“You can never tell, but I would doubt it. All these attacks are designed to destroy the Afritan Guard. So far as I know, there aren’t any large Guard forces anywhere else besides where the last four attacks have been. There’s more likely to be an attack somewhere else in Swartheld than in any other town or city.”
“Begging your pardon, ser,” begins Kusyl, “but what did the commander really want?”
Lerial can’t help smiling faintly, since he has not mentioned that Dhresyl wanted anything, but Kusyl has been in the Lancers far longer than Lerial—long enough to be skeptical of senior officers and to know that they often want far more than seems reasonable. “To know why our casualties were so high.”
“We ought to bring him along next time,” says Strauxyn.
“Wouldn’t do any good,” drawls Kusyl. “Have to be able to see what you’re looking at.”
Fheldar offers the smallest of headshakes, then asks, “What’s next, ser?”
“That depends on the Heldyans. I’d be happy if they just don’t attack today.”
“When do you think they will?”
“If they’re smart, and they’ve generally been effective, they’ll attack tomorrow. Plan on that. If they don’t, the men will get another day to recover.” And you’ll start worrying about what else they’ve caused to go wrong somewhere else. Lerial manages a smile. “That’s all for now.”
After he leaves them and begins to walk to his small room, where he hopes he can take a nap or at least rest, his mind is already considering the possibilities of what the days ahead will bring.
XXXV
Lerial awakens early on eightday, feeling the heavy stillness of the air even at dawn. When he looks outside, the sky is darker than usual for dawn, and he can discern a thick haze overhead. At least his headache has finally vanished, and there are no flashes across his eyes. He washes, shaves, and dresses quickly, then makes his way to the duty officer stationed in the small chamber off the senior officers’ mess.
The captain on duty looks toward the door as Lerial enters, then straightens. “Ser?”
“Do you have any reports on the Heldyans?”
“Ah…” The captain yawns. “Sorry, ser. It’s been a long watch. The last word came in about half a glass ago. The scouts report some movement in the center of the encampment. No companies appear to be forming up. They weren’t then, that is.”
“Do we have any word from the arms-commander?”
“Nothing since yesterday.”
“No messages or dispatches for me?”
“No, ser. No dispatches since yesterday afternoon.”
“Thank you.” Lerial turns and walks back into the mess.
One of the servers hurries over. “Ser … ah…”
“Nothing’s ready, I take it.”
“Not yet, ser.”
“I’ll have a lager while I wait.” Lerial settles into one of the chairs at the long table, worrying. Why haven’t there been any dispatches from Rhamuel? Has he taken a turn for the worse? Yet at the same time, he knows that whether Rhamuel survives or perishes is, at least at the moment, secondary to the need to defeat and destroy the Heldyans and remove them from Afrit. Destroying would be better, especially if Rhamuel does not survive. Lerial just hopes that the arms-commander survives … and that his father and Emerya will agree to her coming to Swartheld … if she will even consider it. Even crippled, Rhamuel would be a far better duke than Atroyan had been, and Lerial shudders to think of Afrit under Mykel, if he has even survived … or one of the merchanters, since Kyedra would never be allowed to rule. Then, they might consort her to the son of whatever merchanter took over so that they could claim the line would continue. That thought also disturbs him, even as he considers that he scarcely knows her. He directs his thoughts back to the likely battle ahead.
He is still pondering over what role or task the Mirror Lancers might best accomplish in the face of the certain oncoming Heldyan attack when the server reappears with a beaker of lager and a platter with cheesed scrambled eggs and a still-steaming small loaf of bread.
“The cook thought you might need this now, ser.”
“Thank you … and thank him. I appreciate it.”
Lerial eats the eggs and bread—all of it—quickly, draining the beaker as well, then stands as he starts to head out to meet with his officers.
“Ser?” A junior squad leader hurries toward him. “There is a senior officers’ meeting at half before seventh glass. Commander Dhresyl would appreciate meeting with you immediately before that.”
“Did he say how much before?”
“No, ser.”
“I’ll plan to be there,” Lerial gestures toward the door to Dhresyl’s makeshift study, still only occupied by the duty officer, “a tenth of a glass before the meeting. If he needs more time than that, I’ll be meeting with my officers.” Lerial pauses briefly, then asks, “Did the commander say anything about the meeting?”
“No, ser.”