His mouth opens, and he shakes his head.
“Ser?” asks Bhurl.
“Nothing. I just realized something.” That is why you can’t create defenses that are always there. They’re not a part of you … and they have to be.
He is still thinking about that when Bhurl gestures and says, “Believe that’s Tirminya over that rise ahead.”
Lerial knows they have made better time on the return, largely because they have not had to worry about wagons, just the supplies on the two packhorses, but he still wonders if they are really that close to the post, although they have passed groupings of growers’ steads over the past day, and he does not recall that many steads that close together, except near Tirminya.
He extends his order-senses … and discovers that Bhurl is indeed right. The post lies less than two kays ahead over the low rise ahead and to the south of the dirt road that they have followed for days, seeing only occasional herds of sheep and one small herd of cattle. “You’re right. There’s no one on the road over the crest, either.”
“You could worry a man, ser, seeing where eyes aren’t.”
Lerial grins. “As I recall, that came in useful more than once.”
“Still worrisome.” But Bhurl grins in return.
What’s worrisome to Lerial is that, for all his quiet attempts over the journey, he is not that much closer to having figured out how to create continuous shields, or what he thinks of as permanent defenses. He has been able to create what amounts to a continuing “chaos-diversion” shield, in a way, by linking the pattern to his sabre or his belt knife, but if he doesn’t renew the pattern every few glasses, and sometimes more often, it slowly disintegrates. On the one hand, he worries that he is overlooking something simple that he should know … and on the other he wonders if making such shields a part of himself are just beyond his abilities.
The post gate guards scarcely blink when Lerial, Bhurl, and the assorted Lancers ride up to and through the gates. Lerial has barely reined up outside the stables when Seivyr, wearing captain’s insignia on his collars, hurries up.
“Welcome back, ser.”
“Thank you. It’s been a long ride. I see you’re a captain,” observes Lerial before dismounting. He really wants to stretch his legs.
“Better late than never.” Seivyr’s smile vanishes. “Before I forget, I wanted to tell the majer that I did appreciate the caution about the post gates. You’ll let him know, won’t you, if you see him before I do?”
Lerial nods. “Of course.”
“He was right about that for sure. After I took over as acting post commander, I watched especially close. Sure enough, one night, I found a ranker slipping the bar. We tied him up and waited. A squad of Afritan armsmen was sneaking around, and they tried the gates. We killed about half of them. The others got away. I gave the men some of their arrows as souvenirs.” Seivyr looks blandly at Lerial, almost as if he knows something. “They weren’t even broken.”
At that moment, Lerial recalls that Altyrn had never mentioned the assassin who had tried to kill the majer the first time they had passed through Tirminya, except as an idiot with a bow. That is, he’d never mentioned it to Dechund, but Seivyr’s words suggest that the majer had told the then undercaptain. “Do Afritan arrows have something that identifies them?” Lerial asks guilelessly. “As Afritan, I mean?”
“There’s a mark on the arrowhead,” replies Seivyr, “and a red band painted around the shaft above the fletching.”
“I wonder if Captain Dechund knew that,” muses Lerial.
Seivyr shakes his head. “He never mentioned anything about it.” After a slight hesitation, he adds, “Whalyn didn’t know, either, not until after the raid.”
There is something … but Lerial needs to think about it, especially before saying anything, and he asks, “Is Whalyn the only undercaptain here now?”
“He’ll be going soon as we get two fresh undercaptains. Be a captain before the turn of harvest, I’d wager. Stands a bit higher in Majer Phortyn’s eyes than some.”
“That can happen.”
“We can talk about it over supper. Whalyn and his two squads won’t be back till late. You and the majer ever get into it with the Meroweyans?”
“That will take dinner and more to tell,” replies Lerial with a laugh.
“Then I won’t keep you.” With a smile, Seivyr turns and leaves Lerial and Bhurl to deal with the Lancers and the packhorses.
A good glass later, Lerial and Seivyr are seated in the post’s small officers’ mess.
“I’m afraid that supper is plain mutton,” says Seivyr apologetically.
Lerial looks at the platter before him-just cheesed and sliced potatoes and mutton with gravy, with pickled beets-and he smiles broadly. “After ghano-acorn hash and a few other Verdyn staples, this looks wonderful.” He stabs a slice of the mutton and cuts it. “You just don’t know…”
“The way you’re eating, I don’t know as I’d want to,” returns the captain.
Even the lager, which Lerial once would have called bitter, but passable, tastes so much better than the watered greenberry with which Lerial has had to content himself for so many days. Finally, after enjoying the plain food, he looks up, almost embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I should tell you about Verdheln.”
“It’s clear that the fare wasn’t to remember.” Seivyr laughs. “The majer said something about that once. How is he?”
“He’s well. He’s training more companies of Verdyn Lancers. We had six companies partly trained when the Meroweyans attacked. The majer taught us to use their skills with bows to whittle away their numbers. We lost every skirmish and every battle until the last two, and when it was all over, there were only a hundred or so of their wounded left.”
“Begging your pardon, ser, but I think you left a bit of that tale on the table.”
“I suppose I did.” Lerial takes another swallow of the lager, then clears his throat. “Well … first he sent out Juist and his company to shoot arrows into their column, the one riding toward Verdheln, from the west. Then he sent me and second company to attack from the east. When they finally got to the ridge just south of the Verd they set up a long line. We did several night attacks with fire arrows and whittled away some more of their forces. Then they moved up and started attacking the Verd with their chaos wizards. We’d slip out from other places and attack companies on the fringe. That went on for an eightday or so before they burned through the tree-wall and started marching up the main road toward Verdell…” Lerial continues in a similar vein for a time. “… and then the elders set a fire that trapped the western army between a river and the fire, and that burned up the town, the Meroweyans, and the chaos wizards with them. That left the bigger army, except it wasn’t so big by then-”
“You never did say how many men Casseon sent.”
“The majer thought it was eight battalions, around forty companies.”
“And he managed to defeat them with six green companies?”
“That was with the help of the Verdyn elders, the people, and the ordermages that were in the Verd. One of the elders-the one who called the fire at Faerwest-was killed by bringing up that much chaos.”
“What about the bigger army?”
“We met them just south of Escadya. We had trenches across the open meadow. We’d cut down a few of them and put a gap in their shieldwall, but they were about to overrun us when the ordermage with us called on some lightnings, and that killed a bunch of them and disorganized the rest of them, and we were able to take most of them. One company or so fled, and I had to take second company and follow them. We caught them on the grasslands outside the Verd.”
“What happened?”
“None of them survived to make it back to Nubyat.” Lerial shrugs. “That was about it.”