thatch. The entire dwelling measures seven or eight yards long and five wide. Unlike even the meanest dwellings in Cyador, there is no privacy wall in front of the door. Several other small and low turf enclosures, possibly for animals of some sort, nestle around a larger turf building, likely a stable.
At less than a hundred cubits from the house, he orders, “Lances ready!”
Nearing the front of the turf and log dwelling, he senses someone leaving from the far side, hidden by the dwelling itself.
“Right file on me! Left file! Control the front of the house!” He urges the bay around the dwelling, where a man with a bow turns toward him, nocking and then drawing an arrow.
Instantly, Alyiakal fires a short burst of the firelance.
Bow and man drop in a charred heap, and Alyiakal senses a cold death mist. For a moment, he’s stunned by the suddenness of it all.
“You killed him!” screams a woman, running from the rear door toward Alyiakal, a long knife in her hand.
Raaymon, the file leader, turns his mount and catches her in two long strides, slamming the back of her head with the flat of his sabre.
The woman sprawls on the frozen ground, the knife flying from her fingers. She does not move, but Alyiakal can sense that she is still alive … for the moment. “Tie her up!” he snaps, gesturing to the nearest ranker.
From what Alyiakal can sense, there might be one or two people in the dwelling, but no one emerges.
“Elbaar, have someone check the place. Carefully.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal takes another, longer look at the charred remnants that had been a man moments before. But what choice did you have? His eyes continue to survey the area around the crude dwelling.
Before long, the squad leader returns. “Two children, ser. Boy and girl. Girl maybe eight, boy … five or six, I’d guess.”
“Any signs of older children?” asks Alyiakal. “Did anyone else try to get away?”
“No, ser. I asked the girl if she had any other brothers and sisters. She said that they went away a long time ago.”
“They likely died of some flux, and their parents told them that,” says Alyiakal. “Put the woman inside, but have someone watch her so that she doesn’t have the children untie her when she wakes up.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Look around for any grain for the horses or any other useful supplies.”
“Doesn’t look like much so far, ser.”
“Most likely not, but it won’t hurt to look.”
Two quints pass before Alyiakal spies a single lancer riding toward the stead, doubtless a ranker bearing a message from the senior squad leader. In time, the ranker rides up to Alyiakal.
“Ser, Senior Squad Leader Maaslar reports that there’s only one stead in the next few kays along this road, and it’s been abandoned for some time.”
That doesn’t surprise Alyiakal, given that the side road points toward rugged hills and that grass is encroaching on the road. “Convey my orders that first squad should return here.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal sees no point in having all of third squad guard the road leading to the large hamlet to the west. He orders Yurak to post two guards and return with the rest of third squad. Then he waits for Maaslar.
In the meantime, Elbaar reports, “This is a poor stead. One horse, might have been two once, five pigs, a boar and a sow and three decent-sized piglets, and a bunch of grass rats in one of those enclosures. Not any real grain, but a barrel of grass seeds in the stable. Maybe half a barrel of spring beans, and a third of a barrel of dried maize. Likely cooking and heating the turf house with braided dry grass bundles.”
Alyiakal can only imagine the difficulty of surviving on such a stead.
Almost two more quints pass before Maaslar and first squad return.
“There’s not much out there except grass, grass cats, rodents, and snakes, and maybe some wild dogs,” reports the senior squad leader. “Not enough bushes and trees for antelope or red deer.”
“What was the other stead like?” asks Alyiakal.
“Didn’t look like it was even finished.” Maaslar shakes his head, then says, “I saw a body in back here.”
Alyiakal explains.
“Not much else that you could do.”
“We’ll need to send a report to Captain Thallyr, even if there’s not much to say.”
“Sometimes, that’s best, ser. Might be good to send Elbaar with a pair of rankers.”
After briefing the second squad leader and sending him off with two rankers, Alyiakal knows he has to deal with another unpleasant detail. He has to stoop to enter the sod and log dwelling. The odor inside is sour, close, musty, and damp. The woman, hands and feet bound, sits propped against the earthen wall. Maaslar follows him inside.
“Where do you want your man buried?” Alyiakal uses the word “man,” because he has no idea of the relation of the man he killed to the woman. He also suspects that with the lack of wood in the area, burials are usual, rather than the pyres used in Cyador.
“Anywhere you want. Won’t bring him back.”
Alyiakal steps away and says to Maaslar, “Some of their children died. If one of the rankers can find if and where they’re buried…”
“I’ll have someone take care of it.”
As Maaslar quickly leaves the dwelling, Alyiakal moves back to the woman, not certain what to say, if anything.
“Demon soldiers,” mutters the woman.
“We wouldn’t be here if your men hadn’t attacked our hamlets,” replies Alyiakal.
“What else are we supposed to do? There’s little enough wood here, and the traders want coin for anything, especially salt.”
For an instant, Alyiakal wonders about why salt is so important, then almost shakes his head. How else can they preserve the meat from the pigs and rodents?
Although they’ll have a bit less after we leave … quite a bit less.
At dawn, First and Fourth Companies are already riding west toward the small town set in the southwest corner of the valley holding the headwaters of the West Branch. That town sits about a kay north of where the narrow road emerges from the hills that separate the town from Isahl and the hamlets and borders that Isahl was built to protect.
Captain Thallyr’s battle plan is simple. Between first light and sunrise, the two companies should be able to cover half that distance. Then at sunrise, with the rising sun at their back, early detection will be more difficult, at least until they near the town. Neither Thallyr nor Alyiakal doubts that the barbarians have scouts posted on the road to Isahl. As the sun rises over the Grass Hills to the east, the Mirror Lancer scouts can discern no traces of scouts or anyone on the narrow road.
No sooner has Alyiakal made that observation, for perhaps the fifteenth time, than a rider emerges from a side path or lane and gallops toward the town whose first dwellings look to be some three kays away.
Thallyr does not order pursuit, but he does send out scouts, as well as dispatch a ranker to Alyiakal. The message is simple. “Have your senior squad leader proceed as planned. Join me.”
After Alyiakal turns Fourth Company over to Maaslar, he rides forward to meet with Thallyr.
The captain immediately says, “There are three possibilities. They’ll scatter to the winds, making pursuit infeasible. Or they’ll form up and fight as a body. Or they’ll fight in groups. What we do depends on what they do. If they scatter, we’ll have to destroy the town. That will stop their raiding for a while, possibly for several years. If they choose to fight, we’ll have to find a way to destroy them. Right now, ride with me until we know more.”
Alyiakal isn’t in the slightest surprised by the idea of destroying the town, especially since direct attacks against what sounded like the equivalent of fixed emplacements had turned out badly. He does wonder what the captain will do if the local barbarians manage to form up in a defensible position.
Maaslar calls a halt roughly a half kay from where the first houses of the town seem to begin. Less than a quint later two scouts ride back from the town.
Thallyr waits until the two rein up, then asks, “What did you find out?”
The older scout replies, “They’ve got half a mounted squad on the road just west of the first houses at the edge of the town, with shields and spear-throwers behind. We circled and got a look farther into the town. The main force is forming up in the open space in the center of the town. Big shields and lots of long lances. Men and some women in the center with strange spears. As many as five score there. Might be archers hidden nearby.”
“Spear-throwers protected by lances and shields,” says Thallyr. “Those spears likely have the range of a firelance.” He turns in the saddle toward Alyiakal. “Undercaptain, it’s going to be Fourth Company’s task to get them to move. Your task is to avoid that road force and set every house, hut, or hovel in this misbegotten town on fire, until the barbarians break out of that formation in the center of town. Don’t split your company into groups smaller than a squad. First Company will take a position close enough to the barbarians on the road to attack if the opportunity arises. Don’t attack any individual unless they threaten you or your men, and don’t break up your squads to pursue anyone.”
“Yes, ser.” Alyiakal pauses, then says, “The wind’s coming out of the northeast. It might be best if we start on each side of the road—away from the shielded riders—and then move out to see if the wind carries the fires toward the center of town. If it doesn’t, we can move in toward the center.”
Thallyr nods, then says, “Do that.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal rides back to Fourth Company and has Maaslar call in Elbaar and Yurak. Once they ride up, Alyiakal shares his briefing with his squad leaders, explaining the situation and Captain Thallyr’s orders, adding, “Use as little chaos as possible because the barbarians could move against us at any time.”
“What if the barbarians attack?” asks Elbaar.
“We’re to destroy them, but not to pursue or break formation.”
“Pursuing plays into their hands,” adds Maaslar.
“More of the town seems to be on the north side of the road,” says Alyiakal. “Maaslar, first squad will handle the south side. If there’s any overwhelming force, pull back. The captain also pointed out that those spear-throwers reach as far as a firelance, if not farther.”
For the first time, a momentary expression of surprise appears on Maaslar’s face. “No one raised that before.”
Alyiakal decides not to mention that he’d raised the possibility earlier and says, “The captain was quite clear.”
Alyiakal barely hears Yurak’s muttered, “Frig,” but does not react, instead adding, “I got the impression that it’s best to catch them by surprise where there aren’t any obvious spear-throwers. Our job is to set as much of the town on fire as possible. If you can take out fighters without pursuing or incurring casualties, so much the better. But destroying the houses and other buildings is the first task.”
“Does the captain think that will get the raiders to come after us?” asks Elbaar.
“If they do, their shields and spears won’t be as effective,” replies Alyiakal. “If they don’t, they’ll be in no shape to raid Cyador for some time. Any other questions?”
“No, ser,” replies Maaslar firmly.
“Then, we’d better start,” says Alyiakal. “When we’ve done what we can, re-form here.”
Maaslar immediately orders first squad to follow him.
“Second squad! Third squad! Forward!” Alyiakal leads the two squads along the shoulder of the road past First Company and then follows Maaslar toward the town ahead.
“Pass the word back for Squad Leader Yurak to join me,” orders Alyiakal.
Before the squads have covered another fifty yards, Yurak eases his mount up beside Alyiakal’s bay. “Ser?”
“Second and third squads need to target different sections of the town. After we circle to the right, when I turn second squad toward the houses, you keep heading west to get separation before you ride toward the dwellings and start firing the buildings. If you run into a large body of raiders, don’t engage them in the town. Pull back to open ground where they can’t shelter archers or spear-throwers. If they follow and you’re confident you have the advantage, you can then engage.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Then I’ll see you later, Squad Leader.”
Alyiakal keeps a wry smile to himself as Yurak returns to his squad. Yurak knows what he’s doing better than Alyiakal does.
About two hundred yards from the first houses, Maaslar angles left across a bare and turned field. Alyiakal angles right, and checks to see that third squad has followed. Behind him the light increases as the white sun eases above the Grass Hills. He looks to where the road passes between two hut-like dwellings. For a moment he sees a flash of light, but it doesn’t recur.
Sunlight on a polished shield? But how could barbarian raiders afford such shields?
He pushes the question away. The real question is how to deal with such a shield. His eyes go to the structures ahead on his left. Unlike the half-turf dwelling at the stead where Fourth Company spent the night, these houses, although some appear little more than huts, are constructed of rough-hewn timber, but they do have grass-thatch roofs. Smoke trails rise from the rough-mortared stone chimneys. Most of them aren’t close together, which suggests to Alyiakal that the fire from one dwelling can’t be counted on to travel to another, especially in the light wind.
