Cyador’s Heirs (22 page)

Before long the two scouts are reporting to Chaarn and Altyrn.

“Village looks to be empty … fresh tracks of three mounts headed southwest.”

“Lerial and I will check out the village.” Altyrn looks hard at Chaarn. “Then we’ll be back. You’ll find a place to stay tonight? Somewhere close?”

“That might be best. Hualsh shouldn’t be moved much right now. I’ll send Naekyr and Alakan with you.”

“We’ll be very careful, but it’s necessary.”

Chaarn nods.

Lerial thinks the nod is reluctant.

Once they have started south on the trail behind the two Lancers, he asks, “Why do you need to see the village?”

“We both need to see it, for rather different reasons.” Altyrn frowns, then goes on. “It’s been years since we’ve seen a band of raiders that large this far north. I’m getting the feeling that it’s drier than we thought in Merowey, and that’s going to mean more raiders and trouble. A lot more, and Graessyr won’t want to hear that, much as he needs to know.”

Lerial does not comment on how the majer has avoided answering his question, knowing the Altyrn will not say what he does not wish to reveal and hoping that those reasons will become clear before they return to Kinaar.

The trail is empty except for the four riders, and Lerial sees no new tracks, except for the pair left by the fleeing raiders, and no dust hanging in the air. Little more than a kay from the site of the skirmish, the trail curves around the end of a low rise, and less than half a kay ahead, Lerial can make out the hamlet. As they ride closer, he sees that the hamlet, if it can even be called that, consists of eight dwellings with sloping sod walls. Only the two largest have chimneys, ugly constructions of rocks held together with sun-hardened clay.

“Did you check the huts?” Altyrn asks the Lancers.

“Yes, ser. No one there. It looks like the raiders—the ones who ran off … well, they might have stopped here.”

“Any bodies?”

“No, ser.”

“Then they didn’t kill anyone. Could you tell what they took?”

“No, ser. A couple of the huts are a mess. There’s no blood anywhere.”

“That’s good. The locals got off easily, then.”

Easier than the Lancers did,
muses Lerial.

Altyrn looks to Lerial. “Ride over to the closest one. Dismount and look inside. But have your sabre out and ready … just in case.”

“Yes, ser.”

When Lerial dismounts, he hands the gelding’s reins to the majer and walks slowly to the first hut. The walls are made of chunks of sod, stacked on top of each other. There are only two crude windows, with what looks to be a crude wooden square the size of the window opening beneath each.
Solid wood shutters?
What passes for a door is the same, and there is not even a wooden door frame. A sour and acrid odor assaults Lerial as he nears the door, and he raises the sabre as he takes one step … and then another. But he can neither see nor sense anyone beyond the entry, and he steps forward.

The hut seems to consist of two chambers. One contains the hearth, a long table made of saplings fastened together with the top side cut or scraped flat, and four backless benches constructed the same way. The odor is overpowering and gets stronger as he peers into the other chamber, clearly used for sleeping, given the pallets there. Except they are not pallets, but raised earthen beds filled with leaves.

Lerial scans the chamber and makes his way out of the hut, trying not to retch. Once outside, he swallows twice, choking back bile, then says, “There’s no one in there.”

“Take a quick look inside the next two,” Altyrn orders.

“Yes, ser.”

Altyrn walks his mount and Lerial’s toward the second hut, following the young man, but his bow is once more out, and he surveys the hamlet, his eyes never stopping.

Lerial looks into the next two, quickly, but carefully. Although they have no chimneys, they appear to use a window to vent their hearths. The stench is similar in both to the first.

“Mount up,” Altyrn says quietly as Lerial emerges from the first hut.

Lerial is more than glad to do so, and they are well away from the hamlet before he speaks. “How can they live like that?”

“Teilyn was much like that when I was granted my lands,” replies Altyrn. “Most of the dwellings were either sod or log-walled. There are a few of the log dwellings still.”

“Then … you … made it what it is.”

“Maeroja and I did much. The most important was building the brick kiln and the sawmill … and showing people how to use mud brick. With bricks and planks, people could build better houses. We also piped clean water down from the hill spring.”

“Piped?”

