The Order War (24 page)

Several old loaves of bread remained in the hole, as well as two large blocks of hard yellow cheese, each wrapped in wax. One had been opened and roughly resealed. He took that lump and one loaf, replacing the stone before straightening.

“How many slices of cheese and bread would you like?”

“My, and being served cheese in my own bed by a young fellow yet…” Another laugh followed. “One thick one.”

Justen sliced three slices of each—all of them thick—and set them on a wooden platter that he carried back to the corner. After easing one slab of cheese onto a thick slice of bread, he took the mug from Lurles and placed the bread and cheese in her fingers. He eased back onto the stool.

“Strong fingers—like a smith’s. You be a smith?”

“Yes. I work with the forge.”

“Good. Never be knowing a bad smith.” Lurles’s words came between mouthfuls.

The bread and cheese tasted far better than any meal Justen could remember—at least any recent one.

“You fixed the well rope so I can get water?”

“You shouldn’t…” he mumbled through another mouthful of bread and cheese.

“Bother. You be a Black smith, and you can’t be staying here. Not if you want to live. This stuff ye put on my leg—how long do I keep it there?”

“I’d guess four to five eight-days. But it will be a season before it’s really healed.”

“Bother that.”

“Stay off it as much as you can or it will break again.”
Justen swallowed the last of the second slab of bread and cheese, amazed that he had eaten it all so quickly.

“You men…” Lurles reached outward, and Justen refilled the mug and handed it to her. She drained the mug and bent down to set it on the floor.

“You sound as though you believe in the Legend.”

“Bother the Legend. Look at Birsen.”

Justen cleared his throat. Finally, he added, “The rope at the well didn’t break…”

“The bucket dropped into the water. I heard that.”

“The rope was cut almost all the way through. I brought back the top piece.” He walked over to the table and reclaimed the rope, bringing it to the older woman and placing it in her hands. He watched as her deft fingers explored the hemp.

“Have to do something about that boy.”

“Boy?”

“Birsen. Just a big, selfish boy.” Lurles levered herself around slightly in the bed, wincing at the movement. “Told Firla he was too good-looking. So was Tomaz. Be ye good-looking, young fellow?”

“Ah…I never thought about it. My brother was the goodlooking one.”

“Men…sure and you thought it. You be plenty fair, an’ my word on it.” Lurles grinned. “Now…I be fine, and best ye be going afore those White devils catch up to ye.”

“How…but what about you?”

“You be not able to take me, be ye? If you fill the water buckets, I be able to rest here.” She laughed. “No White devils trouble themselves with folk this poor.”

“I’ll take care of the water.”

“And take the other block of cheese and a loaf.”

“You need it.”

“And you be not in need? Healing my leg and tending me, worthless as I be, be worth something, my fine young Black fellow.”

Justen shrugged and grinned as he picked up the two small water pitchers and headed out through the rain. The mare whinnied as he hauled up the well bucket.

“I know. You’re probably hungry, too.”

Back inside, he wiped the rain off his face and hair, then set the pitchers down. “The water’s on the table. Do you need anything else?”

“Nay.” She paused. “There be a smidgeon of grain in a small cask behind the post in the near corner of the barn. For your horse.”

“If it wouldn’t be too much a loss, a little would help.”

“Young fellow…I can’t recall ye to Firla knowing not your name.”

“Justen. It’s Justen.”

“Then be off with ye. You spent enough time with a old woman.”

Justen touched her forehead lightly, offering a small flow of order, hoping it would help.

“You sure no Temple priest ye be?”

“No Temple priest. Just a lost smith of sorts.”

“Get the bread and cheese, and the grain, and be off with ye now.”

Justen took the remainder of the cheese that he had already cut—about half the size of the block that remained—and one loaf, leaving two. He swallowed as he took a last look at Lurles from the door.

“I be fine. Off with ye!”

He closed the door quietly and firmly and went to look for the grain for the mare. The rain had dropped off to a fine, drizzling mist.

The path, as Lurles had predicted, turned and twisted on a gentle slope, so gentle that Justen was surprised when he looked back over his shoulder that he could see the eastern fork of the River Sarron winding southeast, away from Rohrn. The slight curve of the hill blocked his view of Rohrn and the junction of the rivers.

Justen searched for the hovel, but could see only a thatched roof. He hoped that Lurles would be all right. He
took a deep breath and turned, just in time to duck under an overhanging branch as the path wound back toward the south.

Had this been a mistake? Probably, but as far as he had gone, wouldn’t it be even worse to try to retrace his steps?

Still, the ride was somehow oppressive.

The few hovels and the one larger holding he had passed were shuttered and still, although he had the feeling that the larger holding had not been abandoned, but fortified, and he had ridden around it.

The dreams bothered him, especially the second one with the same woman, and the same clarity, and the same message—of sorts. The first one had been about the trees, the second about Naclos. Who knew much about Naclos, except that it was the home of the druids, who supposedly had something to do with trees? Sometimes wonderful cargoes of wood came from Diehl, the one port in Naclos, and sometimes people talked about the druids. But no one knew very much about them…yet he was having dreams about a beautiful druid.