Still, he has his orders. He picks a slightly larger dwelling some hundred yards away and turns toward it. “Second squad! Lances ready!”
Although he watches the dwelling closely, no one leaves it, but that isn’t surprising, given that it’s just after sunrise on a late-Winter morning, and the heavy board shutters over the single window facing Fourth Company are fastened shut.
Alyiakal reins up some thirty cubits from the slant-roofed dwelling, then aims his lance at the planked wall, giving it the quickest touch of chaos. The firebolt strikes the rough wood, immediately creating a charred and ashen circle slightly more than a cubit across with small flames at the edges that begin to spread.
That might be a little too short a burst.
He turns the firelance toward the corner of the building with a slightly longer burst, then nods as he notes the rapidity with which the flames spread.
After turning to Elbaar, Alyiakal says, “It looks like the houses take a burst a shade longer than what you need against barbarians.”
The squad leader nods.
Alyiakal is about to turn the bay when he senses someone on the other side of the dwelling hurrying toward the corner. A slender figure steps around the corner, with bow in hand and arrow nocked.
Whhsssst! The firelance bolt flares into the figure, consuming the archer, bow, and arrow before the shaft could be released.
“Quick there, ser,” says Elbaar.
“I thought I heard something,” Alyiakal lies. He studies the house, where the flames are growing fast enough that whatever water may be nearby will not be enough to quench them, then says, “We need to move faster now. Rotate the use of the lances among the men. There are close to a hundred houses and huts here.” With those words he urges the bay toward the next house to the west, then says to Elbaar, “Take the left file, and fire the houses to the left of this one. The right file and I will take the ones on the edge of town.”
“Yes, ser.”
While Alyiakal is disobeying Thallyr’s orders, he doesn’t see how they can flame enough houses to force the locals out of the center of town without splitting the squad.
The second dwelling he approaches seems empty. At least, there’s no smoke from the chimney. Alyiakal has Rumbaar, the right-file leader, use his firelance, then moves on.
When the half squad reaches the fifth house, he sees a woman and two children running, and he’s relieved that they’re running away from town, rather than into it. He glances once more to his left and realizes that Elbaar and the other half of the squad have fired two more houses than his file has. He looks over his shoulder and sees that the houses behind them are now burning strongly, if not yet fiercely.
We need to move faster.
He barely slows the squad for the fifth house, and the sixth, but he sees two older men with bows emerge from the seventh house. He urges the bay forward, leaning low against the gelding’s mane, trying to get closer before using his lance. He’s still a hundred fifty cubits from the two when he fires off one burst, then a second, willing each to strike.
Both figures topple. At the same time, a sharp pain flares through Alyiakal’s skull, and his eyes water at its intensity, momentary as it is. “Rumbaar, fire the house!”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal blinks, trying to clear his blurred vision. As Rumbaar uses his lance on the house, Alyiakal looks ahead, then realizes that the next house ahead of them is already burning, and Elbaar’s half squad is riding toward him.
“Second squad! To the right!”
In less than half a quint, the re-formed second squad is riding back eastward. To the south, it appears as though more than half the town is aflame.
In another half quint, Yurak and third squad join second squad, and Yurak reports to Alyiakal, “Burning accomplished, ser. We had to take out two locals, a young fellow and a woman.”
“Thank you, Squad Leader. We’re heading back to First Company to await further orders.”
Once Yurak rejoins his squad, Alyiakal surveys the town, where most of the dwellings are in flames.
When Alyiakal and the two squads near the east end of the town, he sees that Thallyr has withdrawn First Company almost half a kay and that Maaslar has Fourth Company’s first squad drawn up behind First Company.
“Elbaar, you and Yurak continue toward Senior Squad Leader Maaslar and Fourth Company. I’m reporting to Captain Thallyr and will rejoin the company shortly.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal rides to Thallyr and reins up. “Ser, most of the town is in flames. To avoid fragmenting forces and following your orders not to seek out raiders, we didn’t attempt to fire the houses bordering the center of town, but it appears that some of them have caught fire from those already aflame.”
“Carefully done and stated, Undercaptain,” replies Thallyr. “Now we wait. If they decide to attack, First Company will slowly withdraw as they move toward us. Fourth Company will withdraw as well along that lane to the east. If it appears we can attack successfully we will. Fourth Company will then attack their rear. If they merely break into groups, First Company will enter what’s left of the town and deal with those groups. In that event, Fourth Company will move forward to the edge of town to protect our rear and deal with any groups or individuals attempting to circle behind us or to attack you. You’re not to enter the town without direct orders from First Company. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ser.”
“Dismissed to your command, Undercaptain.”
“Yes, ser.”
As he rides past the rankers of First Company, Alyiakal has the feeling that Thallyr had wanted him to go beyond the captain’s orders, and that Thallyr was slightly displeased with Fourth Company’s ability to accomplish what was necessary without apparently disobeying orders.
When Alyiakal reins up beside Maaslar, he asks quietly, “How did it go? Did you encounter any resistance?”
“We burned enough hovels and huts,” replies Maaslar. “Had to flame four barbarians. Two older men and two women. What about you?”
“Two older men, one youth, and two women that I know of.” Alyiakal then sends for Elbaar and Yurak and conveys Captain Thallyr’s plans.
When Alyiakal finishes, Maaslar nods and says, “They can’t hold that formation for long.”
Almost two glasses pass. The flames are dying down, and Thallyr sends out three scouts, who return in less than a quint, after which First Company begins to ride toward the town.
“Fourth Company! Forward!” orders Alyiakal.
Less than a quint later, some fifty yards from the first houses, Alyiakal halts the company, then turns to Maaslar. “Dispatch scouts about a third of a kay to the north and south of the road.”
“Yes, ser.”
Even once the scouts are in position, Alyiakal remains uneasy, hoping that Thallyr is successful and considering what he should do if First Company fails to return.
Another quint passes.
Then the scout to the south of the road signals and rides back to Alyiakal and Maaslar.
“Ser, there are raiders with shields coming from the south, along the edge of the houses. Half a squad, it looks like.”
“I’ll take second squad,” says Alyiakal. “First squad needs to watch the main road here.”
Maaslar frowns, but says, “Yes, ser.”
In moments, Elbaar and second squad follow Alyiakal, who has a definite feeling that something isn’t quite right, yet wonders if it’s only his imagination.
Even before Alyiakal reaches the point where the scout had been posted, he sees a group of barbarians toward the southeast, well away from the still-smoldering houses ahead to Alyiakal’s left. He counts five, each with an oblong, polished, bronze shield about a cubit and a half wide and more than two cubits tall. Behind them stand a half score others, some with long lances, others with what look to be feathered spears.
Upon seeing second squad, the shield-bearers immediately close and three men with lances move up, so that second squad faces shields and grounded lances.
“Split files! To each side! Right file on me! Left file on Squad Leader Elbaar. Flank the shields.” Alyiakal’s orders are unconventional, but he wants second squad moving and splitting the barbarians’ attention because acting quickly will keep them off-balance, and avoiding engaging them isn’t what Captain Thallyr—or Majer Klaavyl—would want, no matter what Thallyr might claim.
As soon as Alyiakal is within two hundred cubits, he fires a quick chaos blast into the barbarians behind the shield-bearers. “Open fire! Ignore the shields! Fire behind them.”
He glances farther to the south but sees no other barbarians and no lancers from First Company, then continues to use short bursts on those behind the shield-bearers.
He can sense several spears being thrown, but none are that close to him and the bay.
Once well past the barbarian group, he turns the bay. “Second squad. Re-form on me!”
Most of the spear-throwers appear to be down. One runs straight south, but a firelance blast from Elbaar cuts him down.
The shield-bearers swiftly turn, as do the three men with lances, as if daring second squad to charge again.
“Second squad! Forward. At a trot!” orders Alyiakal.
At some fifty cubits from the shields, Alyiakal orders, “Second squad! Halt! Elbaar, take five men south and flank the shields. Then fire at will.”
“Yes, ser.”
In less than half a quint, the shield-bearers and lancemen are dead.
Elbaar and the five lancers return to the squad.
“Hamrach took a spear in the shoulder. Looks bad, ser. Those points have nasty barbs. Nomaar’s mount also took a spear. Mount won’t survive, bloody froth from his mouth.”
“We need to return to the rest of the company. Then I’ll see what I can do for Hamrach. Have Nomaar ride that far with someone else. Also, have someone pick up those bronze or brass shields.”
“Spoils, ser?”
“Pick two men. Have them be quick and rejoin us, and have them count the bodies.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal doesn’t want the company split any longer than necessary, and he well knows that his tactic would have been far more costly if they’d faced a full company with more shields and spear-throwers.
The squad is halfway back to the other two squads when Elbaar rides up beside Alyiakal and reports, “No real spoils. Some twenty coppers, a few rings. More bodies than I thought, twenty-three in all.”
“Thank you, Squad Leader.”
As soon as Alyiakal and second squad rejoin the company, he asks Maaslar, “Any trouble here?”
“No, ser. No sign of any locals, either.”
Alyiakal quickly summarizes the quick clash with the barbarians, then says, “Send out scouts as before. I need to see to Hamrach’s shoulder. Have someone let me know if First Company is returning.”
After riding back to Hamrach, Alyiakal gestures to the two nearest riders. “Help him out of the saddle.” Then he dismounts, hands the reins of the bay to another lancer, and unstraps the healer’s satchel from behind his saddle.
Hamrach’s tunic is bloody, but not soaked, and the lancer is definitely pale. Alyiakal senses the chaos around the wound, the opening of which someone has packed with cloth. Since the cloth is working, Alyiakal concentrates on using his senses to remove the angry whitish-red point of chaos deep in the wound, then on cleaning the area around it, before removing the top layers of blood-soaked cloth, dusting the remaining cloth with order, and putting a more secure dressing over the wound.
“Doesn’t hurt so much,” says the lancer.
“It’s going to hurt for a while,” replies Alyiakal as he finishes. “I’ll need to see you twice a day. That’s the best I can do.”
“You a healer, too, ser?”
“I had some extra training,” replies Alyiakal as he replaces the satchel behind his saddle and then remounts. He gestures again to the two other unmounted lancers. “You three don’t need to remount right now. When the time comes, help him mount. If he uses that arm, it could cause more bleeding.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal rides back to the front of the column, where he reins up beside Maaslar. “Any word from First Company?”
“Not yet, ser.”
“Have the men stand down, then. They need a break.”
“Company! Stand down. Stay close to your mounts!”
Almost a glass passes before Alyiakal catches sight of a single rider who makes his way toward them.
“Ser, First Company will join Fourth Company shortly. Both companies will begin the return trip to post once First Company arrives. First Company will lead.”
“Thank you,” returns Alyiakal. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“We broke up the barbarian formation, ser. Captain Thallyr would have to brief you on the details.”
“I understand,” replies Alyiakal dryly. “Convey to Captain Thallyr that Fourth Company is ready to ride and awaits First Company’s arrival.”
“Yes, ser.”
Once the messenger has turned his mount and headed east along the road to the center of what remains of the town, Alyiakal turns to Maaslar. “How would you interpret what the messenger said?”
“I’d only be guessing, ser.”
“Guess, then,” says Alyiakal quietly, but firmly.
“First Company had more difficulty than anticipated, but succeeded. Any of the locals who couldn’t flee likely died.”
