The Order War (22 page)

Justen wiped his forehead on his sleeve, then gave the mare another pat. To his right, the river twisted and turned through the bottomland, while thickets rose out of the adjacent backwaters. On the western side of the River Sarron were stubbled fields interspersed with rock-walled meadows turning brown, where even some few scattered flocks of sheep still browsed, as if their shepherds knew that the cold running water protected them.

Should he try to find a ford? Justen looked down to the river, which spanned nearly a hundred cubits. Despite the lack of rain, the center of the muddy flow still churned ominously. The light breeze carried a half-leafy, half-musty, smell of autumn up from the river.

The engineer glanced toward the west, where the sun hung midway between the zenith and the smoke-smudged horizon. Then he sighed and took a swallow from the water bottle.

The rocky slopes above the road held several small meadows and stone trellises bearing vines. The grapes had been
stripped, and the few houses he had seen were shuttered tightly. He’d found a few berries, and even a pearapple tree with enough fruit not only to eat, but to store in the otherwise empty saddlebags. Though he was not ravenous, some solid bread and hard cheese would have been welcome.

“Let’s go, lady.” He patted the mare again and lurched slightly in the saddle as she started uphill.

How long they had ridden before he saw the thinnest of smoke plumes from the holding chimney, he did not know, only that the sun hung lower in the afternoon sky.

“Should we try to buy something?” he asked the mare. Receiving no answer, he turned her off the road and up the cart path toward the low, stone and thatched-roof dwelling. Even as he watched, the thin line of smoke seemed to get thinner, but he could still smell the faintest hint of burning wood.

A stone wall, broken by a single open gate, surrounded both the house and what appeared to be a thatched barn. From somewhere behind the wall, Justen could hear the sound of a saw.

“Father!” called a sharp and high voice.

“Hullo, the house,” Justen called as cheerfully as he could, reining up perhaps twenty cubits short of the gate.

“Just stay right where you are, fellow!” A thin-faced man appeared behind the wall, standing on something that raised him so that his chest and the longbow he held were clearly visible.

“I was hoping to buy a few provisions.”

“Got nothing for sale.” The man kept the bow centered on Justen’s chest.

“I can pay. I’ll even leave the coin in plain sight.”

“Don’t want none of your coin.”

“I’m not a White—I’m an engineer from Recluce—”

“Don’t tell me. You’re riding a horse with a gray saddle cloth. Means as you’re either a White scout or a deserter, or worse. If I could be certain you’re a no-good, you’d be dead now. Sides…even if you be from the devil isle, what’s the difference? Fighting over our corpses, that’s all.” He raised the bow fractionally.

Justen frowned, then drew the cloak of light around him
self and the mare, nudging her sideways quickly and flattening himself against her neck.

Thunnn…

The arrow passed over his head, close enough that he could feel the wind of its passage.

“You bastard wizard! You get close, and I’ll still get you!” The man had nocked another arrow. “I can see your tracks in the dust. You can’t hide everything with your tricks. Now get out of here! I got plenty of arrows, and I might miss—but I might not.”

Shaking his head behind the light-shield, Justen used his perceptions to help him turn the mare.

“Just keep going! We don’t need your kind here. You come back, and I’ll chase you to the Stone Hills.”

Justen kept himself as low in the saddle as possible as he guided the mare down the drive and back onto the road. Once beyond the bow’s range, he released the shield and found himself shaking.

“They’re not exactly too friendly. Chase us all the way to the Stone Hills? It’s hot, and it doesn’t sound like a friendly place.”

The mare whickered, once, softly.

“You don’t want another rider spitted with an arrow.” Before all the words were out of his mouth, the image of the dead, dark-haired Guard appeared in his mind. Had she even seen the archer who killed her? Maybe it hadn’t been one of his arrows. He shook his head. It had been his idea, and that meant all the arrows were his.

The mare’s former rider hadn’t been touched with chaos, but in the end, that hadn’t mattered. She had died, and so had thousands of Sarronnese. So had Clerve and Krytella. Justen’s eyes blurred, as did the visions of the redhead and the dark-haired Guard.

He rode, not really seeing, for a time.

While there were other holdings, those few he could finally see from the road were silent, closed, and seemed almost hostile. So after climbing and descending three more hills, he spotted a pearapple not too far from the road with a few fruits left. He picked them, and some late berries growing by a narrow stream. He ate one pearapple and the berries,
washed them down with stream water—order-spelled for safety—and hoped his system would not rebel against all the fruit. As he ate, he brushed aside a whining mosquito and some flies. The mare grazed quietly.

Finally, he stood and shook himself.

“Time to get moving…again.”

The mare slowly raised her head, brown-tipped grass disappearing into her mouth.