Yee-ahh
. A vulcrow called from a pile of weed-tangled stones heaped in a corner of a meadow that had once, perhaps, been tilled.

Justen frowned. Was it the same bird? He let his perceptions drift toward the dark feathers, then stopped. Either the White Wizard had more than one familiar, or it was the same vulcrow.

His stomach tightened. Were the Whites after him specifically? Why? Had they discovered he was the one who had touched off the cannons and built the black iron arrows? If not, why were they following him? Or could it be due to his ill-advised attempt to sneak past them?

He twisted in the saddle, but could see no travelers on that small section of the road he had left in the morning. Although the clouds blocked the sun, he could sense that it was well past mid-afternoon, and he was still wandering through the gentle hills trying to find the road to Clynya.

Would he ever get there?

The path forked again, and he turned the mare westward, in the direction he thought might lead to the river. He glanced back over his shoulder, shivering at the quiet, and at the chill damp of the fall air.

“He stopped for a while outside of Rohrn. I lost him in the rain, but he’s still not that close to the Clynya road.” Eldiren gave the reins a little flick to encourage his mount to continue at a fast walk.

“Do you think that Yurka will catch him?” The sub-officer’s voice was low, deferential.

“The way things are going, Yurka will probably reach the crossroads before he does. The path the engineer’s taking is actually longer and slower than either main road.” Eldiren laughed. “That’s why Fairhaven builds roads. That’s why the Blacks’ own great Creslin insisted on highways on Recluce…and this poor engineer hasn’t learned the lesson yet.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Yurka? Nothing. He won’t catch the engineer.”

“He won’t? I mean the engineer, Ser.”

“The engineer will sense Yurka and his troops and head back along the crossroad he got too impatient to wait for and should have taken.” The White Wizard shook his head. “We may even have to slow down.”

Eldiren ignored the puzzled expression on the other’s face and continued. “You know, if we catch this engineer, we’ll have to mount an assault on Clynya. I am quite certain that the bridge there will be highly fortified. They might even destroy it.”

The sub-officer swallowed.

“Of course, if this chase to catch the engineer takes too much time and is hard on the mounts, we’ll probably have to
retrace our steps, say, to Rohrn, or perhaps back down the Sarronnese road.”

“But the Wizard Zerchas will…”

“That’s true. The Wizard Zerchas would…” Eldiren pursed his lips and smiled gently.

Justen squinted in the twilight, trying to make his way through both mist and dim light to find, if possible, the elusive road to Clynya.

The mare whuffled, as if to tell him she was tired of paths and narrow lanes winding nowhere.

Justen took a deep breath, wishing he could send his senses on the wind the way Gunnar did. Unfortunately, his talents did not lie in that direction, and the farthest he could sense things without using his eyes was several hundred cubits in any direction.

A faint metallic sound echoed through the dampness. Justen tightened the reins and brought the mare to a stop under an oak that had barely half its foliage. As he strained to sense the source of the sound, a yellow leaf fluttered down and landed on the back of his wrist. He shook it off.

Ahead was a stone wall nearly eight cubits high that stretched at least two hundred cubits across the hilltop. In the watchtower on the corner were two men, one armed with a crossbow. Justen continued to listen, trying to pick up the murmurs.

“…some deserters from the Tyrant’s force seen around Rohrn…trying to get across the river.”

“…wish ’em luck!”

“…thinks the Whites will be coming this way…lancers, maybe.”

Just his luck! Justen had stumbled onto an estate, or the fortress retreat of a local official who maintained his own forces. He pursed his lips, listening for a time longer. Another yellow leaf fluttered down, past the mare’s right eye.
She flicked her ears and shook her head. Justen patted her neck and whispered, “Easy…easy there, lady.”

“…think they’ll attack…”

“Sometime. Not now. Only five…six score…not enough to take us…”

“…about a wizard…”

“…walls…back to Jera…right on the rock below.”

“Hope so…”

“Wish Bildar…get here…”

Justen patted the mare’s neck again and eased her around and back down the path toward the last fork. While he was positive that the river road did not lie far beyond the holding, he did not intend to try to sneak past any holding that could stand off six-score White lancers, especially since the mist could lift at any time and it wasn’t even dark yet.

He did not breathe easily until they had retreated almost half a kay, back to the last fork in the trail. As he sat in the saddle, he yawned. Why was he so tired?

Grinning momentarily, he shook his head. Besides a lack of food, a lack of good sleep, constant worry, the effort to heal an old woman—not to mention the physical beating taken in the battle for Sarron—he had no real reason to be tired.

Shrugging, he urged the mare down the left-hand trail. It was more like a path and seemed to parallel the unseen road rather than join it. As he rode through the growing darkness, he watched the grounds to his right, with their neat and squared stone walls, well-kept rail fences, far better tended than most of the lands he had passed. Most probably they belonged to whoever held the walled keep he was avoiding.

