Lerial is finding that he doesn’t like to try to guess what his enemies are doing, even as he knows he must … and that he must get better at it … so that he is not guessing, but anticipating. Like with the sabre.
“Guide cords in place, ser,” Moraris says quietly.
“Squad. Forward.”
After they have ridden downhill and south, then across part of the small valley, but before they reach the middle, Lerial can sense the supply wagons. Without probing, recalling his lessons with Saltaryn, he tries just to gain an impression of where there might be ordermages or white wizards. There are two, possibly three, white wizards in the middle of the Meroweyan positions, and several farther to the south, although he cannot locate the wizards to the south, most likely because they are beyond his ability to discern clearly. Fourth squad continues at a measured pace, first, because it is quieter, and also safer in the darkness, and second, because slower movements are not as likely to be noticed at a distance by sentries.
Lerial also directs the squad from clump to clump of bushes, in ways that do not markedly extend the distance they must cover, in order to convey the impression that the riders are a scouting party … if they are noticed. But with about half a kay remaining to the area from which he wants the archers to loft the fire arrows he says, “Concealment coming. Pass it back. Quietly.”
After several moments, he raises the concealment, then makes another effort to try to determine whether the chaos mages might have detected anything. He can sense no changes. He almost feels like holding his breath in the darkness that is far darker than a starry night as he leads the column across the remainder of the flat area and then starts up the gradual slope toward their target.
When they near the area he and Altyrn had picked out, Lerial realizes that they cannot go exactly where he had hoped. Because, even his senses are telling him that the ground ahead is far too uneven to ride across. Yet … they are possibly thirty, perhaps even fifty, yards short of where he would like to be, a good hundred and fifty yards from the supply wagons. He lifts the concealment.
“We’re fifty yards farther out. Pass it back.”
Lerial waits for Moraris to report.
“Fourth squad, ready, ser.”
“Strike and light,” Lerial orders, hoping that is an accurate order. He has no idea what the proper order might be, but his words seem to have the desired effect because small balls of light appear along the line of archers.
“First volley!” he finally orders, then watches as the arrows arch up and over the crest, trying to follow them with his senses. While a few strike the wagons, most fall slightly short. “Head archer! Most are about ten yards short.”
“Ten yards more. Ready for volley.”
“Second volley!”
Most of the arrows are in the right range, but many still miss the wagons. One wagon seems to be catching fire, from what Lerial can sense. “That’s a good range. Stand by for third volley.”
“Ready for volley.”
“Third volley!”
This time a few more shafts stick.
“Stand by for fourth volley.”
“Ready.”
“Fourth volley!”
Lerial can sense the chaos building-somewhere to the south and east of him-but there is nothing he can do but wait … and hope he has the ability to divert whatever chaos force is aimed at fourth squad. While the arrows are having an effect, they really need at least one more volley.
The fifth volley goes, and Lerial is about to order the sixth, knowing there are only enough arrows for seven full volleys, when a firebolt flares directly toward him.
Even though he is as ready as he can be, it takes a huge effort to drop the chaos-fire short of fourth squad, more so than angling it away, but he hopes the flare of power will momentarily keep the white wizard from seeing or determining whether his effort was successful.
“Sixth volley!”
As soon as the fire arrows are away, he orders, “Turn and withdraw! On the double!” He turns the gelding, noticing that some of the archers are glancing toward the hilltop. “Withdraw! Now!”
“Forward to the rear!” orders Moraris, urging his mount forward toward the end of the column that has become the van.
The squad starts downhill, but Lerial remains at the back. He tries a quick sensing of the wagons and gets the impression that as many as six may be in flames. Men are scurrying and pulling other wagons away. At least, that is the impression he gets-along with that feeling of building chaos.
The next firebolt is bigger than the previous one, but it arches down toward Lerial, almost as if the wizard intends to drop it right on him.
Lerial concentrates-this time with a terribly fine-lined twenty-strand order loop-and the firebolt strikes the hillside less than thirty yards behind the gelding. Heat hotter than an oven washes over Lerial, then dissipates.
“Captain?” comes a call from Moraris.
“I’m fine. Keep riding! There might be more fireballs.”
No sooner are the words out of Lerial’s mouth than he can sense more chaos building somewhere behind him, and he wonders if he can divert the next chaos-blast … and still function.
The third bolt is more whitish red, somehow nastier feeling.
Lerial doubts that he can survive another twenty-line diversion pattern, and he tries two linked ten-line patterns. His mouth opens as the firebolt just disintegrates in midair with streamers of reddish-white flames almost dribbling from the star-sprinkled night sky.
Over the next three or four hundred yards, he can sense no more chaos-fire concentration, but, once more, Lerial’s head aches, and tiny flashes of light erratically distort his vision. He keeps looking back, but there are no more firebolts, and once they are close to a kay away from the Meroweyan lines, he begins to breathe more easily. As fourth squad begins riding up the slope on the north side of the valley, back to the Lancer camp, Lerial realizes that, despite the evening chill, he is sweating and soaked, and his entire body is shaking. Just from diverting three firebolts? Three?
But then, he’d only managed two the last time.
He takes another look back across the valley. The flames have died down, but there are still some reddish-orange points of light and an overall fire glow. He almost smiles, until he thinks about how many white wizards the Meroweyans have … and the fact that at least one of them had known exactly where he had been.
He just wishes he could figure out a way to divert all that power in the chaos-bolts back to the wizards who are throwing it-or at least back at the Meroweyan camp. You’ll have to think about that. Except … to do that, he needs to work with wizard chaos, and that tends to be difficult when, if he fails, he’s likely to be incinerated on the spot.
Lerial is so exhausted by the time that he and fourth squad return that he really doesn’t want to do anything but collapse into sleep, but he needs to report to Altyrn. After unsaddling and grooming the gelding, quickly and not well, he makes his way to find the majer.
Altyrn is standing beside the awning tent, talking to Juist and Kusyl. Rather than interrupt, Lerial waits until they leave to step forward. “Ser?”
“I could see the fire from here. Did you take any casualties?”
“No, ser.”
“Good. Were there any problems or anything I should know immediately?”
“No problems, but they do have at least four white wizards, chaos mages.”
“I saw the firebolts. How far do you think the farthest one went?”
“A kay at most.”
Altyrn nods and then looks closely at Lerial in the dim light. “Get some sleep. You can tell me the rest in the morning. Early.”
“Yes, ser. Is there a problem?”
“Not unless you have one. I need to work out some things with fifth and sixth company.”