A Wizard in Chaos

CHAPTER 13

Fortunately, the road stayed still and empty under the leafy canopy. It gave Dirk a few minutes to return to the here and now and brace himself for battle. “Where are they?”

“To either side of that big oak, with two of them on the branch overhead. If you look carefully, you can just make out their livery.”

Dirk reflected that a telepath could be a very useful traveling companion. “They’re planning to jump us? Why not just wait until the whole platoon is marching by?”

“They were only set on sentry duty, to watch for the platoon coming,” Gar told him, “so they were going to stay out of sight, but when they saw me, their pulses roared, and they sprinted into position.”

“You mean it’s us they want, not the Blue Company?”

“They’re certainly not thinking about Cort and his men right now,” Gar said. “Is your buckler on your arm?”

“Not yet.” Dirk lifted the small shield from the hook on his saddle, slipped his arm through the straps, and tightened them. “Okay now.”

“Draw your sword when they jump us, and spur your horse so we jump forward past that limb as they drop from it. Then we’ll turn and cut them down. Remember, we need one for questioning.”

“Kill, not stun?” Dirk frowned. “That doesn’t sound like you. How many of them are there?”

“Eight.”

“Can’t you put them to sleep?”

“Too much adrenaline. Yes, by all means, wound if you can, but don’t pull your strokes—there’s too great a chance you’ll wind up dead. Ready, now?” He forced a laugh. Dirk joined in. They rode under the bough, laughing; then Dirk said, “Remember the one about…”

Gar drew his sword, Dirk was only a split second behind him. Then the Hawk squad burst from the trees, screaming like birds of prey.

Dirk and Gar yelled and spurred their horses. Dirk’s beast stumbled as a heavy weight struck its rump; two bodies thumped onto the ground behind. Dirk and Gar pulled back on the reins, and their mounts reared, screaming and turning. The Hawks scrambled to their feet and jumped out of the way, but not quickly enough; the horses landed, striking glancing blows to two heads. Soldiers came riding; Dirk caught a sword thrust on his buckler, chopped through a lance shaft on his right, kicked the swordsman in the jaw, then stabbed down at the lancer. The Hawk swerved his horse out of the way, though, and another thrust his spear, scoring Dirk’s arm and stabbing deep into his saddle. Dirk shouted in anger as pain flared, but struck down. The saddle held the lance a second too long, and his sword chopped the shaft. The lancer went stumbling backward, tripped over a fallen comrade, and fell.

The comrade had fallen because Gar had seen him coming. The big man had leaned aside from the sword thrust and clouted the man in the jaw with the knuckle-guard of his own weapon. The man dropped in satisfactory style, and Gar decided he rather liked the effect. He turned, swinging his buckler arm to knock a lance aside, then brought his sword over to stab. The lancer danced away from it, then darted in, lance thrusting. Gar leaned back to let the lancehead pass, then leaned in to swing the buckler, clouting the man on the side of the head. He dropped like a stone, too, off his horse and stretched out.

Dirk whirled to take a sword thrust on his buckler, then stabbed overhand into the man’s shoulder. The soldier fell back with a howl of pain.

A bellow of anger erupted, and Dirk turned to see that the lancer had caught up his fallen comrade’s weapon and scrambled to his feet. He charged, lance leveled at the chest of Dirk’s horse.

A lance came stabbing at Gar, too, and he chopped off its head. The resourceful lancer turned and jabbed the shaft under Gar’s bottom, then heaved. Gar bellowed in anger as he went over. He fell, but rolled quickly, and two lances stabbed the ground where he’d been. He leaped up and thrust at the nearest man’s thigh; the rider fell off his horse with a howl, and Gar dove out of the way of thundering hooves, rolling again, then shoved himself up just in time to meet the second lancer’s charge. He caught the weapon on his buckler, then sprang high, slamming his knuckleguard into the man’s jaw. The lancer’s eyes rolled up; he fell.

Dirk pivoted his mount aside and swung a light, bouncing stroke as the charging lancer thundered past. The man screamed as a bright line of blood streaked the backs of his shoulders.

But Dirk had turned his horse completely in the maneuver, and saw two more troopers charging from the trees beside the road. He danced his mount aside and thrust, stabbing one in the thigh. The man fell, bellowing in pain. His mate reared his horse, turning with a snarl, and struck.

Dirk had leaned too low, was too slow rising. He chopped frantically; the lancehead flew, but the shaft struck his ribs, knocking the breath out of him. He ground his teeth and counterthrust. The lancer screamed, reeling in his saddle and clutching his shoulder; scarlet spread over his fingers.

