Ordermaster

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Still, he made it down the side of the meadow and back through the gate, which he forced himself to secure once more. Once he was out of any possible sight of the sentries to the north, he released the sight shield. He followed the hedgerow eastward, then south.

  He made it halfway up the slope, within a few hundred cubits of where he had set the ambush, when he heard hoofs and riders on the road. He sensed a squad of riders. They reined up almost on the other side of the hedgerow from him.

  “There’s no one on the road. Not any tracks in the mud.”

  “What about the fields, behind the hedgerow there? Someone could walk or ride there and not be seen.”

  Kharl looked around. He certainly couldn’t move fast enough to outrun a horse, especially the rain, and he had real doubts about how long he could hold a sight shield.

  “Senstyn! Take your four and check out the fields to the west. Derk, you check the east fields there.”

  The hedgerow closest to where Kharl was offered no real concealment. He looked back north. That was too open. To the south, perhaps a hundred cubits ahead, the hedgerow widened, just slightly, and it looked like there was an opening of some sort. Maybe.

  He picked up his steps and hurried toward what he hoped would provide cover.

  On the road, the riders also began to move.

  Kharl began to run, if slowly, trying to pick his way over and through the muddy grass and uneven ground toward what looked to be his only chance of hiding without using the magery that he knew he could not hold for long.

  He was within cubits of the slight overhang in the hedgerow and a depression that looked to be hidden from view, especially from the south, and he looked toward the end of the hedgerow, hoping that the riders had not started to turn past the hedgerow.

  At that moment, with his eyes off the ground, Kharl’s boot caught on something, and he found himself flying forward, helplessly. The ground came up and hit him-hard.

  A flash of pain-and then blackness-washed over him.

  When he woke, for a moment, he wasn’t certain where he was. But the patter of rain on the hedgerow told him that he was partly under cover. His clothes and jacket were soaked, and he was shivering. Each shudder sent dull spasms through his chest.

  He was sprawled in a muddy depression overhung by the hedgerow, and he could taste the mud in his mouth and on his lips.

  He started to move, to wipe it away, and dull reddish fire surged over the left side of his chest, all the way into his shoulder and down almost to his waist. His eyes blurred. Then, slowly, very slowly, he rolled to his right side and gathered his knees under him.

  It took him some time to get to his feet.

  He glanced around. Up the short slope was a root, thick as a heavy rope, and below it was the heavy gray rock he’d come down on. From what he could tell, someone had tried to dig out the rock, and failed, leaving a hole between the rock and the hedgerow. Over time the hole had softened into a depression and the grass had mostly overgrown the buried boulder-except for the part where he had hit, then slid down out of sight.

  He studied the area around him quietly, but he didn’t see or hear or sense anyone nearby, or on the road to the east of the twisted foliage. The cloudy gray afternoon was slightly lighter, and the rain had let up. He guessed it might be midafternoon, but it was hard to tell without seeing the sun.

  Slowly, he eased himself out of the depression and back onto the grass beside the hedgerow and south of where he had fallen. He took a step, then a breath. Step and breath ... step and breath.

  He had covered almost two kays, slowly, when the sky began to darken, not from another storm, but from the sun dropping behind the hills to the west. He’d had to hide, several times, but most of the riders had been solitary, and for the one rebel patrol, he’d managed to hold the sight shield until they had ridden well past to the north. He’d had to sit behind the stone wall for a time after that, regaining his strength.

  Now he was almost to the crossroads. Once there, he would have to find somewhere to wait, either until the lancers returned, or to rest. He hoped they would. He couldn’t count on walking all the way back to the Great House, not with his ribs the way they were.

  Kharl settled behind the hedge around the meeting house, in a corner invisible from any of the windows, although no one was inside the place. He was soaked, muddy, shivering, and flushed.

  Just as full twilight had descended over the crossroads area, and Kharl was gathering himself together to begin walking again, he heard mounts. Cautiously, he peered out. It took him a while to determine that eight riders in yellow and black approached the crossroads, one leading a riderless mount. Charsal was not among the riders.

