Again, Lerial redirects it—this time into the rear of the main body that has just engaged Dhresyl’s forces.
Then both mages aim chaos at Lerial. He manages another diversion, but some of the chaos evades his pattern and strikes his shields, leaving his hip burning. Burning? Of course. The knife’s the anchor. Sweat oozes from all over his body and dribbles down from his visor cap across his forehead, as well as down his neck in back. He can also sense that another Heldyan heavy cavalry force has turned from the shore road and gallops toward the Mirror Lancer rear.
You’re running out of time and space.
He is also breathing heavily, and his arms ache.
Yet another chaos-bolt flares toward him, and redirecting it is an effort … But more Heldyan foot are turned to ashes … and silver death mists flow.
You’re going to have to use order-chaos separation on at least one of those mages. He’d prefer aiming at the stronger one, but Lerial still cannot locate him precisely. Except … if they’re coordinating those attacks … they can’t be that far apart … and besides, it should be easier just a bit away from their shields.
He senses the slightly weaker mage ahead of him and to the south. Guessing that the stronger one must be more to his left, he begins to create a circle of order-chaos separation, trying to focus the flow of destruction to the south. A chaos-bolt splashes against his shields, and the burning pain from his hip is agonizing as he concentrates on the separation.
He can feel one of the mages trying to throw a shield around the order-chaos separation, followed by another shield from the other.
Too late, you slimy bastards!
A circular wall of silvered-golden-white sears skyward, so intense that Lerial can see nothing. Vain as he knows it must be, he extends his shields across the front of Eighth Company.
… and then … he feels them shredding and crumpling, with spears of red-dark chaos and black-silver order flaring toward him, bolts of power that jerk him back in the saddle and then slam him forward into an even darker blackness.
XXXVI
Lerial finds himself lying on a bed or a pallet. His entire body is painfully hot, as if he’d been sunburned all over, and his back is damp from hot sweat. The spot on his hip is especially painful. His eyes open, but he can see only darkness, and he can order-sense nothing. Is this death? His second thought is, Neither Father nor the majer would approve of what you did.
He blinks several times, and the blackness lifts slightly, enough that he can see that he is not in darkness, just in a dim chamber. While the darkness lifts, he also realizes that his head is throbbing and he feels sore across his chest and upper arms, as if they are bruised. He is only wearing smallclothes, as if his uniform has been removed. There is a faint light, perhaps a small lamp, to his left.
“Ser?” asks an unfamiliar voice.
“Yes…” Lerial’s mouth is so dry that he can barely get the single word out.
“You need to drink as much as you can.” A man in a Mirror Lancer uniform moves to stand beside the bed.
Lerial turns his head slightly, but does not immediately recognize the ranker. You should. You should know them all. He squints, trying to place the man, younger than most, but not all, of the men. He’s not in Eighth Company. Lerial tries to moisten his lips, but his tongue is dry, and his mouth feels like it has been stuffed with hot wool.
“This will help, ser.” The ranker lifts a mug from somewhere. “It’s not water. It’s lager with a little water. Undercaptain Kusyl insisted on it.”
“You’re … Twenty-third … Company…?”
“Yes, ser.”
At least he’s not in Eighth or Eleventh. Lerial tries to sit up, but he is so sore and stiff that the ranker has to set the mug on the side table and help him into a sitting position against some scratchy pillows of some sort.
He hands Lerial the mug. Lerial drinks … and is surprised to find himself drinking and drinking. Finally, as he shifts his body to set the empty mug on the table, the pain on the side of his hip shoots up his side, so sharp that he almost drops the mug before easing it onto the small square table. Then he looks down to find a damp compress on his hip.
“There was a bad burn or blister there, ser.”
“What about my knife?”
The ranker looks puzzled. “Your knife, ser?”
“The blister was under my knife and sheath, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know, ser. I just came on duty.”
“What glass is it?”
“Sometime past seventh glass, ser.”
“You’re a field healer, then?”
“I’ve been working at it, ser. I’m not like you, ser.”
Lerial manages a smile. “You’re more likely to survive to practice healing, then.” As he looks at the young ranker, he wouldn’t be surprised if the man had some order-healing talent. But how can you tell now?
“Will you be all right for a moment, ser? I need to send word to Undercaptain Kusyl.”