“And usually the more iron,” replies Lerial.
Less than a half glass later, just before eighth glass, he is still thinking the matter over when he notices that the majer, accompanied by a squad from first company, rides out. Scouting for another battle site?
Over the course of the late morning and midday, the smoke and acrid odor from the west abate somewhat, but the sky remains hazy in all directions, most likely because the air barely moves, with only an occasional light breeze from the north that quickly dies away.
Lerial goes back to the fire in the dwelling, practicing variations in catching and diverting chaos-fire, and trying to do so according to the precepts of his aunt Emerya. He has to admit that he feels less tired working that way, but it takes more concentration, especially at first. After more than a glass, he leaves the fire and walks outside. He is still standing there when Altyrn rides back up and dismounts.
“Where are we fighting next, ser?” ventures Lerial.
“If we get the choice … if we do, there’s a bridge over a fairly deep stream some three kays east of here. If we remove the bridge we could make it hard for them to cross.”
“If we get more arrows.”
“There are two wagons on their way. We passed them coming back.”
“Do you know how many arrows?”
“Enough for ten to fifteen shafts for each ranker. Just for the companies here. That’s a rough estimate. Some of the heads are a bit battered, and they might not fly true, but … there are a lot of Meroweyans.”
After a time, Lerial leaves Altyrn and walks south along the lane, thinking … and trying to sense both the order and chaos around him. When he finally turns back, it is likely close to fourth glass, and he believes his order-chaos discernment is sharper. As he nears the dwelling serving as officers’ quarters he sees that Altyrn is sitting on the narrow front porch, talking to Kusyl.
The majer gestures for Lerial to join them. “I hoped you’d be back before long. Practicing again?”
Lerial nods.
“You were earlier, too. I could tell. That main room is like an oven.” Altyrn smiles. “That’s why we’re out here.”
“Ser…,” ventures Kusyl. “There’s a ranker. He’s got a messenger sash.”
Lerial turns and watches as the rider slows and asks something of a group of rankers sitting in the shade. One of the rankers points southward toward the three officers on the porch.
The messenger urges his mount forward. When he reaches the dwelling, he rides right up to the porch and dismounts, hurrying to Altyrn. His brown uniform is dusty, his eyes reddish and twitching, and his voice hoarse as he says, “Dispatch from Undercaptain Juist, ser. He said it was urgent.”
“Thank you. When did you leave him … and where?”
“The east side of Truyver, ser. Eighth glass last night. I took two mounts. Had to come the long way.”
“If you’d stand by.”
“Yes, ser.”
Altyrn reads the short dispatch quickly. “Juist and Denieryn have pulled back. Juist reports that they each lost close to a squad. The locals did everything they could. Some flung crocks of burning oil, and they put pit traps everywhere. Juist thinks they wounded or killed more than three companies of Meroweyans. The Meroweyans killed scores of men, women, and even some youths. They bombarded Truyver with firebolts. The entire town and much of the surrounding forest are in flames.” He hands the sheet to Lerial. “Read it. Did I miss anything?”
Lerial scans the short sentences, then starts to hand the dispatch to Kusyl. The former squad leader shakes his head, and Lerial realizes that one of the reasons that the man was likely never promoted to undercaptain was that he cannot read or write-or not well. Lerial hands the paper back to the majer. “You said everything that he wrote.”
The majer turns to the messenger. “Tell me what you saw, if you would.”
“Ser…?”
“What you saw. The undercaptain only wrote what happened. We need to hear what you saw and went through.”
“Ser … we had trenches … good trenches … the Meroweyans threw firebolts … but the fire didn’t touch us. Our archers, they shot over the heads of the shields … into the men on foot. We ran out of shafts, and the shields came for us, and some of them got caught in the staked ditch. Their own wizards … they dropped fireballs into the ditch … killed some of their own to burn away the stakes … and then they charged. We pulled back and mounted … and the people they threw oil down on the attackers … that’s when they got to the center of town … the undercaptains had us charge one flank … They weren’t expecting it … we killed some … then there was fire everywhere. That’s what I saw … and there was this boy … and he was running, and he was all fire … and there were others … my mate, Fheric, there was a firebolt overhead, and it exploded and part of it went through his chest…”
Lerial swallows quietly and listens until the messenger finishes.
“Thank you,” Altyrn says quietly. “Just take care of your mount. Then go lie down in the main room. There’s water inside. We’ll wake you when it’s time for mess.”
“Thank you, ser. You sure, ser?”
“I’m very sure. You did well to get this here. There’s nothing else you need to do for now … except to get some rest.”
“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.”
Once the messenger makes his way into the dwelling, Altyrn takes the dispatch, folds it, and slips it into the leather map folder, then looks to Kusyl. “Get Shaskyn. We need to go over the plan for tomorrow. Whenever they come, we’re likely to face firebolts first, rather than later.”
Will you be able to handle them? Any of them? Lerial doesn’t know. He can only hope.
LXVIII
Fiveday morning finds Lerial and second company packing up once more and readying for another ride, another tactical withdrawal, in the majer’s words. When Lerial is certain his squads are ready, he rides over to join the other company commanders, just in time to hear Shaskyn speak.
“We’re … just leaving, ser?” asks the fifth company acting undercaptain. “Now, ser, when…?”
“There’s nothing we can do here,” replies Altyrn. “There are no defensible positions, and we’re outnumbered. It’s better to spend the time to prepare our next line of defense.”
“Seems a shame,” murmurs Shaskyn.
Kusyl nods, but adds, “We didn’t start this.”
“Starting a war is always a bad idea,” replies Altyrn, “assuming you can ever figure out who really did.”
Puzzled expressions cross the faces of both Kusyl and Shaskyn, and for a moment, Lerial doesn’t understand. Then he does, and he nods.
In less than a third of a glass, second company is moving out, if slowly, because Altyrn has assigned Lerial as rearguard. The road, as before, is empty except for Altyrn’s forces, but there are enough fresh ruts and tracks to indicate that quite a few of the local people have fled, although Lerial suspects there may be many who live deeper in the woods and who are gambling that the Meroweyans will stay fairly close to the main road to Verdell. Lerial doesn’t doubt that, but he does think it will only be a matter of time before the fires set by the invaders will get out of control-if they haven’t already in the west where Juist and Denieryn are fighting. When that happens the fire will do to those who are in its path what the Meroweyans haven’t.
Lerial also briefly ponders why the Meroweyans have not set more fires after razing Nevnarnia and Truyver. He shakes his head when he realizes that those advancing toward Verdell don’t want to end up being trapped by any fire they set, and that they would have to answer to Duke Casseon if they fired every hamlet and town because that would destroy much of the reason for even occupying the Verd. In addition, it is clear that the Meroweyans have waited to march on Ironwood until the fires set at Nevnarnia have died away … or been damped down by the elders.