  Kharl rose from behind the low hedge. “Over here.”

  “Ser mage?”

  “It’s me.” Kharl tried not to wince or limp as he made his way toward the riders.

  “Weren’t sure you’d be here.” The speaker was an older guard, one Kharl recognized by his face, but not by his name.

  “I managed. Undercaptain Charsal... ?”

  “Wizard got him and Zolen with a firebolt... Tiersyn got burned, sent him back to Commander Norgen with message.”

  Kharl swallowed silently.

  “You get done .. . what you needed, ser mage?” The lancer rode led the mount for Kharl closer.

  “It’s done.” Kharl had to lever himself into the saddle with his right arm and hand. Even so, his vision was blurring, and his head was light once more as he tried to steady himself on his mount. He had to grasp twice for the reins extended by the other. “You wounded, ser mage?”

  “Injured,” Kharl replied. “Had some of the rebels chasing me. Stupid. Fell and smashed my side. Ribs.”

  “We’d better get moving.” The squad leader shook his head. “That’s war. Gets you in ways you’d never think.”

  Kharl had to admit that the squad leader was right. He held on to the reins and tried not to lurch in the saddle. He would ride back, even if every sway of the mount sent another wave of pain through his chest.

  VIII

  Kharl sat on a stool in his sitting room at the Great House, stripped to the waist, while a healer finished binding his chest. On the table was a small tray which had held the good dark bread and cheese, and a cold fowl breast. There was also an empty pitcher of ale and an empty beaker. He had eaten while he had waited for the healer. The food and ale had helped. “How bad ... ?”

  “You’re a mage. Can’t you tell?” asked the gray-haired Istya. “I’m a poor healer at best, and I can even feel some of it.”

  “I’m a very ill-educated mage. Healing’s something I don’t know too much about.”

  “You keep getting banged up like this, and you’d better learn, ser mage.”

  The heavy cloth did seem to help, and Kharl thought that he could probably speed the healing some by infusing some order into the injured ribs.

  “From the bruising, and chaos there, I’d say you cracked two ribs. They’re not out of place, but you get hit there again, and they could splinter, maybe go right into your lungs. Mages aren’t supposed to be fighting like lancers.”

  “I was doing the best I could. I didn’t do it as well as I should.” Kharl had refrained from explaining what had happened in detail. He’d said that he’d been trying to get back to Great House, and he’d been chased by lancers and fallen and hit a boulder. Tripping over a root and his own boots was hardly noble-or smart-especially when lancers were getting slain by sabre, crossbow, and firebolts.

  “Better not do it again, ser mage.” Istya straightened. “That should do it. Don’t be getting the binding wet.”

  “Yes, healer.”

  After Istya left, stepping out past the pair of guards now stationed outside his door, Kharl eased himself back into the chair, most carefully. Despite the long day and the darkness outside, he wasn’t ready for sleep, and he hadn’t yet talked to Hagen.

  Charsal’s death bothered him. Kharl hadn’t thought that the wh
ite wizard could have gotten that close or that he’d been strong enough to throw a firebolt from a distance. Had he exposed Charsal unnecessarily by suggesting that the lancer ride slowly at first? Were firebolts that easy for chaos-wizards? Even Kenslan had said that the white wizard chasing Charsal and his half squad hadn’t been that strong.

  Kharl knew life was not fair, but he wondered about how a weak white wizard could create so much damage. It seemed to be such an imbalance, but was it? So long as his strength held out, he could block anything the wizards he’d encountered could throw, and against any single white wizard he was probably stronger than one of comparable power in a one- on- one situation, but the chaos-wizard could spray destruction against scores, and Kharl could not. That was balance ... of a sort.

  At the sound of voices, Kharl’s head turned toward the door.

  Thrap. “The lord-chancellor, ser.”

  “He’s more than welcome,” Kharl called back.