“Then it looks like Captain Thallyr won’t be that displeased with second squad’s handling of those who escaped his attack.” Provided you downplay it.
Maaslar only offers a cynical smile.
Alyiakal doesn’t press, but sends word to Elbaar and Yurak that, when the order to remount is given, the squads are to re-form to ride east with first squad leading.
Less than a quint later, when Alyiakal sees First Company approaching, he orders, “Fourth Company! Mount up!” Then he and Maaslar lead first squad past the other two as they re-form before halting, and wait for First Company to take the lead.
As Captain Thallyr nears, he gestures brusquely for Alyiakal to join him.
“You have the company, Senior Squad Leader.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal rides to join Thallyr, who halts both companies once First Company is positioned in the lead.
“Two of your men are riding double. What happened?”
Alyiakal gives a brief summary, with as few details as he dares, adding, “Hamrach took one of those feathered spears in the shoulder, and so did Nomaar’s mount. Because those bronze shields seemed out of place, I had the men pack them up as well.”
“So did I. Last thing we need is for other raiders to use them.” After a hesitation, Thallyr asks, “Can Hamrach ride? All the way back?”
“So long as he has help mounting. Using that arm could rip open the wound, although I made the dressing as secure as possible.”
“You did, Undercaptain?”
“I trained in field healing, ser.” Alyiakal adds, “It was emphasized that I could only do that after the fighting was over.” After the slightest pause, he asks, “Did the townsmen have more of those shields?”
“Too many of them, and some were even women. We lost four men, and three others are wounded, but this town isn’t going to do any more raids. Not for years, if ever.” Thallyr hesitates once more, then asks, “How many did you take care of?”
“Twenty-three bodies, ser. No one escaped.”
“That’s something.”
“Would have been much different if they’d had more shields and lances, more like what you encountered.”
Thallyr nods, then turns in the saddle. “Traan, detail that spare mount to Lancer Nomaar.”
“Yes, ser.”
Thallyr says nothing for several moments, then says, “You were rather … light on details of how you managed with so few casualties.”
“They didn’t have many shields and lances. I split the squad and ignored the shields. We concentrated on everyone behind the shields first. After that, we picked off the shield-bearers and lancemen. That wouldn’t have worked if they’d had more shields and lances.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” replies Thallyr, “but at least you understand that.”
Since Thallyr doesn’t say anything more, and Alyiakal isn’t about to make conversation, he considers events. What if he angled a firelance upward and loosed a quick chaos bolt? Would that give the chaos bolt greater range while lobbing the chaos over a shield wall?
He’s still mulling over the idea when Thallyr’s senior squad leader returns and reports, “Mount detailed, ser.”
“Good. Companies! Forward!” He adds quietly, “The sooner we’re out of this cursed valley, the better. You can return to your company, Undercaptain.”
Later, as Alyiakal rides slowly back along the road eastward where it becomes a narrow trail, he wonders if the young archer he killed was male or female. Given the youth of some of the dead raiders who had attacked the resupply company, he has the feeling that the first archer was a young woman.
Does it make any difference? She could have killed you just as easily. According to Thallyr’s report, many of the barbarians holding shields and using the spear-throwers were women.
But it still bothers him.
As the two companies pass the stead where First Company had spent the previous night and continue toward the side road holding the stead where Fourth Company overnighted, a lancer rides back along the road, easing his mount in alongside Alyiakal’s bay.
“A message for you, ser,” announces the lancer. “At the next stop, ser, before we enter the hills, Captain Thallyr would appreciate it if you would look at the three wounded men in First Company.”
Through the lancer’s matter-of-fact words, Alyiakal senses more behind them. What that might be, he cannot tell, and he replies, “I can do that.”
“Senior Squad Leader Traan will send a lancer to guide you to the wounded.” Then the lancer turns his mount and rides along the shoulder of the road toward the front of First Company.
Alyiakal turns in the saddle toward Maaslar. “How did that strike you?”
After a moment, Maaslar says, “There aren’t many officers who do field healing, ser.”
Alyiakal keeps looking at the senior squad leader.
“Only a guess on my part, ser, but Senior Squad Leader Traan might have suggested it couldn’t hurt.”
Meaning that Thallyr’s dubious about your abilities or doesn’t want to order you to do any healing … or feels he can’t make that an order. Which of those surmises might be correct, Alyiakal has no idea, but he says pleasantly, “Your surmise is likely far more accurate than any I would have.”
Less than a quint later, Thallyr calls a halt. Almost immediately a lancer rides up to escort Alyiakal forward past some captured horses and the four mounts of the lancers killed in the attack on the unnamed town. All of the horses carry baggage, including the brass shields and provisions.
When Alyiakal reaches a position just forward of the horses used for baggage and provisions, Senior Squad Leader Traan stands waiting.
Alyiakal dismounts and removes the healer’s satchel, as well as his water bottle, which contains order-treated water, then follows the senior squad leader to a spot beside the road.
Traan gestures to the lancer lying on the makeshift stretcher that must have been fastened between two horses.
“Kaentyl, here, took one of those barbed feathered spears to the gut. Not real deep, but…”
Alyiakal sets down his satchel and kneels beside the lancer. Even without sensing deeply, he knows there is little he can do for the gray-faced lancer. The dressing over the wound isn’t that bloody, but he senses white-red chaos throughout the man’s abdomen. He touches the skin above the dressing and infuses a little order before stepping back.
“That … helps … ser.”
Traan frowns momentarily, but says nothing.
Alyiakal rises and steps away, motioning to Traan, then says softly, “No healer could save him. There might have been something on the spearhead, poison or a corrupt substance.”
“Thought it might be something like that,” replies the senior squad leader. “Good man.” The resigned words hold a slight bitterness. He turns and leads Alyiakal to a second lancer sitting on the side of the road, who starts to stand.
“Stay seated,” says Alyiakal. “It’s easier for both of us that way.”
Alyiakal examines the dressing over a wound similar to the one incurred by Hamrach. There’s more chaos and blood in the dressing than he would like. Cutting away nearly all of the cloth, he uses some order-treated water to clean the area, not that it will suffice, but at least it gives cover for what will, as he uses order to remove the growing point of whitish-red chaos deeper in the wound. After that, he re-dresses the wound and stands.
“Feels better, ser.”
“Good.” Alyiakal turns to Traan. “I’ll need to see him tonight and again in the morning.”
“Ser…” begins Traan.
“Not a word, please. If I can see him, he has a good chance of healing. Now, let’s see the other one.”
When Alyiakal examines the third lancer, it’s clear that the slash to the thigh comes from one of the barbed spearheads, and there’s a chaotic fragment in the wound. Alyiakal doesn’t like reopening a wound, but whatever the fragment is contains chaos. Keeping the incision as narrow as possible, he removes the thin sliver of what might be wood and cleans the wound with water and order before re-dressing it.
“How did you know … that was there?” asks Traan.
“From the shape of the wound,” lies Alyiakal evenly. “There had to be something more there.”
“You’ll need to see him as well?”
“I will.”
“Thank you, ser.”
Alyiakal doesn’t quite know what to say, but manages, “I’m only a field healer, but the men deserve the best I can provide.” After the fighting is over. “I’ll see the men again tonight.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal replaces the satchel and water bottle, then remounts and rides back to Fourth Company.
“How bad are they, ser?” asks Maaslar from where he stands beside his horse, water bottle in hand.
“One won’t make it. The other two should.”
“So First Company will lose five men, with two wounded, and Fourth Company has one wounded and lost a good mount.”
Alyiakal can almost see Maaslar’s skepticism, and he certainly senses it. “As a junior undercaptain, I have to assume that the losses to hamlets around Isahl were significant or senior officers wouldn’t have ordered us here.” He pauses, then adds, “Or that there are other reasons that no one has yet shared with me.”
Maaslar offers a sardonic smile. “Something like that, I’d guess, ser.”
“I’m going to check on Hamrach before we get the order to resume riding. I want to make sure he hasn’t opened that wound.” That isn’t the real reason, of course, but it will do.
He turns the bay back toward second squad, thinking about the patrol and recalling what the now-widowed woman at the stead had said. “What else are we supposed to do?”
Then he thinks of the dead lancers from Isahl, one of whom might be Fuhlart, and shakes his head.
After another two long days of riding back to Pemedra, and a short night’s sleep after writing up his patrol report, Alyiakal walks into the officers’ mess, glad to have had even a cold shower and definitely grateful to be in a clean uniform. He also looks forward to a hot meal in a moderately warm chamber.
Draakyr is the only officer in the mess. Alyiakal sits down across from him.
“I heard the barbarians you and Thallyr faced gave you some trouble,” says Draakyr quietly.
“First Company got the worst of it,” replies Alyiakal. “The barbarians had a lot of odd weapons—polished brass shields, long lances, and spear-throwers. The spears had barbed iron heads smeared with poison or something corrupt.”
“Word is that Fourth Company didn’t do much.”
“Thallyr ordered us to cover the west end of the town and not let any raiders escape. We weren’t to enter the town unless I received orders to do so. We never received orders. We did intercept more than a score of raiders retreating from First Company. They also had shields, lances, and spear-throwers … but not enough to stop flank attacks. We killed them all, as ordered.”
Draakyr nods, as if he already knew. “How many did you lose?”
“One wounded—he’ll recover—and one lost mount.”
“Did you do any field healing?”
“Four of the wounded. Later. One died of a poisoned gut wound on the ride back. So far the other three look good. Two shoulder wounds and a deep spear slash to the thigh.”
Draakyr glances toward the doorway, where Thallyr enters. “Interesting. When you talk to the majer, stick to the facts. Only the facts.”
“Thank you.” Alyiakal smiles wryly. “Isn’t that always best for junior officers?”
“For all officers,” replies Draakyr, “except some tend to forget after a while.”
Thallyr takes a seat beside Draakyr. “It’ll be good to have a hot meal.”
“Absolutely,” agrees Alyiakal, understanding that the senior captain has no desire to talk about the patrol.
The only other officer to enter the mess is Overcaptain Tygael, who takes the seat at the head of the table, signifying that he is the presiding officer, and Lyung’s absence means he is out on patrol.
While Alyiakal knows he’ll end up being questioned by the majer, he doesn’t let that spoil his appreciation for the fried ham strips and egg toast with berry syrup, a combination that isn’t frequent at breakfast. He indulges himself with seconds, knowing that the day could turn out to be very long.
After breakfast, he and Maaslar conduct a gear inspection. Alyiakal returns to the officers’ study just long enough to be summoned to meet with Majer Klaavyl.
He immediately makes his way to the administration building and the majer’s study, where Klaavyl motions for him to take a seat.
“I’ve read your patrol report, Undercaptain. I appreciate, as always, your diligence in quickly reporting. I do have a few questions.”
“Yes, ser.”
The majer leans forward a trace and looks intently at Alyiakal. “Captain Thallyr ordered you not to enter the town?”
“Yes, ser. Except if I had direct orders from him.”
“Did you enter the town in dealing with the armed barbarians you encountered and dispatched?”
“No, ser.”
Klaavyl frowns. “How did you know that you weren’t in the town?”
“Towns or hamlets are where the dwellings and other buildings are. We encountered the raiders to the south of any buildings.”
“What if Captain Thallyr and First Company had not returned?”