Not until the meandering path had carried him and the mare back into the ragged and rocky sheep meadows and sagging walls and fences did Justen even consider stopping, despite his near-constant yawns and sore muscles. A few bites of the cheese and a chunk from the stale bread while he rode had helped relieve his headache and the worst of the soreness, but not the yawns.

Finally, the path turned slightly toward the west—at least Justen felt that it was turning toward the west—and resumed a gentle climb over several hills. Justen had lost exact count,
trying as he was to remain awake and being only half-alert, when the path dipped and then turned to run almost due south, alongside a depression between the hills.

A hint of order, of unseen order, tugged at Justen, and he reined up, shaking his head. He looked downhill, but his eyes had trouble focusing, although from the dimness below, he could hear a gurgling stream, apparently beneath a small grove of pine trees. He squinted and tried to use his senses. So far as he could feel, there was a cleared area under the trees, and neither animals nor people around. The cleared part of the almost tiny valley sandwiched between the two hills seemed to carry a sense of calm.

Justen studied the hillside. One part of the slope downward was almost clear of bushes and trees, but his eyes seemed to skitter away from the trees. Using mainly his senses, the engineer guided the mare through the gaps and under the tall trees. After he dismounted, his knees almost buckled when his feet touched the pine-carpeted ground.

“Ooooo…”

Whuufff…

“Thank you also, lady.”

The mare tugged at the reins, pulling Justen toward the stream, which ran over large pebbles and between boulders and larger rocks.

“Not that way, idiot. You’ll get your hooves stuck there. Here.”

While the mare drank, Justen studied the setting. No more than a half-dozen tall pines formed almost a circle, covering the center area with spreading branches. The brook appeared from behind a tangle of thorn bushes and redberries, ran through the clearing, and vanished downstream into an equally rambling mass of vegetation.

Justen pursed his lips and called on his senses again, studying the area, finally shaking his head. Beyond a vague sense of some underlying order, almost permeating the rocks and the pines, he could find nothing. Clearly, years in the past, the miniature valley had been created for some orderly purpose, but of that purpose, nothing remained. At least nothing that he could sense.

After he watered the mare, he continued to walk around
the cleared space, but he could find no sign that anyone had stopped or camped there recently. Finally, he unsaddled the mare and tethered her to a pine branch, with enough leeway that she could browse on the thick grass beyond the trees and in the narrow space before the tangled vegetation sprouted.

After that, using his senses, since it had grown almost pitch dark, he fumbled out his rations and began to eat, propped up against the trunk of a pine, listening to the gentle gurgle of the stream and the whispering of the pine limbs in the evening breeze.

Dinner, although it was supper in Sarronnyn, he recalled, was one of the pearapples, some cheese, and a chunk of bread, accompanied with liberal amounts of cool water from the stream. While the water had seemed clean enough, he had still taken the precaution of order-spelling it. Who knew what sheep fields it had seen?

The heavy needles and the blanket provided the softest bed he had felt in days, or had it been seasons? Although the grove appeared and felt safe, he set a simple ward—the only kind he knew—to wake him if anything large ventured nearby. Then he pulled the blanket around himself and collapsed.

Waking up was difficult, and his feet felt sluggish. Somehow, he was no longer in the grove, and he had been running after the mare, who kept dancing away from him, just out of reach. On the far hilltop, Gunnar marched northward, ignoring him even as he shouted his brother’s name.

Yee-ah…!
The black vulcrow swooped from out of the sky, and Justen threw up an arm to ward off the bird.

Hhsstt! Hssstt!
Two firebolts seared past him, one so close that his hair singed.

He looked over his shoulder. A squad of white-clad riders pounded across the side of the hill. He began to sprint toward the mare.

Just as his fingers closed around the reins, he stumbled…and looked down at a body in dark clothes.

“Krytella!” He reached down. The red hair turned darker and shorter, and his fingers clutched at rotting cloth as with a shudder, he dropped the dead Iron Guard, whose liquid flesh flowed into the ground.

He woke with a jolt, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Had it been just a dream? For a moment, it had seemed so real. Or was the White Wizard after him again?

Shivering in the chill, damp air, he let his senses touch the calm around him, reaching out to make sure that nothing lurked in the darkness beyond the grove, but all he could sense was the faint, underlying sense of order. He sensed neither chaos nor dread.

He fumbled for the water bottle he had set beside the tree trunk and swallowed several small mouthfuls of the cool liquid. What had the dream meant, if anything? He certainly knew that both Krytella and the Guard were dead. Was his mind trying to tell him that he couldn’t catch Gunnar? Or that, for all the calm around him, the White Wizard and his familiar still stalked him? He closed the water bottle and set it back against the bark of the trunk. Then he pulled the blanket around his shoulders again and leaned back.

In time, his heart stopped pounding and his eyes closed.

Above him, the pine branches swished in the wind.