  The door opened, and Hagen stepped into the sitting room, closing the door behind him.

  “Kharl.”

  “You’ll excuse me if I don’t rise.”

  “Don’t fret about it. I’m sorry I was late getting up to see you, but Lord Ghrant had some concerns.” Hagen looked at Kharl, propped up carefully in the armchair. “You have this habit of creating havoc, then getting injured.”

  “I didn’t plan it that way.” Kharl started to shake his head, then stopped at the warning twinges. “I tripped over a root and fell on a half-buried boulder because I was trying to make sure I didn’t get seen by lancers who were chasing me.” “Might I ask why they were chasing you?”

  “Malcor and Kenslan are dead.”

  “I thought-I hoped-it might be something like that. Lord Ghrant will be happy to learn of the deaths, especially of Malcor’s. That will help . .. some.”

  “Some?” Kharl could sense more trouble.

  “While you were gone, Vatoran escaped. Three of the guards were killed-one by a firebolt.”

  Kharl wanted to sigh, but he was afraid it would hurt his bruised ribs too much. “So ... while I was after the lords, their wizard came in here?”

  “From what we can tell, he had a squad dressed in the uniforms of the personal guard, and they killed the guards who challenged them.”

  That didn’t speak very highly of the defenses of the Great House, but Kharl let that pass. “I overheard a few words between Malcor and Kenslan. They had sent a newly arrived wizard out. Kenslan called it a fool’s errand. Malcor said that it was necessary to make sure that their plans were not revealed. Oh ... and they both had been talking to Fostak. He was the one who made sure they got another wizard. You can’t do anything about him, can you?”

  “If we did, the emperor would have our envoy in Cigoerne killed or imprisoned.”

  Kharl did sigh. What was he supposed to do? What was anyone supposed to do?

  “You can’t be everywhere, Kharl,” Hagen added. “They have more mages than we do.”

  “We’re different kinds of mages. That’s the problem. They can spray chaos at a number of people. Mostly, what I can do is defend.”

  “You defended Malcor and Kenslan to death?” Hagen raised his eyebrows.

  “What I did is really a perverted way of using order. It works, but only against one or two people at a time, and I can’t do much else.” “Something like what happened to Guillam?”

  “In a way,” Kharl said tiredly. “So far as I know, not that I know much about it, it’s not something that very many mages have figured out.” He paused. “Is there any good news?”

  “Norgen managed to ambush Vatoran’s third and fifth companies with his two companies. Between that and your disorganization of the rebels’ leadership, we may have enough time for the nearer companies under Casolan to reach Valmurl before there’s an attack on Valmurl or the Great House.” Hagen looked to Kharl, then stood. “You need some rest. This revolt is going to last longer than anyone thought, and we’ll need your skills.” “Even with Malcor and Kenslan dead?”

  “Vatoran is free, and there are lords like Fergyn and Hensolas who were looking for an excuse to overthrow Ghrant. Casolan cannot possibly reach Valmurl with all his forces until late spring, at the earliest.” “I thought-“

  “He has three companies that will be here in another two eightdays, perhaps less, but they will only allow us to defend Valmurl.”

  “How did it come to this? I thought that once Ilteron was dead ...”

  “Fostak, Lord Joharak... they’ve been spreading rumors and golds, I’d wager, even promises to support a new ruler.” “How could anyone believe them?”

  “The ambitious believe anything that fuels their dreams, and the Hamorians will take full advantage of that.” Hagen stepped toward the door. “You need your rest. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  After Hagen departed, Kharl sat for a time in the chair, thinking. Why was it that everything he did seemed to create as many problems as it resolved-if not more?

  IX

  On sevenday morning, Kharl woke in the grayness before dawn. His entire chest was one dull aching mass, but that was not what had wakened him. He could sense chaos ... somewhere beyond the Great House ... and it seemed to be getting nearer.