“I would have sent scouts to determine the situation and acted on what they discovered. But by the time Fourth Company had dispatched the raiders trying to escape we received word that First Company was returning and orders to prepare for immediate departure from the town.”
“Captain Thallyr said that you treated all of the wounded men. Is that correct?”
“I treated Hamrach, one of the Fourth Company lancers, only after we killed all the barbarians we encountered and returned to position. Later that day, at Captain Thallyr’s request, I also treated his three wounded men. One was too badly wounded to survive. He took one of those feathered spears in the gut. From his reaction and quick death, I suspected that the barbed spearhead was also likely smeared with poison or some corrupt substance. That is a judgment, not a certainty.”
“Captain Thallyr agrees with that judgment. Why didn’t the other three wounded succumb to poison? They were also wounded by spears.”
“I can’t say for certain, ser, except that gut wounds usually are fatal, in time. I did remove a sliver of something ugly from the thigh of one of the wounded men, and I cleaned all the wounds as well as I could. We’ll have to see if what I did works.”
“Did Captain Thallyr personally request you treat his men?”
“A messenger from First Company informed me that the captain would appreciate my looking at them. When I rode to where the wounded were, the senior squad leader was there and informed me of their injuries. I did not see the captain then, or when I checked the wounded on three other occasions.”
“Did you ask for him?”
“No, ser.”
“Why not?”
Because he clearly didn’t want to see me. “He had to be aware of what I was doing, ser, and he must have had his reasons. I wasn’t about to intrude on his handling of First Company. I wanted to do what I could as quickly and quietly as possible.”
“Which you obviously did.”
Alyiakal waits, knowing the majer wants him to say more, but since he doesn’t know what the majer wants, he isn’t about to guess.
“You realize, Undercaptain, that your apparent skill in healing could create a certain conflict or divided loyalty?”
“Ser, I have no intent in that way whatsoever. I did not impose myself or my limited abilities on the captain or First Company. I did want to do my best because the men deserve my best, both as an officer and as a field healer, and those abilities could result in having more experienced lancers over time.”
Klaavyl nods slowly. “That is as it should be, and I’m happy that you appear to understand the situation. Captain Thallyr thought you did, but I wanted to confirm his impression.” The majer straightens slightly. “There is one other thing. Those brass-plated shields count as spoils, and once we receive the silvers from their sale—after Mirror Lancer headquarters studies them to determine their origin—all those in First and Fourth Companies will receive a share.”
“Perhaps I’m missing something, ser, but it strikes me as rather strange that a town of barbarians that can hardly scrape a few silvers together could afford all those polished brass shields.”
“You mentioned that in your report. So did Captain Thallyr. I agree with both of you. That’s why I’ll be sending the shields to the Majer-Commander in Cyad. It’s definitely a problem.”
All the way to Cyad? Then Alyiakal remembers that the majer reports directly to Mirror Lancer headquarters.
After a pause, Klaavyl says, “That’s all, Undercaptain. You and Fourth Company will have a few days before your next patrol.”
“Yes, ser. Thank you for the clarifications.”
Klaavyl offers a wryly amused smile. “That’s one of the reasons for a post commander. Get some rest. You look like you need it.”
“Yes, ser.” Alyiakal rises from the chair and inclines his head before leaving the study.
In addition to getting some rest and some efforts to update the company map and his personal maps, he’ll have some time to write a letter to Saelora, and even to Hyrsaal, although it might be an eightday or longer before any letter will reach either, possibly even later for Hyrsaal. He wishes he could write Adayal as well, but he has no way of contacting her except in person … and that won’t be possible for years, if not longer.
Yet she and Healer Vayidra are the only ones you can trust to talk about magery.
The wind outside Alyiakal’s quarters is little more than murmuring, but despite the snug shutters there’s still a chill radiating from the window. He glances at the table by his bunk and realizes that he’s left Saelora’s letter out. He picks it up and smiles as his eyes take in the words.
… now officially a junior enumerator. I still do some scrivening for Buurel, but I’m thinking of trading on my own. Well … through Vassyl, of course. Before he went to Kynstaar, Hyrsaal used to make greenberry wine. It was awful, but he always wondered what would happen if he mixed it with ripe-pearapple juice and distilled the mixture …
Alyiakal winces at the thought of ripe-pearapple juice, which is excessively sweet to him … and to most people.
… around here we have plenty of both. Some of the mothers and widows have a little time on their hands, but there are more than a few, and I organized them. You wouldn’t believe how good the raw brandy tastes, and I think it will be even better if we age it. Good brandy fetches a fair price. Vassyl is interested in selling it and even shipping it up and down the Great Canal …
Much as Alyiakal would like to reread the entire letter, that will have to wait, or he’ll be late to the morning mess and rushing to get ready for the patrol. He slips the letter into the single table drawer and hurries out.
When he reaches the mess, all the captains are there, as is Overcaptain Tygael. Because it’s still Winter, if late Winter, fewer and shorter patrols go out, and Fourth Company is the one scheduled for the day.
Majer Klaavyl enters the mess moments after Alyiakal. All the officers take their seats, but the majer remains standing.
“Among yesterday’s dispatches was one from the Majer-Commander. He congratulated Pemedra Post and First and Fourth Companies for removing the threat of armed attacks from the West Branch valley and for providing physical proof that Jeranyi traders had provided shields and other arms to the barbarians previously living there.”
The majer pauses and clears his throat. “Imperial fireships have turned most of the city of Jera into a charred waste. The Majer-Commander believes that it is unlikely that other lands will pursue such a strategy.” Klaavyl smiles wryly. “I thought you all ought to know … before you eat.” Then he seats himself at the head of the table.
Almost absently, Alyiakal wonders when the spoils coins from the shields will be distributed to Fourth Company, not that he particularly needs them. Much of his pay remains in his lockbox, since there’s little to spend it on, except his share of the mess bill, but he knows that the rankers will appreciate whatever they get.
“That should teach the slimy Jeranyi,” says Thallyr, lifting a mug of ale and then taking a healthy swallow.
“For a few years, anyway,” replies Draakyr. “They still want to take over Cerlyn so that they can get their hands on the copper mines, rather than paying the Cerlynese.”
“Cerlynese’d be better as part of Cyador,” says the majer. “Not that the current Emperor of Light will try anything like that after what happened to his predecessor.”
“Ser…” ventures Alyiakal, “why wouldn’t it be better for Cyador to have control of the copper mines?”
“Better for whom?” returns Tygael. “The Merchanters in Cyad make far more by shipping copper they buy from Suthyan traders. If Cyador controlled the mines, the markups would be much less, even if the copper had to be shipped along the same routes.”
“Don’t say that too loudly in Cyad,” counters the majer.
Do the Merchanters have that much power? How could a more cumbersome trading system be more profitable? Alyiakal isn’t about to ask those questions, not after seeing Tygael and Draakyr nod.
“You’re heading out right after breakfast?” asks Lyung, a question that’s clearly rhetorical.
Alyiakal nods.
“Be careful,” Lyung continues. “Sometimes, when we get this eerie quiet cold, it’s right before we get thundersnow. Not often. Most times, it just warms up a bit.”
Alyiakal has read about thundersnow, and from what he’s read, he really doesn’t want to get caught in such a storm.
“A bit early for thundersnow,” says Thallyr. “Usually hits closer to Spring or after Winterturn. Then, you never know.”
Alyiakal manages not to comment on the fact that there are far too many aspects of a Mirror Lancer’s life where an officer never knows. Not with any certainty.
Still, because of what Lyung has said, after eating, when Alyiakal returns to his quarters, he slips some travel biscuits into his winter jacket, along with a spare pair of gloves. The patrol isn’t that long, north to the base of the higher hills. The only likely directions for raiders after their attack on the West Branch town would come from slightly east of the hills. They could return by a side trail on the east side of the valley.
When Alyiakal reaches the stable, he immediately checks on the bay, spending a few moments talking to him before saddling him and leading him out of the stall. Only then does he offer a biscuit. The bay nudges Alyiakal as if to suggest that a carrot, or even a turnip, would be preferable, but he takes the biscuit.
Once outside the stable, Alyiakal mounts and rides to join Maaslar.
“Not all that cold,” says the senior squad leader. “Not as windy or chill as the last patrol.”
“So far,” replies Alyiakal dryly, looking to the north and northeast. The sky there is hazy, as it often has been during the late fall and Winter, but he doesn’t see any clouds, which is a good sign. He turns back to Maaslar and relays what the majer had said at the mess.
“Does that mean the men might get their spoils coins soon?”
“They’ll get them, but since no one’s told me, it likely won’t be until we get another dispatch or supply run, or the one after that.”
“Figures.”
Alyiakal nods. Words of congratulation are cheap. The men appreciate the coins far more.
Less than half a quint later Alyiakal rides toward the north gates of the post at the head of Fourth Company. The corrals are empty of horses, as they often are in Winter, except on warmer sunny days, and that’s often so that the ostlers and lancers on disciplinary duty can clean the stalls and stables more easily.
Two scouts ride half a kay ahead, the distance they’ll maintain in flatter terrain.
Before long the company passes the first of the nearby steads, where a thin line of white smoke rises into the hazy green-blue sky. Outside of the smoke, nothing moves, but then, if he weren’t patrolling Alyiakal wouldn’t be out in the cold, either, or not for long.
Little over a glass later, Fourth Company reaches the point where the road splits. They take the northeast trail, though not all the way to the gap in the hills. Alyiakal can feel that the wind has stiffened and gotten colder, and there’s a hint of darkness over the hills to the northeast.
“The wind’s picking up, and it’s getting colder,” he says to Maaslar.
“Always is colder when the wind blows harder,” replies the senior squad leader.
Alyiakal glances to the northeast. The hazy sky is definitely darker, but he still doesn’t see any sign of clouds.
Roughly three kays later, after a brief rest stop, he directs the company onto a narrower trail that runs to the stead immediately north of the post. By now the wind is even stronger and colder, and when Alyiakal glances over his shoulder he sees that a greenish-black line of clouds has appeared over the hills to the northeast, and those clouds are moving quickly.
“Does that look like thundersnow coming to you?” Alyiakal asks Maaslar, gesturing back at the clouds.
“Might be, ser. Never seen one up close. If a storm is coming,” replies the senior squad leader, “it’ll be quicker going this way than trying to go back the way we came.”
Shorter, but not necessarily quicker.
Punctuating Maaslar’s words, a low rumble of thunder echoes out of the northeast.
Alyiakal looks southwest, in the direction of Pemedra, then back at the clouds, where a greenish-black curtain reaches down behind the leading edge of the black clouds to the hills. Beyond that curtain, Alyiakal can see nothing. He shakes his head. There’s no way that Fourth Company can make it to the post or any stead that he knows of.
“We need to find a low hill or a rise where we can shelter on the south side,” Alyiakal says to Maaslar as he glances to the hills on his left, the closest of which are more than a kay away over ground that tends to get uneven close to the lower sandy slopes.
“As I recall, there’s a bit of a rise about a kay ahead on the hill side of the track.”
“Company! Fast walk!” Alyiakal glances back. The greenish-black curtain of what has to be thick snow already shrouds most of the hills beyond the northeast corner of the wide valley. Then a flash of lightning flares, muted by the snow.
