“I’ve thought of that,” Lerial admits.
“Think some more about other ways, if necessary.”
Rhamuel’s firm words convey something close to desperation … and the unspoken point that Afrit has no chaos-mages worthy of the name … and that raises yet another question. Why not? And another. If not, why has Khesyn not known and not invaded sooner? Lerial has the definite feeling that, if he ever discovers the answer, he won’t like it.
“I will, but I’d better leave. We need to make some preparations, and I need to move the companies to the Harbor Post.”
“Then go. But be as careful as you can.”
“I will.” Lerial appreciates the thought, but he has his doubts. Somehow … Nonetheless, he manages a smile.
As he walks from the bedchamber, he is already thinking about what will be necessary. The first thing that crosses his mind is that he needs to make certain all the Mirror Lancer companies are carrying lances, especially after what he has seen so far about the Heldyan companies and their tactics. Then there is the problem of feeling out Subcommander Dhresyl … and his thoughts and tactics … and the ever-present feeling that he has overlooked or missed something very obvious … and that such an omission will prove deadly.
XXXIII
By half past sixth glass of sixday evening, Lerial and his three companies of Mirror Lancers are as settled as they can be into a single battered barracks in the southeast corner of the Harbor Post. After reaching the post and reporting to acting Commander Dhresyl, and asking for and receiving a sheaf of blank paper, Lerial almost immediately departs with Kusyl, Strauxyn, a squad from Eighth Company, and an Afritan scout familiar with the deployment of the Heldyan forces.
They only ride about a kay before turning west on a dirt lane. Less than two hundred yards from the shore road, the scout reins up. “You can see how they’re set up from here, ser. They’ve lined up companies from the shore to the hill over there.” The scout points. “The hamlet—that’s where their headquarters are. Leastwise, that’s where everyone rides to.”
The hamlet is a rough clumping of perhaps a score of cots on the west side of the shore road, set on a flat to the north of a small creek that flows under a bridge crossing the shore road and into the bay. Surprisingly, there are few reeds or marsh grasses where the creek joins the bay. Recently turned fields, now covered with rows of tents, extend more than a kay west of the road before giving way to a sparsely grassed slope rising to a long ridge that roughly parallels the shoreline. Almost due west, and just a shade north of the hamlet, there is a dip in the ridge that would afford an easier passage than riding over the ridge. Lerial can see men and mounts posted there, as well as lookouts on the ridge on both sides of the low point. He takes out one of the sheets of paper and uses a grease marker to sketch the Heldyan camp and the brook and other key features of the terrain.
“What’s beyond the ridge? Can we ride far enough that way to get a glimpse of the land there?”
“Yes, ser. Not much there. Ground’s not too rough, but not much grass and more than a few thornbushes, the low prickly kind.”
As they ride westward along the higher ground on the south side of the creek, Lerial studies the west end of the fields, trying to memorize them so that he can add them to his map. A low grassy swale separates the fields from the gradual slope of the ridge, which is sandier and less grassy than Lerial had originally thought. The swale is almost, but not quite, a natural moat, but Lerial doesn’t see that it would be that much of a barrier to the lancers, especially if they could surprise the Heldyans. On the other hand, the slope up from the creek to the north flat is steeper than it first looked, although the creek is also narrower, no more than a yard across and likely less than a half yard deep, from what Lerial can see.
After half a kay or so, the scout again reins up where the lane turns to the southwest to parallel the swale. Lerial can see that the creek flows northward in the center of the swale until it reaches a point some hundred yards northwest of him where it turns, almost abruptly, to the east and toward the bay. Absently, he wonders when the creek was diverted
“You can just see part of the back of the ridge from here,” says the scout. “You want to go farther?”
Lerial doesn’t answer, but studies the back of the ridge, taking out his crude map and sketching in more details. The part he can see has what might pass for a forest, a mixture of dryland pines and tree cactuses that seems to stretch almost a kay, perhaps a third of a kay south of the low point in the ridge and two-thirds of a kay north.
“Is there a trail through that low point?”
“No, ser. Maybe a footpath, but it’s steep between the first ridge and the second one back.”