“What glass … what day … where…?”
“It’s eighth glass in the evening on oneday, and you’re lying in a tent on the green in the hamlet of Suaddern.” The healer straightens.
Suaddern? Lerial doesn’t recognize the name. “The Meroweyans…?”
“They burned their way into the Verd along the south road. They stopped attacking when it got dark and they started losing men in the trees. That’s what one of the wounded said.”
Lerial cannot help but wonder. “My company?”
“They got back fine … mostly.”
“We might have lost a few to firebolts.”
“Hasn’t every company?” Her voice is matter-of-fact. “This time you almost didn’t have enough order in your body.” She puts a surprisingly strong arm behind his shoulders and helps him into a semisitting position, then puts a mug to his lips. “Drink.”
Lerial does. Whatever it is makes tart greenberry juice seem sweet, but even after the first swallow, he can feel some of the pounding in his head begin to ease, if only slightly.
“Drink it all. Keep sitting up, but don’t try to stand yet.” With that final command, the healer stands. “You cannot do anything with order or chaos for the next day, preferably two. If you do, it will likely kill you. I’ll be back later.” She leaves the tent, disappearing into the dark.
Lerial forces himself to keep drinking until the mug is empty and he can set it aside.
“Ser?”
Lerial turns, and he sees a figure peering in the tent, but he cannot order-sense who it is close as the man might be. “Yes?”
“Korlyn, ser. You all right, ser?”
“The healer seems to think I will be.”
“I’m sorry, ser.” The way Korlyn is standing, he doesn’t seem to want to look directly at Lerial, but then the words tumble out. “I didn’t know, I mean, not really, that you were the one keeping that wizard fire from us…”
“What happened after that last fireball … the last one I saw anyway?”
“The wizard didn’t send any more, not that I saw. We got clear pretty quick. First squad … well … we lost two rankers, and two others got bad burns.”
“What about the other squads?”
“No casualties there, ser. Not from the Meroweyans. One of Moraris’s archers ripped up her arm on a tree … chief archer said she was careless. Wouldn’t want to cross her…”
Why didn’t the wizard throw any more firebolts? Because he thought you were dead? Could it be that when he’d been unconscious the wizards couldn’t sense him? Was that why there were more wizards remaining than he’d thought? Because he’d only knocked one of them out? “Did they keep throwing the chaos at the trees?”
“For a time, sir. Maybe, two or three more. We didn’t stay to see. Not when you couldn’t … do what you were doing.”
“You did what you were supposed to do. I’d already ordered the withdrawal.” And if I hadn’t had to explain … but shouldn’t you, as captain, have made that clear earlier?
Korlyn has barely left the tent when another figure appears. While Lerial cannot sense who it is, the man’s stance tells him that it must be Altyrn.
“I see that you almost managed to get yourself killed again.” Although the majer’s voice is dry, Lerial can hear concern behind the dryness.
“I already was trying to withdraw second company before the last firebolt almost hit us. I misjudged a little.” Before Altyrn can say anything about that, Lerial quickly adds, “This is new to me, ser, and I’m still learning. I worry that if I don’t do as much as I can…”
“If you try to do more than you can, then you won’t be around for the next attack, and your men will suffer even more. I took the liberty of talking to the squad leaders and pointing out that you were risking your own life trying to protect them from the firebolts. I think you can be a bit more judiciously cautious from now on.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Your squad leaders didn’t seem to know all that happened. They said that all they saw was firebolts beyond the trees.”
“That was because we couldn’t get through the thornbushes. The white wizards probably burned through them after second company withdrew.”
“That’s what the Verd wardens reported. The Meroweyans are waiting for the fires to subside. They’ll likely attack there tomorrow. Their force may need some reinforcements. The wardens say that the firebolts you turned back incinerated two companies, maybe more. They couldn’t tell about the wizards.”
“There were three. There are two now.” Sparks flash across Lerial’s vision, and an unseen hammer pounds his skull. He can tell he is getting tired. Tired? Just sitting up?
“The healer says it will be days before you can handle order or chaos again. Why didn’t you withdraw earlier?”
Altyrn’s repetition of the question tells Lerial that the majer is concerned … and that he is very serious about Lerial not overextending himself.
“I misjudged how long it would take, and there was another firebolt that would have hit us. I think that was the Merowyan strategy. To wear me out and then throw several firebolts at once.” Lerial isn’t about to explain again that he’d already ordered second squad to withdraw.
Altyrn nods slowly. “I’m holding second company out of the fighting tomorrow-unless it’s absolutely necessary. If I have to use your rankers, you won’t be commanding them.”
“Ser?”
“You’re just the type who will try to protect them if it’s possible. I can’t afford that kind of sacrifice. Neither can your rankers. Nor can the Verdyn. Besides, the healer says you’ll be too weak.”
“She’s probably right,” Lerial admits. His head is beginning to spin once more.
The healer reappears, holding a large jug. “You need to drink more and then rest.” She bends and picks up the empty mug, refills it, and hands it to Lerial. “Drink.”
Lerial’s hands are shaking, but he manages several swallows of the tart and exceedingly bitter greenberry potion, then holds the mug in both hands, hoping the dizziness and shaking will subside. After several moments, he feels that they have receded slightly, and he takes another swallow. As he lowers the mug, he realizes that the majer has left.
“When you finish drinking that, you need to lie down and sleep.” The healer’s voice is pleasant enough, but Lerial can hear the tone of command.
“Yes, healer.”
“Elizean will do, Captain. Keep drinking.”
Lerial finishes the potion and hands her the mug. She does not need to tell him to lie down.
LXIII
The air is still, heavy, and acrid, with the smell of ashes and smoke everywhere, when Lerial struggles awake sometime after dawn but before sunrise on twoday morning to the sound of barked commands, wagons, and horses. He pulls on his boots and as much as staggers to his feet as stands. He is not dizzy, but he does feel unsteady as he dons his visor cap and straightens his riding jacket, then steps out of the tent, aware that his eyes are watering slightly from the acrid smoke.
He glances around, seeing rankers seemingly hurrying everywhere.
“Strike that tent! Now! Majer says we have to be out of here in less than a glass.”
“That long? Burned out the woods on both sides of the road gates…”
“Takes longer when you got that many troopers…”
As Lerial hears those words, two other rankers hurry up, the second leading his gelding, already saddled. The first hands him a water bottle and a small pouch. “These are from the healer, ser.”
“Here’s your mount, ser. Majer requests you join him.” The second ranker points. “He’s by the road over there.”
“Thank you.” Lerial eases the pouch into his jacket and slips the water bottle into the saddle holder. Then, he gathers himself together and climbs into the saddle, the difficulty he has underscoring just how weak he is. He guides the gelding in the direction of the majer, discovering as he nears Altyrn, mounted beside another rider, that he has regained some ability to order-sense, if but to a distance of perhaps ten yards. The lack of range in order-sensing and the weakness in his legs prompt him to lift the water bottle and take a long swallow of the tart and bitter greenberry liquid.