“We fired the pipes in the kiln. That was hard. We broke a lot. Bricks are much easier, at least once you get the hang of it.”

As he looks northward to where a mounted Lancer waits, Lerial wonders just what else Altyrn has done … and how much of it his father knows.

XX

Sparan dies just before dawn on eightday morning. The Lancers bury him on the hillside where he fought, but remove his personal articles and place them in the dead Lancer’s kit bag, which they tie to his saddle.

When Lerial checks Hualsh, the wounded Lancer appears slightly stronger, or his order flows do, but Lerial worries. From what Lerial can sense, the wound chaos has not increased and might be just a touch less.
But is that what you want to believe? How can you tell?

“How does he feel?”

Although Altyrn’s voice is low, Lerial starts, because he has not heard the majer approach. He turns, and after a moment, he says, “He’s stronger than yesterday…”

“But you worry.”

Lerial nods.

“It would be better for him to stay here for a few days. We don’t have that choice.”

“Because of me?”

“Partly. It’s also because Graessyr and your father need to know how bad things could get. The raiders haven’t come this far north and east in years. If they’re coming here this soon after harvest, there are likely more of them near Bartheld and Narthyl. The longer before he knows, the more growers will suffer.” Altyrn adds, “That’s going to make things difficult for your father … and for everyone in Cigoerne.”

“Because the Heldyans—or the Afritan poachers—will take advantage of it if Father sends more Lancers south?”

Altyrn nods. “It’s possible.”

“We need more Lancers, then.”

“If he raises more than the two companies Majer Phortyn is training now, that will leave fewer men in the fields. That will make planting harder and slower in the spring. It takes seasons to train a Lancer. You knew how to handle a blade and ride, and look how long it’s taken you.”

“And I’m not even as good as they are,” says Lerial.

“No … you’re better than the newer Lancers. You’re just not as good as the experienced squad leaders and officers. You’re probably better than the very junior undercaptains, but you should be better than that before you can ride patrols.”

Why? Lephi likely isn’t that much better.
“Because I’m Father’s son?”

Altyrn offers a sad smile. “No. Because you’re part healer.”

Lerial doesn’t know quite what to say to that. Saltaryn has said that a youth of Magi’i blood should avoid healing until he mastered chaos. Was what the majer has told Lerial what Saltaryn had really meant?

“A Lancer officer who is part healer cannot afford to think about what he does in battle. He must be so well trained and skilled that his body will instantly do what needs to be done.”

“Why is that?”

“Healers are steeped in order. Order opposes death. In battle, you have to seek the death of those you oppose. If you don’t, you’ll be the one who is most likely to die. You will have to lead men. They will know, before long, if you hesitate to kill when you must.”

Lerial understands. He doesn’t like it, but he does understand.

“Now … we need to pack up and head out.”

“Yes, ser.”

As he begins packing his kit bag, Lerial can only hope that Hualsh can survive the ride back to Teilyn. His eyes drift toward the hillside … and the single grave that holds Sparan … and the larger and shallower one that holds the bodies of twelve Meroweyan raiders.

XXI

Just before midday on threeday, Altyrn and Lerial ride up to the villa south of Teilyn under a cloudy sky with a cool wind blowing out of the southwest. Lerial is grateful that Hualsh appears to be healing, or was when they left the Lancers at the post, and that the Lancer’s wound chaos is less each day. Even so, Lerial worries. He also worries about the quick conversation that Altyrn had had with Captain Graessyr, mostly because of the looks the captain had given him.

As they near the stables, Lerial finally asks, “Did I do something I should know about?”

Altyrn offers a puzzled frown, then abruptly shakes his head and laughs. “You’re asking if I was telling Graessyr that you’d made some sort of mistake? No … we weren’t talking about that at all. He was impressed with the fact that you’d used your sabre as you were taught and that you helped heal Hualsh.”

“Couldn’t you have stopped the bleeding and sewed up the wound?” This is something about which Lerial has wondered for most of the journey back to Teilyn.

“I could have. So could Chaarn, but Hualsh had a better chance with you. I saw what you did with that boy who had his arm ripped by the cart wheel. I might stitch a little neater, but there’s more to healing than that. You have the touch. For you, it’s a curse and a blessing. If I were you, I’d not let anyone outside your family know. Graessyr won’t say anything, and I told Hualsh that he shouldn’t. He’ll keep his mouth shut about that.”