Alyiakal concentrates on the trail, but finds it hard to believe that the sky to the southwest, certainly over Pemedra, remains clear and bright in the early-afternoon sun. Even as he looks, the light seems to dim somewhat.
Another long rumble of thunder rolls over Fourth Company.
Close to a quint later, the icy wind at his back, Alyiakal spies the low rise to the left of the trail ahead. “Keep everyone mounted and close together,” he orders Maaslar as he turns toward the rise, which isn’t as high as he’d hoped, only slightly less than two yards. “Facing southwest … toward Pemedra, backs to the wind.”
“Yes, ser.”
As Alyiakal reins up, and the rest of the company takes position, a blast of wind slams into Alyiakal’s back, strong enough to push him almost into the bay’s mane and driving icy needles into his neck above the collar of his winter jacket. In moments, he feels as though snow is packed between his jacket collar and his winter cap, and he has no doubt that without the ties from the cap’s earflaps his cap would have been torn off and carried for kays.
Within half a quint, the three squads pack into a tight formation, lashed by wind and snow that’s so thick Alyiakal can barely see the lancer closest to him. He turns to see those behind him and is immediately blinded by the snow. Closing his eyes, he concentrates on sensing the lancers. So far as he can discern, there are no outliers.
Above him he can sense flows of order and chaos, power far stronger than he’s felt in firelances and far stronger than any mage. The amount of chaos is massive, yet it is confined by order.
Alyiakal frowns. It’s more like chaos channeled by tubes of order, but that isn’t quite right, either.
CCCRAACK!!!
Even though the lightning bolt strikes to the west of the rise, Alyiakal shudders, as much from being somehow drawn to the combination of order and chaos as from the proximity of so much power.
Could you do something like that?
All that order and chaos would likely char him worse than a firelance would—except he suspects that his shields might be strong enough to block a short firelance burst.
You really need to work on strengthening your shields. Then a second thought intrudes. Couldn’t you do that in a smaller way, one that your shields can handle?
Since there’s nothing else he can do but wait out the thundersnow, he concentrates on sensing the order/chaos patterns above him, and then attempts to replicate them, if on a far smaller scale, in the open space well in front of him, knowing that the snow is thick enough that, if he succeeds, no one will be able to link it to him.
After a time, how long he has no idea, he is able to create a tiny little flash of light or lightning.
“That was close!” declares a lancer behind Alyiakal.
Afraid that he cannot repeat the process, Alyiakal does it again, if farther away. The second attempt creates a momentary headache.
Because of the greater distance?
He is still working with order/chaos patterns when, abruptly, the vicious pelting of the snow lessens, and in a quint stops, and the northern half of the sky clears to chill green holding a trace of blue. A large portion of the southern sky retains a greenish blackness extending all the way to the snow-covered grass. The air is much colder than before the storm, and a stiff wind blows out of the northeast.
Alyiakal looks around. For all the intensity of the storm, the snow looks to be little more than calf-high, although he can see drifts more than knee-high. “Slow ride back.”
“Good thing we’ve got more than a few glasses,” says Maaslar. “It’ll be harder to pick out the track with all the snow.”
All that will make for a long day for both lancers and their mounts, Alyiakal knows, but at least they’ll be following the storm.
Maaslar looks at Alyiakal, curiously.
Alyiakal suddenly realizes that, unlike Maaslar and most of the other lancers, there’s almost no snow on him or the roan. Shields or all the effort with order and chaos? “I must have been more exposed to the wind.”
“Must be,” replies Maaslar.
Alyiakal looks a score of yards to the north where he thinks he can make out a long, slight indentation in the snow and grins wryly. “Do you have a scout who can follow the track back to that stead?”
“Rumbaar might be best at that, ser.”
“Then we might as well get started.”
Rumbaar is as good as Maaslar suggested, but a ride of three to four glasses takes almost five by the time Alyiakal leads the bay into his stall and grooms him. After finishing with the gelding, Alyiakal is fairly certain that the bay is in better shape than Alyiakal himself.
Alyiakal walks slowly from the stables to the mess, and although the evening mess is over, the duty mess steward has a plate and hot wine waiting.
Draakyr appears as Alyiakal seats himself. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.”
“You got caught in that thundersnow. Lose anyone?”
Alyiakal takes a bite of the warmed-up mutton and brown sauce, then shakes his head. “We formed up tight behind a rise and waited it out, then plodded back after it passed.”
“You ever been in thundersnow before?”
“No, but I read all the previous company reports and the Winter procedures. They all suggested that trying to go anywhere in thundersnow was a good way to lose men. I just followed procedures, especially when I saw that the snow was so thick you couldn’t see much of anything.”
“You were still riding, then?”
“No, I was watching the clouds as they approached. We were almost to where we took cover before the snow hit us.”
“That will please the majer.”
“Oh?”
“He suspects you didn’t follow procedures against the barbarians.”
“I didn’t disobey a single order.”
Draakyr smiles. “I’m sure he knows that, but you couldn’t have killed that many barbarians that quickly without splitting your squad. That’s effectively double-splitting your forces. Since you didn’t mention that in your report…”
At Alyiakal’s raised eyebrows, Draakyr grins. “Years ago, I was a senior squad leader for a certain majer, when he was a senior captain. He had me read your report.”
“And?”
“Junior officers need to learn when to follow procedures and when to … bend them. Post commanders need to know if junior officers have learned that.”
Alyiakal takes another bite of his meal, followed by a sip of the warm red wine.
“So far, you’re doing fine,” adds Draakyr, “but don’t let it go to your head. It only gets harder as you get more senior.”
Alyiakal has no doubts about that. He also knows what else to put in the patrol report he has yet to write. At least he doesn’t need to update the maps.
Early Spring has passed into what seems like continual days of drizzle when Alyiakal enters the stable just after morning mess. He isn’t looking forward to the day. The patrol will consist of riding to the hills at the northern end of the valley, then heading west before turning south along the foot of the Grass Hills on the west side of the valley. They are to look for raiders or indications that the barbarians have started scouting for future raids. The Spring sun feels almost as hot as Summer in Kynstaar, so Alyiakal carries three water bottles filled with the odd ale.
The moment he enters the stall, the bay turns his head and nickers softly.
“Yes, we’re headed out again,” says Alyiakal with a smile as the bay nudges him. “No carrot until we go through our new exercise.”
Once he has the bay saddled, with the water bottles, healing satchel, and daypack in place, he steps up to the bay and puts his hand on the gelding’s shoulder. “Just be calm, now,” he says quietly in a reassuring tone, after which he puts a concealment around them both, standing there for a time, patting the bay.
He’s about to drop the concealment when he hears Maaslar’s voice and senses the senior squad leader’s approach. He decides to leave the concealment in place.
Maaslar stops outside the stall and calls to an ostler. “Have you seen the undercaptain?”
“He was in the stall a bit ago.”
“He’s not there now.”
“He must have gone out already, then.”
Once Alyiakal senses that Maaslar is well away from the stall and leaving the stable he drops the concealment, gives the bay a solid pat—and the baby carrot. “I know. It’s small. It’s Spring.”
The bay nudges him.
“You only get one,” replies Alyiakal with a smile. Then he opens the stall door and leads the bay out but walks to the farther door to leave the stable. After mounting, he rides back to where Maaslar is forming up the company.
“Oh … there you are, ser. Falltyr has some sort of stomach flux. Can’t keep anything down. So third squad will be a man short.”
“Is he in sick bay?”
“Yes, ser.”
“I’ll ride over there. I shouldn’t be long.”
Alyiakal turns his mount and rides to sick bay, a few rooms on the north end of the barracks, where he ties the bay before walking inside.
The ranker aide looks up from the table where he sits. “Ser?”
“Ranker Falltyr?”
The aide looks puzzled. “Ah … he’s in the first room, ser.”
“I’ll likely only be a moment.” Alyiakal steps around the table and walks into the tiny space, barely large enough for the single pallet bed.
The lanky lancer is curled on his side, clearly uncomfortable, with sweat on his face.
Alyiakal steps closer, hoping he will not sense a mass of whitish-red chaos in or around the lancer’s stomach. He can discern only the faintest traces of reddish gray. “What did you eat that caused this?”
Falltyr groans. “Some pickled stuff … Hragaah … Third Company … think he’s sick, too.”
Alyiakal touches the lancer’s side and extends a tiny touch of order. “Next time, be a little more careful.”
“Yes … ser.”
Alyiakal leaves sick bay, relieved that Falltyr doesn’t have a chaos-swollen appendix. He also hopes he never encounters one. While he had watched Healer Vayidra remove one, he certainly doesn’t want to have to try, with his marginal surgical skills, but not trying would mean certain death.
Maaslar waits at the head of Fourth Company, where Alyiakal rides to join him.
“How’s Falltyr?” asks Maaslar.
“Food poisoning. He should recover. He says he ate pickled stuff Hragaah picked up somewhere.”
“You know more than field healing, don’t you, ser?” says Maaslar.
“A bit,” admits Alyiakal.
“A little more than that, I think, ser. About half the lancers who get wounds like Hamrach don’t make it. All three of the ones you treated did.”
“Kaentyl didn’t,” replies Alyiakal, faintly surprised that he remembers the lancer’s name.
“That was a gut wound,” counters Maaslar, “and it was poisoned.”
Alyiakal isn’t about to dispute that, for many reasons. “I did the best I could. We need to head out.” He pauses, then orders, “Company! Forward!”
While the sun barely crests the hills to the east as Fourth Company rides along the wide sunstone avenue leading to the northern gates, Alyiakal has no doubt that the day will be unseasonably warm.
After a time, the senior squad leader says evenly, “We got off fortunate this Spring, you know, ser.”
“Because there weren’t that many raids, you mean?”
“Because there weren’t any raids when it was raining.”
Alyiakal nods, understanding what Maaslar means. Firelances often don’t work, or don’t work well, in the rain. “It’s good that most of the barbarians are busy planting at the time during the rainy season.”
“It hasn’t always been that way, ser.”
And you’re telling me that it won’t continue that way. “You think we might get more rain later this year?”
“Doesn’t look that way, but you can never tell.”
“It looks to me like the rest of Spring and Summer will get hot and hotter,” replies Alyiakal.
Maaslar chuckles.
By the time they reach the point where the road splits in three directions, the weather confirms Alyiakal’s feelings. He calls a halt, has the company dismount, except for the scouts he sends up the three roads to look for hoofprints and/or cart tracks.
A quint later the scouts return.
“No tracks to the northeast, ser.”
“No tracks to the north, ser.”
“No tracks to the northwest, ser.”
Alyiakal nods. “Take a break.”
A quint later, the company remounts and takes the northwest trail, which, after a time, turns south at the edge of the low rises below the higher hills. Before long they ride past the trail leading to the West Branch valley, a route Alyiakal never wants to take again, and likely won’t. At least on this tour of duty.
As they ride, Alyiakal practices carrying even heavier shields, strong enough to stop a firelance bolt—he hopes—while also trying to stretch his range for sensing order/chaos patterns.
After a time, he discovers scores of small order/chaos concentrations that he hadn’t noticed earlier and wonders what they might be, until a big-eared coney hop-sprints across the trail behind a scout. For a moment, he wonders why he hadn’t sensed them earlier, then realizes that he hadn’t been trying to sense patterns in the fall, and that in the Winter, they likely all burrowed underground.
