An insistent rapping on his door, well before dawn, awakes Lerial on twoday morning, the last twoday of winter, not that winter is that cold as far north as Lubana is, and he struggles out of bed. “Yes?”
“The arms-commander wants all senior officers in the salon in the next third of a glass, ser.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there.” The Heldyans must be attacking. Why else would he want us all there so far before dawn? Lerial’s ability to use his order-senses means he doesn’t have to light the lamp in order to dress, although he needs light to read something or locate a very small object. He does light the lamp, using a touch of chaos rather than fumbling for a striker, when it comes to washing and quickly shaving. He is ready fairly quickly and makes his way from his quarters toward the staircase.
There, he pauses to wait for Ascaar, who appears more discomfited and rumpled than usual in the morning, then says, “A Heldyan attack, you think?”
“If it’s anything worse, I don’t want to know,” growls the Afritan battalion commander as they descend to the main level of the so-called country home.
In the dimness of the main hall, its cavernous expanse lit but by two lamps, Lerial sees Drusyn waiting by the salon door.
The graying subcommander smiles cheerfully.
“Don’t say a word,” says Ascaar gruffly. “Too early for cheer.”
Drusyn just shakes his head and accompanies the two into the salon, where Majer Prenyl stands by the dark widow that overlooks the front plaza. Subcommander Klassyn waits by one of the settees, as does Valatyr. Before any can exchange greetings, the majer says, “Arms-Commander, ser!”
Lerial and the others remain standing as Sammyl and Rhamuel stride into the salon and past them. Sammyl stops beside Valatyr.
Rhamuel moves to the end of the chamber. “You all can sit down. Not that you’ll be here that long.” He waits for a moment, as Lerial and the officers who had been standing seat themselves, then continues. “The lookouts to the south have reported lamps and torches on the Vyada piers. It would appear that the Heldyans are loading many, if not all, of the flatboats. We can’t tell where they intend to go. For all we know, they could be headed all the way to Estheld or Swartheld … or they could land south of Lubana. My best judgment is that they will attempt to land the flatboats in a number of places near Luba in order to prevent us from massing our forces in any single spot. I could be wrong, but we will proceed on that assumption.” The dark-haired arms-commander pauses and his eyes sweep across the officers present. “Subcommander Drusyn, you will be responsible for stopping any incursion immediately south of Lubana. Subcommander Ascaar, you will deal with any landing north of Lubana. Overcaptain Lerial, for the moment, you will remain ready to reinforce either of the other forces … or to deal with a third possible point of attack, if there is such, once we can determine that. I will keep you informed as we know more. Because it will likely be a glass before the first flatboat leaves the piers, I’ve ordered the immediate dispatch of field rations to all companies, and officers’ rations are already in the dining room. Take a moment to eat something before you head out to your officers and men. It will likely be a long day.” He pauses again. “That is all.” With a quick nod that is just short of being brusque, Rhamuel turns and leaves the salon.
Lerial looks to Drusyn. “Do you think they’ll really land where you’re being dispatched?”
“Who knows? They’ll do their best to do what we don’t expect. Wouldn’t you? What do you think?”
“What the arms-commander does—that, if they attack, they’ll attack in more than one place.”
The two walk from the salon without saying more, through the hall and into the private dining room. “Officers’ rations” turn out to be a full breakfast set at each place, with a healthy helping of egg toast, ham strips, and a small loaf of bread for each officer. Lerial sits between Ascaar and Drusyn, since seating by rank is only at the evening mess, and pours himself a lager from one of the pitchers.
“What do you think?” Lerial asks Ascaar after taking several mouthfuls of the egg toast, sweetened by a dark berry syrup, followed by some lager.
“Duke Khesyn’s been wanting to conquer Afrit for years, if not longer. Figures he has to do it soon.”
“Why soon?” asks Drusyn.
“Duke Kiedron gets stronger every year. I’d wager Khesyn didn’t think that he’d send forces to support the arms-commander. Even if Khesyn did think that might happen, every year that passes means Cigoerne will be able to back Afrit more.” Ascaar looks to Lerial. “You don’t have a choice, do you?”
“No,” Lerial admits. “For all the trouble we’ve had between us and Afrit, it’s been nothing,” not since Ensenla, anyway, “compared to the difficulties we’ve had with Casseon and Khesyn.”