Altyrn’s last words carry a conviction with which Lerial isn’t about to argue, especially when he sees Maeroja and the three girls waiting by the north entrance to the villa, less than forty yards away. Maeroja’s eyes are fixed on Altyrn, and Lerial can sense her concern.

Apparently, so can the majer, because he eases his mount toward her. “We’re fine, dear one.”

“I only counted nine rankers, and one of them was wounded.”

Lerial realizes that she must have been watching—or had someone watching—when they rode past the villa to the post.
She had someone watching every day?

“We ran into a raiding party in the south valley. They won’t be doing any more raiding,” Altyrn says dryly.

Rojana looks up to Lerial. “There’s blood on your sleeve. Were you wounded?”

Lerial has forgotten the blood, most likely from when he sewed up Hualsh’s wound. “No … that’s likely from when I sewed up a wound one of the Lancers got from the raiders.”

“Likely?” asks Maeroja. “There were other possibilities?”

“It might have been a raider’s blood,” he admits. “I did have to use my sabre.” It feels strange to admit that the weapon Altyrn has given him is indeed his.

“He used it in self-defense,” Altyrn adds. “The raiders attacked us.”

“Don’t they always?” Maeroja’s voice is cool.

Altyrn looks at her, and Lerial feels that he is almost pleading, if silently.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I had so hoped…”

“So had I. I had hoped … this early in the fall…” The majer looks to Lerial. “We need to get the horses unsaddled and groomed, and we both need baths and clean clothes.”

“You certainly do.” Maeroja’s voice is warmer.

As Lerial and Altyrn ride toward the stables, Lerial continues to puzzle over the words the majer and his consort exchanged, as if somehow Altyrn has done something he had promised he would not … and was apologizing for having done so.
But what he does every day on the lands takes more effort than the journey did … or has he promised not to fight the raiders?

It takes Lerial longer than the majer to unsaddle and groom his mount, and by the time he has finished, the majer has left the stable. Lerial gathers his gear and lugs it to his chambers, and he is grateful that someone—most likely one of the girls—has carried water up to his bath chamber. When he is finally washed and dressed in clean greens, he makes his way down to the courtyard. He looks around and finds that the only ones in the courtyard beside him are Aylana and Tyrna, and they are gathering up their dolls and placing them in a leather case.

“You took a long time,” says Tyrna, almost accusingly.

“I had to groom my horse and see to his water and feed.” Lerial pauses. “Were you the ones who carried water to my room?”

“We helped Seltha,” announces Aylana.

“We did most of it,” adds Tyrna.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Tyrna smiles.

“Your mother was most worried when your sister saw the blood on my sleeve,” Lerial keeps his voice puzzled.

“Father’s not supposed to fight raiders anymore. He promised.”

“Tyrna!” interjects Rojana, who is walking from the north door toward the terrace table. “You’re not…” She shakes her head.

“He’s almost family,” replies Tyrna. “Father said so.”

“So did Mother,” adds Aylana.

Rojana offers a rueful smile to Lerial. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”

“You all worry about your father.”

“He’s supposed to take care of himself … and…”

“He didn’t have a choice … and he agreed to train me, and none of us thought we were going to have to fight raiders when he took me to see places he thought I should see. None of you thought that, either.”

“He shouldn’t have,” says Tyrna.

“Fought raiders,” explains Rojana. “Not taken you … I mean, he should have taken you, but…”

“He didn’t expect raiders,” Lerial says. “He really didn’t. When they showed up, he let the Lancers take the charges. There were two lines of Lancers, and we stayed behind both of them. It was just that there were more raiders, and some of them got around the Lancers.”

“He said you killed one of them,” says Rojana. “Did you?”

“Yes. He was charging right at me. I wasn’t trying to kill him. I was just trying to hit him with my sabre so that he wouldn’t kill me.”

“You’ll have to kill more raiders if you go on patrols,” observes Rojana.

“If I go on patrols … that’s possible.”

Rojana is about to say something when Maeroja appears.