Lerial reins up, not wanting to charge across another fifty yards or so of open ground to reach what was likely the inner wall around the old fort, once likely more than two yards high, but now more like a yard and a half or a yard and a cubit high in most places. Most of the Heldyans who survived the redirected chaos and the Mirror Lancer charge are either behind that higher wall or scrambling back to reach it.
The third chaos-wizard has vanished—at least from Lerial’s order-senses. Because you’re getting tired? Or does he have a different kind of shield. You can’t have stunned or killed him. He wasn’t even near the others.
He looks back across the shore road, where he sees a score or more of the Afritan Guards moving out—far too slowly—and heading toward the now-undefended stone barricade. Then, belatedly, he turns and surveys the river. He swallows as he sees several more flatboats, separated by close to thirty yards, and headed toward the temporary pier. All three flatboats have shield walls on the shoreward side.
What can you do?
Without drawing on a white wizard’s chaos, he can’t use chaos against the men on the boats, and without knowing where the last chaos-mage is, he can’t use order-chaos separation effectively because, unless he uses it near the mage, the mage’s shields are likely strong enough to withstand the destruction. Unless you push matters, and then you’ll end up destroying the Heldyans, the mage, your own men, and a chunk of Swartheld … and yourself … and the mage might still survive. And he can’t do much more with order-diversion because he is getting too tired to focus accurately.
Even in those brief moments of thought, he sees yet another flatboat, shielded on the shoreward side, moving in behind the first three, all angling toward the makeshift pier on the point.
At that moment, he wants to slam his palm into his forehead. The frigging pier, of course! While he knows he is stretching his reach and his abilities, the last thing he wants is to allow even more Heldyans to land, or land easily, particularly any more wizards or mages.
As carefully as he can, despite his blurring vision and aching head, he extends his senses to the middle of the covered flatboats that serve as the makeshift pier, then begins just a small order-chaos separation of the planks in the bottom of one of the flatboats … as well as a tiny order-chaos separation in the leading flatboat.
Chaos and steam erupt from the middle of the pier, then race in both directions, with flame and more steam. Squinting to try to make out whether the destruction he has wreaked has been adequate to accomplish his goal, Lerial finds himself even more light-headed … and weaving back and forth in the saddle.
“Ser?”
Fheldar’s voice seems all too far away, so far that Lerial can barely hear him.
“Send a messenger to the subcommander … that we’ve destroyed the pier and a flatboat … that … will make … landing reinforcements … more difficult.” As he speaks, Lerial is aware that each word requires more effort. “Archers … need … to target men wading … ashore…”
Why so hard to speak…?
And then there is just blackness …
XXX
Lerial wakes stretched on a pallet lying in a large room that smells of wood … and more wood. His head is throbbing and his vision blurry, when what he can see is not blocked by sharp flashes of light. A young Mirror Lancer ranker sits beside him on a stool.
“Here’s some lager, ser,” says the ranker, whose name Lerial cannot remember, although he knows it … and knows he does.
Lerial slowly gathers himself into a sitting position, takes the water bottle, and begins to drink the lager. The first sips are hard because his mouth is so dry. After several sips, and then somewhat larger swallows, the throbbing drops from being excruciating to merely exceedingly painful.
“What time is it?”
“Second glass of the afternoon, ser.”
“Did everyone get clear?”
“Yes, ser. Squad Leader Fheldar had us take care of the Heldyans who remained, then withdrew.” The ranker’s lips turn almost sardonic.
Lerial wonders about that, and is about to ask when he realizes that, for some reason, his hip, the part right under his knife, feels warm, almost as if it were sunburned. That thought leaves his mind as he sees Fheldar walk through the doorway of the lumber or timber factorage, or cabinetry shop.
“Good to see that you’re still with us, ser.” The senior squad leader gestures to the ranker, who backs away. Then Fheldar continues, “Begging your pardon, ser … but … if you won’t think of yourself … would you think about what would happen if I have to report to Duke Kiedron that you got yourself killed in Afrit? Or who would defend Cigoerne against that bastard Khesyn?”
“I thought I was being careful, Fheldar. I misjudged. How many men did we lose?”
“Six dead, eight wounded. One likely won’t make it.” Fheldar’s mouth twists into a disgusted expression. “Ser…”
“What is it?”
“The Heldyans retook everything we cleared out. Less than a company of the Afritans advanced, and then they withdrew after a single blast of chaos. Just a little blast, and it didn’t even come close.”
“Was there more chaos-fire after that?”