The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Ooo…”

  “Just be quiet. The worst is over.”

  “Didn’t hurt as bad as Firla.”

  “I’m glad.” Justen shook his head. If the pain she’d suffered from his inept bone-setting was less than that of child-bearing, he didn’t want to be around any birthings anytime soon. “I need to find something you can use to get around with-in a while. You shouldn’t move that leg right away.”

  “Lying here, I’ll starve.”

  “Not immediately.”

  “Birsen got a second staff. It’s under their bed.”

  Justen retrieved the heavy staff and set it beside her bed. “It’s on the floor.”

  Her hand groped from the low bed until her fingers identified the wood. Then: “Thirsty,”

  “I’ll see what I can do about retrieving the bucket and rope.”

  “Spare rope’s in the third chest.”

  Justen opened the chest and found a short coil of hemp rope, two wooden mallets, and a saw blade wrapped in oiled rags. After taking the rope and closing the chest, he turned. “I’ll be back in a while. I need to fix the bucket and water my horse.”

  “Not going anyplace.”

  “Please don’t.”

  Outside, a faint drizzle had begun to fall. He looked to the north at the thickening clouds. Only early afternoon, and he had rain to contend with. He didn’t even have an oilcloth or a tarp. He swallowed as he recalled burying the trooper in the ground tarp. No… she deserved that little. He shook his head and peered over into the well.

  Whheee… eeeee…

  “I know, lady. You’re thirsty and hungry,” Justen told the mare.

  The well was shallow, not more than eight cubits deep, and the frayed rope had caught on something almost within reach.

  By holding on to the one sound well post, Justen managed to stretch himself far enough inside the stones to grab the rope. He frowned as he studied the end of the rope. It had not frayed, but had been cut almost all the way through. To keep the Whites from getting water-or to try to harm the old woman?

  Justen decided he didn’t like Birsen. After cutting another four cubits of rope, he tied it to the existing well rope. He untied the short upper piece and thrust it into his belt before lowering the bucket, lifting it, and setting the water on the stone well wall. He let his senses drift across the water, order-spelling the slightly murky liquid. He could feel the dizziness with the order-spell, and he realized how hungry he was getting.

  Still… the first bucket went into the small trough, and he untied the mare and retied her where she could drink. The second bucket he left on the stones, realizing that he had not brought anything out with which to carry water back inside.

  “Forgot a water bucket,” he explained, stopping to replace the rope he had not used. He also pulled out the loose rope and set it on the corner of the big table.

  “Not real practical, you Temple fellows.”

  “No.” Justen laughed, took both pitchers off the smaller table, and went back to the well. He returned shortly with two full pitchers of pure and cold water.

  First, he helped ease the older woman into a sitting position, propped up against the old headboard. Then he went back to the serving table and poured some of the water into a battered crockery mug that he carried to Lurles.

  “Here.”

  She groped until she had the mug, then drank greedily.

  Justen pulled up a stool and sat down to rest his unsteady legs before pouring a drink for himself. The water helped enough that his immediate dizziness receded.

  “We need to get you something to eat.”

  “And ye, too, I suppose, young fellow?”

  “If we’re being honest, lady-me, too. I’m no angel, able to live on tall peaks without sustenance.”

  “Bah… load of manure. Not the Legend bit about men, but about women being so pure. People who have blades use them. Could be man or woman. Makes no difference. Except men are nastier.”

  “Food,” suggested Justen.

  A silence stretched out between them.

  “You be no Temple priest, be you?”

  “No. I’m not. And I’m not a healer, either. I know something about it, and if you can stay off that leg… much… for a while, it should heal straight.”

  “Must be a Black devil… stead of a White one.”

  “Yes, if you want to put it that way,” Justen admitted. “I am from Recluce.”

  “Why ye bother with old Lurles?”

  “I needed food, and you needed help.” Justen silently damned himself for being honest with the old blind woman, but somehow it was important to him, if to no one else, not to deceive her.

  “You could have left me.”

  “Not after I knew you were hurt.”

  “Why do you need food?”

  “I was separated from my brother in the fighting, and I was trying to get to the river where I could cross, but the bridges were gone at Rohm. I was hoping I could get across near here, but I missed the river road somehow.”

  “Wizardry, most likely. There be a three-way fork at Rohrn-the two bridges and the road ‘long the river. But -there be no fords till the bridge at Clynya. It’s a deep gorge most places there. You take the by path from here, and it climbs and climbs, not that it be so noticeable… only when you be tired.”

  Justen mechanically refilled her mug and offered it back to her.

  “There’s bread and cheese in the hole by the serving table.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You smell like an honest fellow. You talk like an honest fellow, and you act like one. I be wrong before, and be wrong again. That be life.” She laughed, and despite the blackened and missing teeth, Justen could see that once she must have been a pretty girl. He swallowed, set the pitcher down, and walked to the serving table.

  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 Jus-ten 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.

  LII

  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 Rohm. 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.

  LIII

  “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 thai 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 Rohm, 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.

  LIV

  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. Jus-ten 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.