Lerial waits a moment, then orders, “Second company! Withdraw now!”
“First squad! Here!” shouts Korlyn.
“Third squad…”
Lerial turns to the southwest, heading downhill, only to sense a chaos-bolt sizzling toward his regrouping forces. Despite the throbbing in his head, he throws up a diversion pattern.
The firebolt explodes short of second company. Exactly where, Lerial cannot say because the pain is so intense that his entire body feels as though a thousand knives have sliced into him, all at once, and he reels in the saddle. He keeps riding, hoping that the squad leaders can re-form their squads.
“First squad, ser,” announces Korlyn.
“Any casualties?”
“All present. Two wounded.”
Lerial’s eyes continue to burn, but he waits … and waits … for Bhurl to report. Finally, he hears, “Second squad, two missing, one dead, three wounded.”
It could have been much worse. “Thank you.”
Fhentaar reports three men wounded, none seriously.
“Fourth company, ser, rejoining,” announces Moraris.
“Casualties?”
“One, ser.”
“Was that the archer who went down in the withdrawal from the ridge?”
“Yes, ser.”
“Thank you. Have fourth squad fall in at the rear. Detail someone to watch for approaching riders.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial can barely stay in the saddle as he leads second company east and well away from the Meroweyan lines and the gully just to the north. He can only hope that they do not run into the third Meroweyan company … but given his splitting headache, he cannot sense more than a few yards away.
What a mess … That thought is an understatement. He could tell who had been where, but he doubted that anyone else could, and trying to convey orders in that confusion … He starts to involuntarily shake his head, but the lance of white-hot pain through his neck and eyes freeze him in the saddle for an instant.
He keeps looking to the west as the sky begins to lighten, but he sees no riders or armsmen anywhere near second company. There are riders and armsmen all over the east end of the ridge, but none appear to be in formation or moving north.
The sky is a medium gray as second company rides the last half kay toward camp. The worse of the pain racking Lerial’s body has lifted, leaving him with aches, soreness in places, and a throbbing headache. At that point, Lerial recalls that he has never even questioned the squad leaders on possible enemy casualties. So he rides back along the column and asks each squad leader. In the end, when he returns to the head of the column, the best estimate he has is somewhere over twenty Meroweyan casualties, perhaps twenty-five. Nothing has gone quite the way he’d planned … and the plan had been his, even if the majer had approved it.
Three missing, likely killed, one dead, and five wounded. Nine casualties. And Lerial doesn’t even want to think about facing the majer.
When second company reins up, Lerial rides to each wounded ranker, checking each, hoping desperately that none need urgent healing. Three appear to have broken arms, without compound fractures, and Lerial has their squad leaders direct them to the two healers provided by the elders. The fourth ranker, from second squad has only made it back with the help of his squad mates, and Lerial accompanies him and the last wounded man to the healers’ tent. The fifth wounded ranker has taken a thrust straight into the gut, and he is beyond writhing in pain. Lerial doubts he will last the glass … and, again, there is nothing he can do.
So he turns to the other ranker lying on an adjoining pallet, who has a deep slash and gash across and into his thigh. Lerial can sense more than mere wound chaos. He tries to remember the man’s name. “Haermish … was this a sabre wound?”
“It was more like an axe, ser … short axe.”
Battle-axes? Lerial has never heard of them being used in Hamor … or even in Candar.
“He couldn’t have hit you directly…”
“No … ser…”
Lerial immediately infuses a little order into the wound and tries to strengthen the area around the blood vessels.
He straightens, the tent spins around him, and darkness crashes down on him.
* * *
He wakes lying on a pallet in the corner of the tent.
No sooner do his eyes open than an older man in deep brown-one of the healers, Lerial can tell from the well of dark order around him-appears. He smiles almost sadly at Lerial.
“What is it?” Lerial’s voice comes out as a croak.
“You cannot do that often, Captain.”
“What?”
“Kill and heal.”
“How is he? The one with the gash? Haermish.”
“You did enough, Captain. He will live. He won’t likely walk that well.”
“How did … you know?”
“There was no one else who could have … and order flows around you and through you, even now, weak as you are.” He extends a mug. “Drink this.”
Whatever it is, Lerial realizes as he sits up slowly and takes the earthenware mug, it smells absolutely terrible. “What is it?”
“What we drink when we try to heal too much.”
Lerial begins to drink, trying to ignore the taste and smell. When he finishes, he sees that the healer has left and is splinting the arm of one of the second company rankers. Rather than move or say anything, he remains sitting on the pallet for a time until the residual dizziness subsides. Then he stands, slowly and carefully. The older healer nods to Lerial as he leaves, but does not speak.
Once outside the tent, Lerial makes his way to see the majer.
Altyrn is once more under the awning, studying maps and making notes on a separate paper. He looks up. “You took your time.”
“I made sure the wounded got to the healers’ tent.”
“That’s not your job. That’s what squad leaders are for.”
“I had to heal a serious wound. You told me never to do that in the field while in command.” That is not precisely what Altyrn had said, but it is close enough. Surprisingly to Lerial, the majer nods. “Fair enough. Tell me what happened.”
Lerial does. He is so tired that he doesn’t bother to skirt around diverting the firebolts, and the majer doesn’t remark on that, confirming Lerial’s impression that Altyrn had already deduced his ability in that area.
“What sort of casualties did you inflict?”
“It was hard to tell…,” Lerial begins.
Altyrn cuts him off. “You have no idea how many casualties you inflicted?”
“Not really, ser. I saw two Meroweyans killed and another two wounded. I could see two others go down when their mounts hit holes in the ground or something. My squad leaders report that they saw or their men saw another twenty casualties. We know that they lost men to war arrows, but not too many.”
“And the scouts reported that they sent out burial details at first light,” added Altyrn. “I’d judge from all reports that you might have gotten as many as thirty in the skirmish, and possibly more from the fires in the camp. Say, fifty at the outside, and you lost nine rankers. Even taking out five of theirs for every one of ours … we lose.”
Well aware of this, Lerial merely nods.
“On the other hand, five to one isn’t bad for a young very junior undercaptain in your boots. You don’t have the experience … and experience is paid for by making mistakes. Usually undercaptains have experienced squad leaders and senior officers. Our only experienced squad leaders are acting undercaptains, and I can’t be everywhere. Some of the rankers acting as squad leaders don’t have as much experience in fighting as you do. In the end, though, all of those difficulties don’t count. You … and I … we have to find ways to do better.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Get some food and rest.” The majer offers a smile, fleeting as it is. “I’ll need you later.”
LVIII
For the remainder of threeday, Lerial rests, eats what he can, watches the Meroweyans, sees to the details of notifying the family of Arsenor, the Lancer who had died of his gut would, checks on the other wounded from second company, all of whom appear likely to recover … if not for a time. He rests some, when he can. He also wonders if Lephi has had any experiences like his own. How would you find out? He likely doesn’t even know you’ve left Cigoerne.