Ahead, Alyiakal senses a larger pattern, possibly a grass cat. The bay’s lifted head and curled upper lip reinforce the feeling, but the grass cat clearly senses the large number of men and mounts and retreats behind a low rise. Belatedly, Alyiakal realizes the cat was more than half a kay away.
You’re getting better at distance sensing.
Yet another glass passes, and Alyiakal calls another halt.
Maaslar points ahead. “See that low space between those two ridges?”
“Where the south edge has a tree?”
“That’s where raiders sometimes hole up for a few days. Nyltaar mentioned it to me a while back. No recent tracks, but wouldn’t hurt to send scouts up the path, just in case.”
When the break ends, Alyiakal orders the company to remount and continue south. He studies the area Maaslar has pointed out, and asks, “How would they get there without coming along this trail? Is there a back trail between the two lines of hills?”
“Nyltaar thought so, but the dry, rocky ground there doesn’t show much.”
“And since it’s been years … no one has looked into it?”
“That’d be my thought, ser.”
“It can’t hurt to look for tracks,” says Alyiakal.
Reaching the path that Nyltaar mentioned takes another glass. Once there, Alyiakal halts the company and dispatches scouts. They return in less than half a quint.
“Ser … someone’s swept the trail clear of tracks for maybe a hundred yards. Not recently, but there are tracks beyond that. I’d guess maybe three mounts. Might have been an eightday ago … or longer.”
“I’ll take a look,” says Alyiakal.
“Maybe take first squad, ser?” suggests Maaslar.
“Good idea. Even if no one’s there, we’ll at least find out more about the path and where it goes.” And if someone is there, you won’t be surprised.
Alyiakal turns the bay and leads the way through the low Spring grass, grass that could be up to his knees—mounted—by Summer.
Once he reaches the point where the grass dwindles to sparse sprouts, he sees that the narrow path, barely wide enough for a single mount, winds through scrawny bushes and scattered reddish rocks set in sandy red soil too poor for almost anything except occasional scrub evergreens. He rides a few yards farther, then reins up and studies the ground. While he can make out a hoofprint here and there, the continual winds have erased or filled most of the shallow prints. He can’t sense any order/chaos patterns except for a few small creatures he cannot see or identify.
He carefully turns the bay and rides back to where Maaslar and first squad wait. “They haven’t been here in a while, and we wouldn’t want to follow or fight any closer to the hills than right here. Farther along, up into that defile, they could pick us off one by one.” With a sardonic smile, he adds, “It’s good to know, and we can report that there’s a possibility of a raid from this point sometime later this year—and the dangers of following that path into the hills.”
Once Fourth Company returns to the southward trail, Alyiakal turns to Maaslar. “Do you think anyone has reported on that path in years? It’s not mentioned in the recent Fourth Company patrol reports.”
“I wouldn’t know, ser.”
Maaslar’s response tells Alyiakal that he’ll need to be very careful in the way he mentions the path and the hoofprints in his report. He will need to add it to the maps. Absently, he blots the sweat oozing from under his visor cap, thinking about how hot the coming Summer will be.
The late-Spring sun beats down on Alyiakal as he leads Fourth Company south on the only real road in the valley—the road that eventually leads to Syadtar. Because there have been sightings of raiders both to the north and to the south of Pemedra, First and Third Companies are heading north, while Fourth Company is the one chosen to go south.
Because you’re the most junior and least experienced company officer, no doubt.
But Alyiakal knows he might not be the most junior come Autumnturn because Thallyr’s tour at Pemedra will be over, and he’ll be rotated elsewhere, possibly promoted to overcaptain, but Alyiakal will be the last to know that. Then, too, Thallyr’s replacement might be a junior captain or even another senior captain, possibly one close to being stipended out.
“We’re approaching the side road to the midvalley hamlet, ser,” says Maaslar quietly, but firmly.
Alyiakal knows that Maaslar’s statement really is a suggestion that the company head east to stop by the hamlet in a vale short of the hills where a small stream little better than a brook flows—and sometimes barely dribbles—out of the hills, which explains the stone-walled pond or reservoir above the hamlet. He also understands why the lower walls of the houses are stone, given how close the hamlet is to the rocky lower slope of the eastern hills, but he wonders at the effort required to get the timber for the upper walls.
In response to Maaslar, Alyiakal smiles and says, “You’re thinking that if there are any raiders around that’s the most likely place. In this part of the valley, anyway.”
“I did have that thought, ser.”
“It’s a good thought, and that’s where we’ll be heading.”
Almost half a glass passes before Fourth Company turns east on the narrower side road, covering almost four kays before Alyiakal sees one of the scouts turning and heading back.
“Looks like Aasnar’s seen something,” says Maaslar.
“It’s too early for traders, especially from the north,” adds Alyiakal.
When the scout draws up, joining Alyiakal and Maaslar, he immediately says, “There’s dust coming south on the trail along the hills, ser. North of the hamlet.”
And dust means raiders, because the steaders aren’t going to push their horses like that.
“We’ll pick up the pace to a trot,” declares Alyiakal, knowing that they’re too far from the hamlet to canter or gallop—not and have the horses in shape to deal with possible barbarian raiders, especially if they have to pursue them. “Company! Forward!”
When Fourth Company nears the midvalley hamlet, Alyiakal sees that the raiders have battered their way through the wooden gate in the mud-brick wall that surrounds the hamlet, a wall that’s more for confining and protecting domestic animals than for deterring raiders, although the gate has doubtless slowed the attackers.
“See only a score of them,” declares Maaslar.
“Send word to Elbaar to have second squad cover the road and move east, in case they try to escape on the trail along the hills,” orders Alyiakal. “That way he can cover our rear and deal with raiders who flee. We’ll ride straight in through the gate. First squad will take the south side, third squad the north side. Scouts keep watch outside the hamlet in case there are more raiders somewhere.”
“Yes, ser.”
Maaslar dispatches two rankers with the orders, and Fourth Company continues toward the hamlet walls, now less than three hundred yards away. When Alyiakal and first squad ride across an area of bare ground and then through the sagging open gate, none of the raiders are even looking in that direction, with several beating at the door of the nearest dwelling and others scattered throughout the hamlet.
Suddenly, someone yells out, but Alyiakal can’t understand the words, although two raiders beside the nearest dwelling leap onto their mounts. Almost without thinking, Alyiakal triggers two quick bolts from his firelance—both lethal. Then he senses an order/chaos disruption behind the second dwelling on the right and urges the bay that way, with first squad behind him. As he rides around the side of the dwelling he sees a raider on foot holding a girl struggling to get away. Another raider is using an ax on a door, while two others remain mounted, each holding the reins of another horse.
Alyiakal reins up but keeps the firelance leveled in the general direction of the full-bearded raider holding the girl in one hand and a long knife in the other.
The raider has the knife at the girl’s neck, but then raises it for a moment. In that instant, Alyiakal triggers the firelance, willing the bolt to narrow and to penetrate the forehead of the raider. Alyiakal ignores the flash of pain through his skull and next fires at the raider with the ax. Although his vision blurs for an instant with the intensity of the pain, his shot takes the ax wielder in the chest, and the raider doesn’t even have time to look surprised as the ax drops from his lifeless hand.
The two mounted raiders charge toward Alyiakal.
Even before Alyiakal can move his lance, chaos bolts from the rest of first squad char the two attackers into ash, as well as their mounts, but not the two riderless horses. The girl shudders and, with an effort, pushes herself clear of the full-bearded and very dead raider, whose body topples into the dust.
“Next dwelling!” Alyiakal urges the bay past the small timbered dwelling and toward a larger house some fifty yards to the southeast, where he sees several more raiders scrambling to mount up.
“Fire at will!” he orders, following his words with two quick blasts from the firelances. The first slams into the chest of a raider, while the second misses because the man has ducked.
That raider doesn’t escape a second firelance blast from behind Alyiakal.
Alyiakal keeps riding and leads first squad past the fallen raiders toward the last dwelling to the south, perhaps twenty yards from the mud-brick wall, only to find that raiders are riding out through another gate in the wall.
Maaslar fires his lance before Alyiakal can trigger his, and the trailing raider falls from his mount, just before the gate, with the other three lost to sight because of the wall and the small orchard beyond the gate.
Alyiakal reins up, knowing that while second squad might catch the fleeing barbarians, he and first squad aren’t in position to do so. He glances around, but doesn’t see any other raiders. Nor does he sense any order/chaos patterns that suggest violence or someone hiding. Only then does he turn in the saddle and say to Maaslar, “Excellent shot!”
“Not nearly as good as the one you made to take out that bearded raider,” says Maaslar quietly.
“I couldn’t afford to miss,” replies Alyiakal. For several reasons.
“No, you couldn’t,” replies the senior squad leader.
Alyiakal knows exactly what Maaslar means.
“Laaskyn,” calls out the senior squad leader, “strip that raider, and close the gate. No sense in having any more of the fowl or livestock escape.”
Laaskyn immediately rides toward the gate.
Alyiakal looks at one of the almost scrawny captured mounts, where he can’t help but notice that there is an ax strapped behind the saddle—barely more than a leather-bound and padded frame. “That’s the second ax I’ve seen,” he says to Maaslar.
“Bride-stealing,” replies the senior squad leader. “Most of them were young.”
Alyiakal manages not to shake his head.
“Looks like we got most of them,” says Maaslar, “except for the three that got through the southeast gate. We’ll finish here, ser. Best you go talk to Zakaar. He’s the hamlet headman. Burly fellow. Square-cut beard.”
When Alyiakal turns the bay he sees the girl who’d been held by the dead raider step inside the house, where, for a moment before the door closes, he can see an internal privacy wall. He slowly rides back toward the center of the hamlet, where a burly bearded man who can only be Zakaar stands looking up and talking to Yurak, still mounted.
“Here comes the undercaptain,” says Yurak loudly.
Alyiakal reins up short of the two.
“Good thing you got here when you did, Captain,” says Zakaar. “Could have been even nastier.”
“How bad was it?” asks Alyiakal warily, fearing what he might hear.
“The bastards killed Kerres’s younger son because he ran back toward the hamlet and yelled out a warning. He was out east with his flock. They broke old Kallya’s arm and beat her some because she held them off long enough that her daughter could bar the door to the house. There might be others … How many did you get?”
“I don’t know yet. First squad killed six or seven that I saw. Three others got away. For now, anyway, but the squad I left on the lane might have gotten them. I don’t have a report yet.” Alyiakal looks to Yurak. “What about third squad?”
“Eight dead so far,” replies Yurak.
“Did anyone here see anyone riding farther south?” Alyiakal asks Zakaar.
“No, ser. They came from the north.”
Alyiakal can discern no hint of deception. He sees a lancer riding in through the gate, headed toward him, one of Elbaar’s men. He waits until the lancer reins up.
“Ser, Squad Leader Elbaar stands by for further orders. Second squad killed three raiders. Another one escaped by riding straight into the hills.”
“Thank you. Tell Squad Leader Elbaar to have second squad join us.” Alyiakal looks to Zakaar. “I trust you won’t mind if we water our mounts before we resume patrolling?”
“We can certainly spare the water, Captain.”
“I’m an undercaptain,” replies Alyiakal, “but we appreciate the water.” He nods to the second squad lancer, who turns his mount and heads out to convey the orders.
