“To embarrass you, in order to have you replaced.”
Rhamuel laughs, if ruefully. “That’s certainly the first thing that crossed my mind, but I wonder if I’m taking that too personally.”
Given what appears to be happening in Swartheld? Lerial smiles. “It also could be to make sure you keep at least a battalion or two of Afritan Guards in the south to weaken your defenses of Swartheld.”
“That is also possible.”
Lerial nods and waits.
“You know,” Rhamuel says casually, “my brother is rather fond of Lubana. I’ve never understood why, but he is. I’d much prefer the hunting lodge at Chaendyl—that’s in the wooded hills west of Swartheld—or even the villa at Lake Reomer.”
“Thank you,” says Lerial, giving a double meaning to the words, “I wouldn’t have known where either of those are.”
“I thought not.” The arms-commander purses his lips. “I shouldn’t keep you longer, and I do need to go over a few matters with Sammyl and Subcommander Valatyr.”
“I wouldn’t want to keep you from that,” Lerial replies. “I did appreciate the lager and the biscuits … very much.”
“I thought you might, and you’re very welcome.”
As Lerial leaves the study, he recognizes, once more, that even the arms-commander of Afrit must watch every word, even in the privacy of his own spaces. But he is indeed grateful for the refreshments, since he feels strong enough to go back and do some healing on at least another wounded ranker or two, possibly three.
XIII
Four of the wounded lancers die before midnight on twoday. Although Lerial’s efforts at healing seem to be working with those he has been able to help, and while those with less chaos in their wounds and broken bones also appear to be improving—at least, they were when he left, late in the evening—Lerial is still worrying in the gray dawn light as he goes to meet with his officers … well before breakfast and the morning meeting that will follow, and which he dreads. He knows that he did not handle the battle before the wall well. He should have gathered all his forces within the wall, let the wall take the brunt of the initial attack, and then struck back with his own abilities. He is more pleased with the second battle, although his timing could have been better.
For all the maneuvers you’ve conducted, and the handful of skirmishes with raiders, you haven’t fought a pitched battle in almost five years. That thought does not console him. Nor does the fact that he and his men likely would have taken far higher casualties, or even been slaughtered, without his order-chaos abilities. Maybe not Kusyl’s company, no thanks to you.
The tents holding the various Afritan Guard companies are largely quiet as he walks down the open space that serves as an avenue of sorts. Two Afritan rankers, handling guard duties, nod politely and step back. Lerial returns the nod and continues on, trying to use his order senses to see what they may say to each other.
“… the one … tell by the red hair…”
“… rode out of the rubble and killed all the Heldyan bastards?”
“… same … doesn’t pay to cross Mirror Lancers…”
Lerial only wishes that were true. Duke Khesyn has been crossing Cigoerne for years, what with his raids and his occasional attempts to block river trade.
When he reaches the Cigoernean tents, Fheldar and the two undercaptains are waiting.
“How are the wounded?” Lerial asks immediately.
“There are some…” begins Strauxyn.
“Let me deal with them first. Come along.” Lerial leads the way to the tent holding most of the wounded, where Kusyl points out a young ranker from Twenty-third Company.
“Nothing that I can see,” says Kusyl. “Just … something.”
Lerial studies the young man, who feels warmer than he should, with both eyes and order-senses, the latter likely to be more accurate in the grayness before dawn. There is more wound chaos than there should be in the wound—a thrust into the upper chest, at an angle, not even to the bone. Lerial can sense a small object there, surrounded by wound chaos.
Can you use order, maybe with a touch of chaos, to get that out? His brow is covered with sweat within several moments, but he finally removes part of the dressing and uses the tip of his belt knife, touched with order. The knife, a pulse of order, and the tiniest touch of chaos result in a narrow sliver of something that feels ugly on the tip of the knife, and some pus on the skin around the wound.
“Have them clean the skin with clear spirits and re-dress the wound.” Lerial follows Strauxyn to the end of the tent to a ranker moaning in his sleep. His left leg and forearm are splinted.
“He seems to be moaning more than the others…”