Gar spun on general principles, and saw, the principal soldier, or at least the sergeant, swinging his sword up for a slash. Gar stepped in, parrying, and exchanged a mad few strokes before he caught the man’s belt, yanked him off his horse, and swung the buckler cracking into the side of the man’s head. The sergeant blundered forward a step or two; Gar obligingly stepped aside to let him fall.

Dirk shoved himself upright, trying to ignore the ache in his side, looking about in quick glances—but all the Hawk horses were galloping away down the forest road, and the only one standing was Gar’s horse, who stood trembling at the side of the road. The giant himself stood on the ground, feet spread wide, two rivulets of blood running down his face and his arm, dripping sword in hand, grinning like a gargoyle.

Well, there was also one last, poor lancer who took one appalled look at his seven fallen comrades, then took off galloping for the trees.

Without an instant’s hesitation, Gar threw his sword after the man. It went spinning through the air until the hilt cracked down on the trooper’s head. His horse kept going another pace or two before he fell. The sword landed quivering in the ground.

“Nice throw.” Dirk rode over, yanked the sword out of the ground, and brought it back to Gar. “How did you know it wasn’t going to hit him point first?”

“Practice,” Gar assured him.

Dirk nodded, wondering exactly what kind of practice his big friend had in mind. He had a brief mental vision of Gar standing perfectly still, with various swords, daggers, poniards, and broken bottles leaping from the ground in front of him and sailing toward a target fifty feet away, each striking the bull’s eye, then leaping back out just in time for the next one to land. He shook his head to clear the image and turned to look around him instead. “Eleven men down and groaning. Why don’t I feel guilty?”

“Well,” Gar said thoughtfully, “it could be because they were trying to kill you—or it could be because they tried to kill our whole platoon.”

“Yeah, that might have something to do with it,” Dirk conceded. “Anyone dying?”

Gar shook his head. “Careless of us, that. While we were calling our shots to keep from killing them, they might have skewered us.”

“There wasn’t really time to be merciful,” Dirk admitted. “Getting to be too much of a habit, I suppose.”

“You’ll have to work on that,” Gar agreed.

“So what do we do with them?” Dirk demanded. “Just leave them here?”

“Have you a better place in mind?” Gar returned. “I do want a souvenir, though. Watch them and make sure none of them does anything foolish, like trying to throw a lance, will you?”

“Sure.” Dirk began a routine of scanning, turning his head slowly, but with quick glances at Gar. The big man walked over to the sergeant, checked to make sure he was unconscious, then heaved him up on one shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He brought the burden back to his own horse, slung him over the rump, tied hands and feet to keep him from slipping off, then mounted up. “All right. Back to the platoon, or what’s left of it.”

The sentry called, and Cort came hurrying over to see Gar and Dirk riding in. “At last! We thought the Hawks had ambushed you.”

“They did.” Gar nodded at his horse’s burden, awake and cursing now. “We brought one of them back for you. Don’t worry, the rest of his squad are hurt too badly to fight. Besides, their horses ran away.”

Cort stared at the sergeant, then nodded slowly. “All that from just the two of you, eh? Well, well!” He turned and started back toward the campfire. “Bring him over here.”

Gar followed, dismounted, and untied the man. As soon as one hand was free, the sergeant swung at him. Gar dodged easily. “That’s stupid. Your muscles are stiff from being bound. You couldn’t hit hard enough to do any damage, anyway.” But when he untied a foot, the man lashed out a kick that caught Gar in the jaw and sent him stumbling. When he came striding back, fighting down his temper, he saw Dirk and Sergeant Otto hauling the limp body down between them. “I decided he needed another nap,” Dirk explained.

“I didn’t even know you carried that little stick,” Cort said to Dirk.

“Neither did he.” Dirk stretched the Hawk sergeant on the ground in front of Cort.

“Tie down his wrists and ankles,” Cort directed, and soldiers stepped up to drive pegs into the ground, then bind the Hawk’s joints. They weren’t very gentle about it, but considering the ambush they’d lived through and their comrades who hadn’t, that wasn’t much of a surprise.

Gar took a canteen from the nearest soldier and sloshed water into the Hawk’s face. The sergeant spluttered, coming to.

Cort glared down at the man. “Torturing another mercenary is against the code of the Free Companies, fellow, but I’m minded to try it, anyway. After all, your band have broken the rules of war already.”

“No, we haven’t!” the sergeant protested.