“It is your right to take spoils…” ventures Zakaar.
“But?” asks Alyiakal, keeping his voice even.
“There were some axes … they aren’t the best, and they’re not weapons…”
“We’ll need one,” replies Alyiakal, “as proof of the raiders’ intent. Any others we will leave.” At Zakaar’s crestfallen look, he adds, “I know there’s at least one you can have.”
“Two, at least,” adds Yurak, a touch of humor in his voice.
Zakaar’s expression clears. “Thank you.”
In less than half a quint, Maaslar returns with first squad and reports, “No casualties, ser. Eight raiders killed. First squad captured four horses. I suggest leaving two. They’ll require more fodder and recuperation time than they would be worth.”
Alyiakal looks to Zakaar. “Is that acceptable?”
“Most acceptable, Captain.”
In the end, Fourth Company ends up with four decent, barely acceptable mounts, and the hamlet gets three, as well as the ability to butcher and scavenge the fallen horses … and possibly two others that are running free.
More than a quint later, as Fourth Company prepares to ride out, Maaslar turns to Alyiakal. “Orders, ser?”
“Unless you have reservations, Senior Squad Leader, I think we should head back to Pemedra along the trail the raiders took.”
“I would have suggested that, ser, if you hadn’t.”
Alyiakal smiles. “I thought you would.”
Maaslar doesn’t bother to conceal a faintly amused expression.
Once the company is in formation and riding north, Alyiakal says quietly to Maaslar, “I didn’t notice any good weapons carried by the raiders. None of those brass shields, either.”
“One way or another, they also have to obtain or earn their weapons.”
“Was it a mistake to let the hamlet have the three axes?”
“Ser, it would have been a mistake not to let them.”
Alyiakal has thought that, but he appreciates Maaslar’s confirmation.
After a time, Maaslar clears his throat. “Ser?”
“What am I missing this time, Maaslar?” asks Alyiakal in a tone that is both cheerful and wry.
“Ser … we were very fortunate today. Very fortunate.”
“We could have come across a more heavily armed force and suffered significant casualties? I did think about that.”
“Not exactly, ser. We don’t often run up against raiders as well armed as the ones we saw in the West Branch valley.” Maaslar pauses, then says, “More than once, we’ve gotten there after the raiders have left … and we couldn’t do anything because they’ve been gone so long we couldn’t even pursue.”
While Alyiakal has considered that possibility, the certainty underlying the senior squad leader’s words is chilling.
After a moment, he replies, “Thank you for reminding me, Maaslar.”
“Just thought I should, ser.”
“I appreciate it.”
Alyiakal wonders how long it will be before he sees what Maaslar has described.
Alyiakal wakes early, drenched in sweat, despite the open window, not that the slight breeze helps much. What little of the early-Harvest air enters his quarters seems more like heat radiating from a stove or a forge, except it’s everywhere. Washing up before donning his uniform helps a bit, but by the time he steps outside and starts to walk toward the mess, he’s sweating profusely.
The hot, western wind cuts across the Summer-dried tall grass, and Alyiakal glances toward the hills on either side of the valley, then to the north, for any hint of clouds. In every direction, the early-morning sky is already a hazy green-blue that will wash out as the white sun climbs and the day gets hotter and hotter—as it has for more than an eightday.
Alyiakal definitely hadn’t realized the extremes of heat and cold that occurred at the post, not until he’d experienced them. He can’t help but think the weather might have influenced decisions not to build further border posts, at least not in locations like Pemedra.
Both Lyung and Draakyr are already seated in the officers’ mess, and Alyiakal seats himself beside Lyung and across the table from the older captain.
“It’s stifling out there, even this early,” says Draakyr. “Might be the hottest day yet.”
“Seems strange that Harvest is hotter than Summer,” ventures Alyiakal.
“Not really,” declares Lyung. “There’s some rain in Summer, and the grass doesn’t dry out until Harvest. That’s why the locals plant early.”
“It’s also why they build, or make those mud bricks, in Harvest,” adds Draakyr.
Alyiakal takes a swallow of ale, which is cool, if only in comparison to the way he feels. “At least the ale is cool.”
“That’s because the brewery is belowground,” replies Lyung. “Couldn’t drink it if it were warm.”
“Is it just me,” asks Alyiakal, “or is the taste … off?”
Both captains laugh.
“You didn’t know?” asks Draakyr. “They use the seeds of the local grass instead of barley. Barley doesn’t grow here. Didn’t you see that wagon last eightday, filled with grass seed? The locals harvest it for us, both for the ale and as grain for the horses.”
“That must have been during our patrol,” admits Alyiakal, saved from saying more about his ignorance by the arrival of Majer Klaavyl.
The majer does not seat himself immediately, instead announcing, “Given the extreme heat, and the apparent lack of raider activity, all patrols for today will be canceled—unless nearby hamlets or steads report any barbarians.” Then he seats himself at the head of the table, with Thallyr on one side and Tygael on the other.
“About time,” murmurs Lyung.
“It’s not about us,” returns Draakyr in an even lower tone. “He wants to spare the horses.”
“You’re absolutely right, Captain,” responds Klaavyl cheerfully. “Good mounts shouldn’t be wasted. Captains and undercaptains occasionally, but never good horses.”
Alyiakal smothers a grin.
Draakyr laughs and replies, “Glad to hear it, ser.”
Lyung winces.
After finishing a breakfast with fried oatcakes, which Alyiakal suspects are likely grass-seed cakes, he makes his way to the marginally cooler officers’ study and sits at his desk. He thinks about writing Saelora, but he’d sent her a long letter less than an eightday earlier, as well as one to Hyrsaal. He would have sent one to Liathyr, except he doesn’t have an address, because, somehow, he never heard where they posted Liathyr, but he did ask Hyrsaal in his latest letter about Liathyr.
Far from the first time, he wishes he had a way to write to Adayal, but there’s no safe way for a Mirror Lancer to correspond with a female mage living in the Great “Accursed” Forest with no known address.
Instead, he takes a deep breath, makes a brief entry in the Fourth Company log about the cancellation of daily patrols, and reviews the upcoming schedule.
Finally, after making sure all his reports are up to date, he gets up and makes his way from the study, heading toward the stable to check on the bay, to ensure the gelding has enough water. Once outside, he glances west, noticing a line of clouds drifting toward Pemedra. The clouds aren’t high and thin, like the few he’s seen in the past eightdays have been, but neither are they low and dark at the base, which might mean rain.
He shakes his head and makes his way into the stable, which is somewhat cooler than the mess building and definitely cooler than outside.
The bay is glad to see him, offering a soft nicker and a nudge.
“No treats today. Just me.” Alyiakal checks the feed and water, then pats the gelding. “No patrols today. Too hot for both of us.”
After spending some time with the bay, Alyiakal lets himself out of the stall and starts back toward the building holding the mess and the officers’ study, realizing that it’s already midafternoon. As he leaves the stable, he hears the low and distant roll of thunder. He quickly looks west and sees the darker bases of the oncoming clouds along with a flash of lightning, followed by more thunder. He doesn’t see any darker haze beneath the clouds, suggesting little or no rain, and precious little cooling, if any, but the clouds are clearly darkening, and the hot wind from the south has picked up.
More dry thunderstorms. Wind, lightning, and thunder—everything but rain.
He shakes his head and continues on to the officers’ study. When he enters, only Lyung is present, clearly writing something. Alyiakal seats himself at his table desk and takes out the map of the area north of the valley. He hasn’t had that many patrols there.
Roughly a quint later, the alert bell in the short tower at the top of the administration building begins to ring. Lyung immediately stands and says, “That has to be a fire alert. Not surprising with the dry Summer and Harvest and all that lightning.”
Fire alert? Everything here is built of solid stone. Even as he thinks that, Alyiakal stands.
His confusion or lack of comprehension must show on his face, because Lyung adds as he hurries toward the front of the building, “Grass fire. We need to get all the horses into the stables. Good thing only about half are in the corrals.”
When Alyiakal steps outside into the hot wind, he finds the entire post shadowed by the thunderclouds almost overhead. The wind carries the acrid scent of burning grass, and he sees smoke rising to the south, although from where or how close the fire is he can’t determine because of the stone wall surrounding the post.
Already, lancers and ostlers lead horses into the stables, while others have ridden to the fenced corrals serving as pastures on the northern reach of the post and are moving horses back toward the stables. Lancers also close the heavy northern and southern gates. Yet other lancers shutter the windows.
“Might as well watch,” says Lyung. “The overcaptain has it well in hand.”
“There’s nothing here that will burn, is there?” asks Alyiakal. “I mean here in the post?”
“The dry grass in the northern corrals will go up in smoke, and some of the shutters might get a little warm or blistered. Once the fire gets near the walls, you don’t want to be outside. Gets hotter than an oven.”
“None of the buildings are within a hundred yards of the walls,” says Alyiakal. “Won’t that be enough?”
“The winds can carry embers farther than that,” replies Lyung. “That’s why everything gets buttoned up. Not much to catch fire inside the walls. Walls are stone, and roofs are tile or slate, and the grass embers don’t last long. The flames and heat pass, but we’re not stone or tile.” His last words are wry.
Alyiakal hears a faint roaring, and the fire-driven winds strengthen as the last of the mounts are shepherded into the stables and the doors closed. In less than a quint, all the building shutters are fastened tight.
Now, Alyiakal can see flames above the post walls, thick black and gray smoke swirling up, and hears the increasing roar of burning grass that had stood almost two yards tall. Even though the flames have to be hundreds of yards away, he can feel the growing heat. He also senses the swirl of order and chaos around and intertwined with the flames, a swirling that has no real pattern, at least none he can discern, unlike the almost formal pattern of the thundersnow.
He also senses that the order and chaos of the fire are more diffuse than had been the case with the thundersnow. There’s more order and chaos in a stove or a fireplace than in the same amount of space out here.
“Time to get inside,” says Lyung, pointing to the figure of Overcaptain Tygael running toward them.
Alyiakal pushes the thoughts of how concentrated order and chaos are in different chaotic settings and follows the captain. Both Alyiakal and Lyung enter before the overcaptain, who immediately orders, “Bar the doors.”
After doing so, they follow him to the mess.
“Might as well have a mug of ale,” declares Tygael. “We aren’t going anywhere for a bit. This one’s bad.”
Alyiakal waits until the other two fill mugs before filling his own and joining them at the mess table.
Even inside the stone walls of the post and of the building, Alyiakal can hear the increasing roaring.
“It sounds worse than it is,” says the overcaptain after several swallows of ale. “Not that it’s not bad. When it’s over, everything outside the walls will be either black and gray or bare earth. By next Summer, the grasses will be back, but not as tall.”
“What about the people in the hamlets?”
“It depends. Fires usually don’t hit all of them, but those around here will suffer. It’s late enough that most of the harvesting is done, but they’ll still be short on food by Spring. Grass cats will move where the grass wasn’t burned, and they’ll kill more of the antelope, or stray sheep or calves they can find.”
As Alyiakal listens to Tygael, his thoughts go back to the amount of free chaos and order released by different kinds of fires, realizing how it all fits together. The harder and heavier woods burn hotter and generate more free chaos. Because grass is far lighter, especially dry grass, when it burns there’s less chaos for the amount of fuel burned.