They continued southward on the road, the only road, which followed the river until they reached a slightly higher hill. At the hillcrest, Justen paused as he studied the river valley below and the small town on the west bank. He had reached the point where the river forked into its upstream branches. Rather than attempt a massive span across the Sarron below the junction, the Sarronnese had built two bridges, one across each fork. From what Justen could see, the western river fork was nearly twice the size of the fork before him. The town, whose name Justen could not recall, lay on the western side of the western branch.

Again, the houses and barns scattered across the hillsides through which he rode remained shuttered tight or empty, or both, while he could see smoke and movement on the far side of the River Sarron.

After studying the scene below for a time, he urged the mare forward and down toward the bridges. Perhaps he could finally get across the river and turn back toward Sarron and Rulyarth.

As the road flattened, he passed a series of buildings that appeared to be an inn, but the sign had been removed from the posts by the road, and even the stable door had been boarded shut. Recent and heavy-rutted tracks led from the closed inn toward the bridge ahead.

After glancing back at the inn, Justen continued toward the bridge on the raised roadway that overlooked lower, swampy ground.

Yee-ahhhh…
A vulcrow cawed from a bare-limbed tree, then flapped back in the direction of Sarron.

Justen reined up at the edge of the stone bridge. The center section of the span, which had obviously been of timber, had been removed, leaving a gap of roughly ten cubits. The lo
cals had clearly not spent much effort on blocking the eastern bridge, but he suspected that the western bridge would be different.

The water beneath the bridge seemed almost shallow enough to ford. Justen nodded and looked back at the gap between the sections of stone pavement. The opening was almost narrow enough for him to clear it himself. Did he really want to try jumping the horse? Could he manage to hang on? Or would it be better to try the river?

“You up to a short jump, lady?” He patted the mare, but she did not answer. He sighed and guided her back to the clay approach to the bridge. Then he studied at the span. The gap looked wider than before.

“Darkness screw it!” he snapped. “Let’s go!” He nudged the bay into a canter, then a gallop. Her hooves clattered on the stone, and she jumped—even before Justen had urged her—and landed cleanly on the other side.

Justen bounced in the saddle, grabbing her mane with one hand and the saddle with the other, leaning over so far that his head almost scraped one of the bridge abutments. His stomach churned, and he was breathing hard by the time the mount slowed to a walk and he managed to get himself straightened in the saddle. His ribs hurt where he had apparently bounced into the hilt of Firbek’s too-big sword.

The clay of the road was lined with deep wagon ruts, probably those of the wagons carrying the bridge timbers. The ruts ran past the narrower road that headed southeast into the dry and rolling hills.

Justen rode up to the larger bridge and noted the kaystone: Rohrn. As he suspected, all three center sections, except for the stone piers, had been timbered, and had been removed. Did the people of Rohrn really think the lack of a bridge would stop the Whites?

He grinned. Given the depth of the river, it would certainly slow them down. Then he shook his head as he turned the mare back. How was he ever going to get across? On the side where he rode, there wasn’t even a trail paralleling the western branch of the river. Probably the smaller road he had just passed would turn or join another trail that would wind back to the river. Probably…but trying to get out of
Sarronnyn was proving harder than he had thought. But then, everything was proving harder than he had thought.

He turned the mare back toward the last crossroads, glancing to the west, where the sun had half-dropped behind the horizon. To the right of the road was a narrow, recently plowed field that paralleled the river and stretched several hundred cubits westward to the top of a low rise. A split-rail fence separated the field from the road, and another marked the far end of the field. Because of the gentle rise, Justen could not see the ground beyond the farther fence, only a regular line of trees.

He still needed to find a place to camp—and to find something more to eat, and some grazing for the mare. To stay too close to Rohrn, with its dismantled bridge, probably wasn’t very wise.

Justen flicked the reins and looked toward the crossroads.

Then he paused and turned in the saddle. There ought to be another road somewhere, but he hadn’t seen it, not unless he’d overlooked something. But after two different sets of archers having fired at him, and without a decent meal, he wasn’t thinking all that clearly.

Finally, he urged the mare onto the road heading yet farther from Rohrn, from Sarron, and from Rulyarth. He took a deep breath and patted the mare again.

This time, she
whuffed
back at him.

The more slender of the two figures in white winced as he studied the mists swirling through the flat glass on the table. The candle illuminating the glass flickered as he leaned forward and attempted to make out the dim figures within the mist.

“Darkness,” muttered Beltar. “What’s that?”

“A woman and a tree. A sending of some sort, except that it’s order-based, and yet it’s not. It feels like it’s from the southwest.”

“From Naclos? The druids? I don’t like that.”