  Much as he tried to hurry, dressing was a choie. Bending enough to get on his boots was near agony, and getting on his tunic was almost as bad. He didn’t bother with much in the way of washing up, not when he knew time was short, and not after what had happened to Charsal and the arms-men guarding Vatoran.

  As Kharl made his way stiffly to the outer door of his quarters, he could have used the black staff he’d destroyed in fighting Ilteron and one of the Hamorian white wizards-but just for support. He felt old and tired-and all because of one moment of carelessness.

  “Ser?” The guards stiffened as Kharl stepped out.

  “I’m headed up to the north tower. Could one of you find the lord- chancellor and tell him that there’s a white wizard headed this way?”

  “Ah...”

  The two exchanged glances. Then the taller and dark-haired sentry nodded. “Will you be wanting to meet with him?”

  “Just tell him that there’s a white wizard and that I’ll be in the north tower. On top.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Kharl turned and headed toward the stone stairs that would take him to the third level. Then he’d have to take another passageway to reach the circular steps that led to the top of the tower. Behind him, he could hear the low murmurs, words he could not have made without his order-senses.

  “. .. mages ... strange . ..”

  “... leastwise, ours goes out and fights ...”

  Kharl wasn’t so sure that what he’d done merited being called fighting, but he was glad they thought of him as one of theirs. He moved deliberately, but it took him twice as long, if not longer, to climb to the top of the tower as it would have normally, and he had to stop twice. Breathing was harder with his chest bound and sore.

  His breath steamed as he stepped through the narrow doorway and walked to the eastern side of the tower. From there, standing behind battlements that were more decorative than functional, on the open top of the north tower, Kharl had a sweeping view of both the grounds of the Great House and of Valmurl. Walls a third of a kay on a side surrounded the Great House, with the main eastern gates in the front on the avenue. There was also a delivery gate on the avenue, but near the south end of the wall, and a small bailey gate in the middle of the north wall. Lawns and gardens extended immediately behind the main structure, with outbuildings farther to the rear against the north and south walls.

  The Great House stood on a rise more than a kay west of the center of Valmurl, and nearly two kays from the harbor. From his viewpoint, Kharl could just barely make out the dry docks to the north of the harbor where the Seastag had been repaired and refitted more than a season earlier. He could also discern Traders’ Square and the Guard Barracks to the south, barracks now empty because Kenslan had
earlier marched the armsmen west, then north.

  The eastern horizon lightened as Kharl made his survey. Then the top edge of the white disc that was the sun flared above the dark waters of the harbor and the western ocean beyond. Overhead, the sky was mostly clear, with only a hint of hazy clouds over the hills to the west of Valmurl, hills still dotted with snow near their crests.

  Kharl walked around the parapets, slowly, letting his order-senses extend beyond the low gray stone walls around the Great House. To the north, beyond where the avenue that passed in front of the Great House turned into the winding road that eventually led to the Nierran Hills, Kharl could sense a concentration of chaos. He could see nothing.

  He frowned. That was not quite right. His eyes seemed to dart away, to avoid one spot on the road. So the white wizard had something like a sight shield as well? Kharl had thought that had to be the case. Otherwise, how else had they managed to get close enough to kill the armsmen guarding Vatoran?

  He tried to judge the distance, but he wasn’t that familiar with Valmurl. The white wizard was more than a kay away, closer to two. As Kharl watched and sensed, occasionally, he thought he saw a puff of dust, but that could have been his imagination.

  At the sound of boots on the stones of the tower, he turned.

  “A white wizard headed this way?” Hagen, wearing a black jacket trimmed in green, walked toward Kharl.

  The mage waited until Hagen was almost beside him. “There ... out on the north road, I’d say half a kay beyond where the avenue ends.”

  Hagen leaned forward. “I don’t see anything.”

  “He has a sight shield. Your eyes feel like they’re moving away from the road.”

  Hagen blinked several times. “Hmmm ... I feel something, but I still don’t see anything. How big a force does he have with him?”