But when a good chunk of an entire valley burns, that’s a lot of heat and chaos.
After thinking about what all that might mean for his own use of order and chaos, he senses that the roaring outside is beginning to die down, but another half glass passes before the overcaptain stands and says, “Time to see how bad the damage is.”
Lyung and Alyiakal follow him to the main doors. There Tygael places his hand on the back of the door before removing the heavy bar, then opening the door and stepping out into the sweltering heat and the acrid air.
Once outside, Alyiakal looks to the north, where a wall of flame with black and gray smoke continues to swirl. Closer to where he stands, the grass in the pasture corrals has been turned to black ash, and some of the fence posts are also blackened. Ash covers everything, even the sunstone roads of the post, but the nearby shutters don’t seem charred or blistered.
“Nothing we can’t clean up.” Tygael laughs and adds, “Old Emperor Kieffal might have been wrong about building Pemedra, but I’m angel-fired happy he insisted on the way it was built.”
So is Alyiakal, especially after what he has just heard and seen.
Between the heat, the lingering grit in the air, and the omnipresent odor of smoke and burned grass, Alyiakal doesn’t sleep well and wakes early. Small particles of ash and grit cover the room, but he manages to remove most of it with a damp rag before washing up and donning his uniform. Then he makes his way toward the mess. Pemedra Post doesn’t look any better in the morning light than it had the evening before, and the air is at least as hot as it had been before the storm and the grass fire.
For once he arrives first and takes a seat near the foot of the table. Draakyr arrives next and sits down across from Alyiakal.
“Your first grass fire?” asks the older officer.
“First large fire of any sort. I grew up mostly near the Great Forest. It doesn’t burn.”
Draakyr looks surprised. “It doesn’t?”
“According to my father, there’s no record of any fires.”
Draakyr fingers his chin, then says, “When you think about it, that’s not surprising. The Forest has to have certain powers or the First wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to confine it. Supposedly, it was far larger, but the First burned it back and then confined it. Something like that, anyway.”
“They must have used chaos-fire,” says Alyiakal.
“What else could they have used?” says Lyung as he sits down beside Draakyr.
“Order,” replies Alyiakal. “Pure order in large amounts would be just as bad as chaos to anything living.”
“Even in small amounts, some of the Magi’i aren’t fond of it,” Lyung points out.
“Why do you think we have cupridium blades?” replies Draakyr wryly.
“I thought that was because they can be cast, rather than forged,” says Alyiakal.
“That’s half of it,” says Draakyr. “The other half is that forged iron blades retain order, and there’s enough there to kill a mage who uses a lot of chaos.”
“Only if he doesn’t flame you first,” counters Lyung.
“True,” admits Draakyr with a rueful smile.
Within a few moments, Thallyr, Tygael, and Majer Klaavyl enter the mess.
The majer remains standing at the head of the table, indicating that he has an announcement. The other officers wait.
“Today, several of you will be involved in damage assessment and resupply efforts. First Company will follow the north road and survey and report on any damage north of Pemedra and on both sides of the valley. Fourth Company will ride down the main road, as far south as the fire extended, and check on the midvalley hamlet in addition to surveying and reporting all damage from east to west. Captain Lyung will take a squad from Third Company and two wagons to Syadtar to pick up additional supplies. None of the hamlets around here will have enough to provide what they usually do. Second Company will do a thorough inspection of all fences and gates within the walls to determine what, if any, repairs are necessary.”
Without further explanation, the majer sits down.
“Aren’t you the fortunate one,” Lyung says dryly to Draakyr.
“I suspect it’s because I actually know what a fence post is,” replies Draakyr with a sardonic grin.
“And can even talk to them,” adds Thallyr with an amused smile.
“And understand what they say back,” counters Draakyr.
Alyiakal can’t help but smile.
Lyung turns to Alyiakal. “You’re smiling. Could you hear the fence posts?”
“No, ser. I can only hear the trees.” And certain Forest creatures.
All three captains laugh. Even Tygael and the majer smile.
Alyiakal isn’t quite sure how he managed the quip, but it might be because he actually spoke the truth, in a way. He takes a swallow of the grass-seed ale, still amazed, not that it has a taste that’s different, but that it’s drinkable. Then he cuts one of the ham strips.
Little more than a quint later, the majer stands and departs, a signal that the other officers need to finish up, if they haven’t already.
“Undercaptain,” says Tygael as Alyiakal rises from the table, “I’d like a word with you.”
“Yes, ser.” Alyiakal immediately steps toward the overcaptain, then halts about a yard away.
“Do you know why you’re being sent south?”
“Not specifically, ser. My guess is because I was one of the last officers to see the hamlet closely.”
“Precisely. I hope your memory is good. But that isn’t why I wanted a word. No matter how bad the situation is there, and I hope it’s not, you cannot promise them anything. Your job is to view and assess the damage and to report back to the majer. The majer will make any and all decisions. The only thing you can promise is that you will report fully and accurately to the majer. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ser.”
“Do you know why that is important?”
“My thought would be that we’re at the end of a very long supply line, and we’re not likely to get any more than we absolutely need, if that.”
Tygael nods. “The majer and I will read your report carefully. Provide as much detail as you can.”
As if the majer doesn’t read everything I write closely and carefully. “Yes, ser.”
Immediately after leaving the mess, Alyiakal heads for the squad leaders’ study to see if Maaslar is there, or already on the way to the stables, but Maaslar turns and stands as he sees Alyiakal.
“The day’s orders were just posted, ser.”
“Overcaptain Tygael assigned us to cover the southern part of the fire because Fourth Company was the last one to see the midvalley hamlet.”
“Thought it might be something like that, ser.”
“Extra water bottles?”
“Might be a good idea, ser.”
“Anything else you’d suggest?”
“Extra kerchief. If the wind picks up, the men can wet it and tie it across their nose and mouth. Won’t breathe as much ash and grit that way.”
“Anything more?”
“No, ser. Strong stomach. Some of what we see won’t be pleasant.”
“Then I’ll see you at muster.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal quickly returns to his quarters for a spare kerchief and another water bottle. Before heading to the stable, he fills both bottles with ale at the mess, and manages to snare a slightly wilted small carrot for the bay, which the gelding doesn’t get until he is saddled and ready to go.
Even so, Alyiakal is at the muster area almost as soon as Maaslar.
Already, Lyung and his squad have the two wagons out, although Alyiakal isn’t familiar enough with Third Company to know which squad will make the supply run. Thallyr and Traan begin to muster First Company as well.
When Fourth Company rides out through the south gates, Alyiakal realizes that, in the near year he has spent at Pemedra, he’s ridden through those gates only twice. He also realizes that everything he can see on either side of the road is black or gray, if not both, or bare earth, except the hills to the east and west. Even there, while he cannot see the lower reaches of the hills, patches of black show amid the reddish rocks on the higher parts of the hills.
Perhaps a kay ahead, and several hundred yards off the road, he sees vulcrows circling. As he rides closer, he sees four of the scavengers picking at a carcass.
“Likely a yearling antelope,” comments Maaslar. “The older ones know to make for the hills. So do the grass cats. The antelopes have to watch out for them even more because there’s no cover.”
“What about coneys?”
“Most stay in their burrows, deep enough that the fire doesn’t burn them. They can eat the grass roots. The vulcrows will get some of those that venture out without grass cover.”
Farther to the southwest, Alyiakal sees more vulcrows circling, but not to the southeast. He hopes that means that the steaders of the midvalley hamlet haven’t had significant losses of livestock.
With all the grass burned, Alyiakal notes that the valley is indeed flat on both sides of the road, at least as far as he can see, suggesting that the only rises are those near the Grass Hills that enclose the valley. Except around Pemedra, the Grass Hills might as well be called the stone hills. Absently, he wonders if once they were grassier, or if they were called that by those of the First who never traveled as far as Pemedra.
With each kay Fourth Company rides, the air seems hotter. A slight breeze is just strong enough to carry tiny particles of ash and grit that stick to the sweat on Alyiakal’s face. In little more than a glass, his spare kerchief is streaked with black and gray that he’s wiped away.
Fourth Company is almost upon the side road that leads east to the midvalley hamlet before the scouts point it out.
“I thought the grass looked all the same, but so does this,” says Alyiakal quietly. “At the same time, its absence changes everything.”
Maaslar only nods.
Alyiakal looks to the south. In the distance, perhaps three or four kays, possibly longer, the blackness ends, and the tan shade of Harvest wildgrass resumes. At least the whole valley didn’t burn. This time.
Along the narrow road to the hamlet, Alyiakal sees a few more charred carcasses, some the size of coneys, and one that of a sizable grass snake.
Once Fourth Company reaches the point where Alyiakal can see the hamlet, he realizes the hamlet itself doesn’t look all that different from what he recalls. There are even smoke trails from the chimneys. What he does notice is the bare ground outside the mud walls.
Was that there before? Then he recalls that part of the gate the raiders had battered down had been lying on the dirt outside the wall.
When the company nears the now repaired and closed gate, Alyiakal can see the hamlet headman—Zakaar—walking down the lane to the gate.
“Company! Halt!” orders Alyiakal, who waits for Zakaar to reach the gate.
As Zakaar approaches, Alyiakal studies the hamlet, noting the mud-brick tiles on the dwelling roofs, and that many of the low structures holding animals have turf roofs. He does see a few singed shutters, but no significant damage.
Zakaar peers at Alyiakal, then nods abruptly. “You are here again, Captain.”
While both Alyiakal and Yurak had earlier made it clear that Alyiakal is not a captain, but an undercaptain, it’s equally clear that Zakaar would continue to call him “Captain.” Alyiakal sees no gain in correcting the man again. “We are.”
“You’ll not be seeing any more raiders, seeing as the grass fire swept north from here.”
“The majer dispatched officers in various directions to survey the damage to different hamlets. Fourth Company was sent because we were here most recently. You look to have survived the grass fire without too much damage.”
“We lost a few lambs and the two gardens outside the walls, but we can replant them. The ash will make them more fertile. The Winter will still be long.”
Alyiakal nods and waits.
Zakaar says nothing.
“Was anyone badly hurt?” Alyiakal asks.
“No, Captain. We suffered more from the raiders. What have you come to ask of us?”
“I’m not here to ask for anything except to know how you fared. Some water for our horses would be welcome, if you can spare it.”
“If we need food this Winter…?”
“Send someone to the post, and tell the majer. He is the one who decides such matters.”
“But you are a captain. You have power.”
Alyiakal smiles wryly. “You are kind, but my only power lies in the arms my lancers carry and their ability to use them as ordered by the majer. I will tell the majer that you may be short of food this Winter if matters go badly.”
“You will tell him?”
“I will.”
Zakaar slowly opens the gate. “There is a water trough on the lane below the pond. You and your horses are welcome. I will send someone to open the sluice as necessary.”
“Thank you.”
“You saved many. No thanks are necessary. I will close the gate after your men ride through. We do not wish to lose any more animals. We will have to butcher and salt earlier than we would, even if we can obtain wildgrass from the south of the valley.”
Of course … with the grass gone, they’re short of fodder. That raises the same question for all the horses at Pemedra. Except Draakyr mentioned that the post had received wagonloads of grass grain, and the post does have wagons and horses. Still …
Alyiakal nods to Zakaar as he rides past, following the lane to the water trough.