“Like what?” interrupted a rougher voice. Zerchas stepped into the tent. “I felt someone playing with a screeing glass.”

Behind him followed Jehan, his face carefully blank.

“There’s some sort of order-projection coming out of Naclos,” Eldiren observed mildly.

“Out of Naclos? We’ve never been able to see into Naclos.” Zerchas turned his head and spat out into the darkness, then gestured. A white flame flared where his spit had landed.

“That’s rather…excessively cautious.” Beltar’s voice was cool, polite.

“Superstitious, you mean? Some superstitions have reasons behind them, young Beltar.” Zerchas laughed harshly. “Now what’s this nonsense about the druids?” He peered toward the glass and the dark tree.

Jehan’s eyes followed those of Zerchas.

Abruptly, the image vanished.

Eldiren swayed on his stool, putting a hand to his brow. His face appeared pale in the flickering light.

Beltar and Zerchas exchanged glances, although behind them, unnoticed, Jehan staggered for a moment and straightened, recomposing himself.

“The druids? That much order?” blurted the burly White Wizard. “But why?”

“It has to be connected with that engineer—the one who did the black arrowheads and made that second dam.” Eldiren mumbled the words.

“Didn’t he leave with the others?”

“He’s not on the river road to Rulyarth. There were only five engineers in that group.” Beltar put a hand on Eldiren’s shoulder. “Let go of the glass,” he added in a lower tone.

“He could have been dressed as a marine. He’s the one that the Recluce marine—Firbek’s his name, I think—says is good with weapons,” suggested Jehan.

“Firbek looked at them all in the glass.” Eldiren nodded at the glass, now only a mirror resting upon a table.

“Then find him and be done with it, if he’s so important.” Zerchas’s lips turned into a sneer. “Surely your powers are
up to handling a mere engineer! Either capture him or kill him. Then you won’t have to worry about the Naclans.”

Beltar seated himself before the blank glass, frowning momentarily as the white mists appeared again. Slowly, an image formed, that of a man sitting by a stone wall.

Then the mists swirled over the image, and the glass blanked.

“What—”

“He threw up a barrier. I don’t think he’s just an engineer.” Beltar closed his eyes and massaged them gently.

Eldiren’s eyes met with Jehan’s, and Jehan gave the minutest of headshakes.

“Where is he?” asked Zerchas.

“He’s not that far away,” answered Beltar. “Somewhere on the road toward Clynya.”

“Oh…leave him alone. What can one engineer do?” asked Zerchas, again spitting through the flap of the tent and incinerating the residue even before it could strike the ground. “Even if he were a second-rate Black, he couldn’t do much.”

“Show-off…” mumbled Eldiren.

Jehan winced.

“On second thought,” Zerchas added, “perhaps this engineer could be a threat. Eldiren, you can take the Second and Third lancers and find him.”

“Ah…we haven’t really sent any forces as far as Clynya.” Beltar stood up from the stool.

“We have now. Eldiren, you can take the Fifth, what’s left of them, as well. There aren’t any holdings toward Clynya anyway—only orchards and sheep. Just head up the River Sarron past Rohrn to Clynya. You probably can’t cross until you reach Clynya in any case. That way, you can ensure everything is secure there while Beltar and I begin the march toward Rulyarth.” Zerchas smiled. “Jehan will take your place here with Beltar.”

“The Black could always hide in the Stone Hills,” suggested Eldiren.

“Even an engineer from Recluce couldn’t be that naive.” Zerchas snorted. “Once you’ve taken this renegade engineer, you can march down the south branch of the Jeryna
River. Take your time. We’ll meet you in Jerans…when we can.”

“That’s asking a lot.” Eldiren swallowed.

“I’m sure you’ll manage. But I wouldn’t take any powder.” Zerchas bowed, and added before turning and departing, “Good evening.”

Jehan looked at Eldiren and shrugged behind Zerchas’s back.

“Come on, Jehan. You’re not staying here…yet.”

Jehan turned and followed the older wizard.

For a moment, the two remaining White Wizards stood silently. Only a few voices penetrated the tent from the camp beyond, those and the faint chirping of insects and the intermittent croaking of a frog.

“Beltar…” Eldiren rubbed his forehead. “Those are all units that are short because of that engineer. I doubt if there are five score left. And the hill Sarronnese don’t exactly like outsiders.”

“I know.”

“Can’t you do something?”

The broad-shouldered White Wizard shrugged. “What? Zerchas still commands. That’s why he’s dumping Jehan on me—to make sure I’m a good boy.”

Eldiren pursed his lips and looked at Beltar. Beltar met his glance. After a moment, Eldiren’s shoulders slumped and he walked into the darkness.

Left alone in the tent, Beltar took another deep breath.