After several moments, with a sigh, he stands and goes outside to the woodpile, where he looks for the greenest wood. He finally selects three modest lengths that look and feel less seasoned, both to his eyes and order-senses, and carries them back into the dwelling, where he eases them onto the hot coals, then steps back. He hopes what he has planned will work.
After several moments there is a spark, but Lerial cannot even see it, much less sense it.
He concentrates more intently, and by the time several more sparks have popped, he is able to find them quickly, but it takes almost a third of a glass before he is able to find each instantly.
Next comes making a pattern quickly to trap them.
More than a glass later, Lerial feels exhausted, but he is finally managing to catch each spark-a tiny bit of flame and chaos-within a tiny “cage” of order.
The door opens, and Lerial turns to see Shaskyn and Kusyl enter.
“What are you doing?” asks Kusyl.
“Practicing technique,” replies Lerial blandly. “What have you been doing?”
“Scrounging through the dwellings, trying to find weapons.”
Lerial should have thought of that, he realizes. “Did you?”
“Not a one,” admits Shaskyn.
With that admission, Lerial feels somewhat less guilty. Somewhat.
“Technique?” presses Kusyl.
“For trying to divert those chaos-bolts. Fire is sort of like chaos … and it’s less dangerous to try new things with fire.”
“I can see that. I think.” Kusyl nods. “I wish you well. I’m turning in.”
“Me, too,” adds Shaskyn.
Once they have left the main room, Lerial goes out to the woodpile, where he gathers more green wood, then returns to the fire and adds another two lengths of what he has brought in. For all of his resolve, after but a few more attempts, his eyes are blurring, and he knows he can do no more. He just watches the fire until it burns down more and he can safely bank it.
Then he heads for his bed, such as it is, and discovers that Altyrn is already asleep. You never even heard him come back in.
Before long, he, too, is asleep.
LXVII
Lerial wakes early on fourday with his eyes burning and their corners filled with sleep encrustations. The still air in the bedroom holds the acridity of wood smoke. Because Altryn is still asleep, snoring lightly, Lerial eases out of the small bedroom, carrying his boots and personal gear, and into the main chamber of the dwelling, where he finishes dressing as quietly as possible. Then he makes his way outside. The entire sky is hazy and reddish to the east, where the sun lurks below the horizon. To the west, the smoky haze is far thicker, and Lerial wonders just how much of the Verd has burned … or is still in flames.
He sees smoke coming from the chimney of the dwelling being used as the kitchen for second and fifth companies, and he catches a whiff of something being baked or cooked, but that odor is largely overwhelmed by that of wood smoke.
“Good morning, ser.”
Lerial turns to see Alaynara, the head archer of fourth squad, standing at the corner of the dwelling. “Good morning. How are your archers?”
“They’re fine. We don’t have any shafts. Not many, anyway.” She tosses her head slightly, not enough to move her short reddish brown hair.
Lerial answers the unspoken question. “We’re supposed to get more this afternoon. It’s not likely we’ll fight today.” He pauses, then says lightly, “I’m not promising.”
Alaynara’s distant expression softens. “You weren’t allowed to be a child long, were you, ser?”
The question takes Lerial so aback that he does not answer for a moment. “I suppose not. What matters now…” He struggles for a moment. “What matters now is that others will have a chance to be children when they should be.”
Abruptly, Alaynara looks away. “I’m sorry, ser. I didn’t mean…”
“No offense was meant, and I didn’t take any.” He manages a smile. “If you and your archers can find any more arrows or anything else that will stop Meroweyans, I’d be obliged if you’d let me know.”
“We’ve been looking. We’ve found a few shafts that might do in a pinch.”
“Good.”
“Thank you, ser.” She takes a step back, then turns.
Lerial watches as she walks north, most likely toward the dwelling that holds the archers, wondering what prompted her question. That you look so young for what you’re doing? He isn’t about to ask. That might invite a familiarity he cannot afford.
For some reason, her question raises an entire series of questions-those he has not thought about for a time. What is Lephi doing? Is he riding routine patrols or are the Mirror Lancers in the southeast of the duchy fighting pitched battles with the Heldyans? Or do the feint-and-pursue skirmishes continue? Is his father still spending most of his time in the north, keeping the Afritans from sacking Penecca? Have the Afritan forces backed off? Or have they begun full-scale attacks? And how are Emerya, Amaira, and Ryalah faring?
This far from Cigoerne, how will you ever know?
He takes a deep breath, knowing he will get no answers, not soon, and perhaps not for seasons, if it is that long before he can return to Cigoerne.
After mentally going over what he should do, Lerial checks with his squad leaders, eats quickly, and then walks along the lane, testing his order-senses. He is relieved to discover that he can discern objects and individuals almost a kay away. You might have most of your skill back by tomorrow. Except he’d been able to sense more than three kays before being felled. Or in a few days … maybe. He also knows that the Meroweyans aren’t likely to stop attacking while he recovers.
He tries to think about weapons … and ponders whether they might try making spears or javelins. There is certainly enough wood around. Finally, he returns to Altyrn who is back at his table in the dwelling.
“Ser, I’ve been thinking … What about spears or javelins?”
Altyrn looks up from the square of paper on which he has been sketching a map or battle plan of some sort. “That’s a good idea. I’ve had some of the men working on that … and on some old-style spear-throwers. I thought about lead spear points, but the Verdyn don’t use lead. They say it’s a poison. So we’ll have to do with sharpened tips.” The majer grins. “Don’t look so discouraged. I do have a little experience. In fact, I should have thought of throwing spears earlier, but we’ve been so used to lances it didn’t occur to me. We also weren’t expecting an army of four thousand men.”
Lerial is glad that the majer used the word “we,” but he still feels stupid. What else should he have thought of … and hasn’t?
“If you or your squad leaders or rankers have any other ideas, please let me know.” Altyrn shakes his head. “I’m about out of ideas.”
“Yes, ser.” Lerial understands what Altyrn hasn’t said-that any “new” weapons need to be the kind that they can use from a distance because they don’t have rankers to spare. He leaves the majer to his battle plan, if that is what it is.
Lerial meets once more with all his squad leaders and asks for their thoughts on weapons or traps that they can make easily that won’t take excessive effort and will be effective.
“Slings, maybe, ser,” suggests Bhurl, but before Lerial can reply, the squad leader shakes his head. “They’re effective, but it takes time to learn how to do it … and you need the right kind of stones, too.”
Fhentaar and Korlyn each mention javelins, and Moraris just shakes his head, and says, “The farther a weapon reaches, the more time it takes to make it.”