“Oh, really? When did the code change to allow one band to ambush another before they’ve begun to march?”

“Uh, by your leave, lieutenant.” Gar stepped away from the captive. “Could I have a word with you?”

Cort frowned. “What is it that you don’t want this Hawk to hear?” But he stepped aside with Gar anyway.

“Breaking rules is a bad business,” Gar explained, “especially if you don’t know for sure that the other side has broken them first.”

“But we do!”

“No, lieutenant, we’ve only guessed it. Besides, even if they broke a rule, then if you break another rule to get back at them, they’ll break a third rule, and the first thing you know, everyone will be breaking every rule, and every code will be broken.”

“We wouldn’t want that.” Cort scowled. “The Free Companies would kill each other off in a fortnight.”

“Exactly. May I offer an alternative?”

“Speak,” Cort allowed.

“Instead of torture or execution, let’s capture the Hawk captain and bring him before a tribunal of other mercenary captains. If they think he’s broken the rules, let them decide what to do with him.”

Cort’s eyes lit, intrigued. “A fascinating idea! But how do you suggest we capture a captain in the midst of his company?”

“Watch and catch him when he’s away from his company. Is there anything in the code against that?”

“No, but only because no one’s ever thought of it, I suspect.” Cort grinned. “That might do, indeed. I’ll ask Captain Devers about it when we get back, and if he allows it, we’ll send out a reconnaissance party. You’ll volunteer, of course.”

“It will be an honor.” Gar inclined his head. “In the meantime, tell me what you want to know, and I’ll see if I can’t persuade this sergeant to tell us without the thumbscrews. I might threaten them, you understand…”

Cort’s grin widened. “Go right ahead. If you can trick him into telling us why they attacked us and who hired their company to do it, I’ll be very happy to let him go unscathed.”

“No ransom?”

Cort shrugged. “You can’t get much for a sergeant.”

“Very flattering,” Sergeant Gar Pike said with a wry grimace. “Well, we’ll see what we can do with the man.”

They went back to the staked-out sergeant. Dirk was standing over him, loudly arguing with Sergeant Otto. “Look, we’re civilized soldiers! Let’s not be crude about this! Tie him under a drip of water so that it hits him square on the head, and watch him go crazy!”

Otto shook his head, truculent and stubborn. “We haven’t got that kind of time. A good oldfashioned beating’s best, I say. Quick and clean, it is.”

“Yeah, but he can’t talk with his jaw broken and his mouth all—”

“Gentlemen, if you don’t mind?” Gar said, with withering sarcasm.

“Huh?” Dirk looked up, frowning. “Oh, you want a shot at him? Well, go ahead—we can’t agree on where to start.”

“If you’d stand a little farther off?” Gar suggested. “I do need room to sit down by him, after all.”

“Oh, all right.” Dirk huffed, and stepped a few yards away, saying, “Now, I’ve heard of a technique that’s supposed to work a lot faster. We take Gar’s camp cot and put the sergeant on it, and if he doesn’t fit…”

“Pay no attention to them,” Gar said as he knelt by the captive sergeant. “Dirk always thinks torture is the fastest way to get information out of a prisoner. Myself, I’d prefer to ask him first.”

Dirk took his cue. “Torture him! Okay, we’ll let Sergeant Otto beat him up a little bit for starters. Then you can have my pair of monogrammed thumbscrews, and I’ll take out the cat-o’-nine-tails.”

“He’s so hasty,” Gar sighed, “just because your infantry jumped our platoon, and when we fought them off, sent you and your cavalry to hunt us down. I have to admit that wasn’t very sporting of you, but you’re just taking orders, aren’t you? It scarcely deserves torture.”

“No, it doesn’t.” The Hawk sergeant was sweating now, glancing at Dirk.

“Myself, I maintain that you had to do your best to carry out your orders, so it was nothing personal. Would I be right?”

“Oh, yes!” The sergeant nodded vigorously. “Just doing my job, that’s all.”

“As we were only doing ours,” Gar agreed. “But my friend says you’ve broken the mercenary’s code, attacking us before we met on the battlefield, simply because you knew our company had been hired to fight yours.”

“The iron boot,” Dirk called.

“Not a word of truth in it!” the sergeant said. “We were hired to kill you, that’s all! Open and aboveboard, nothing against the rules at all.”

Gar exchanged a startled glance with Dirk, then turned back. “No, just doing the job your company was hired for,” he said slowly, “and certainly nothing wrong for you in telling us that. There’s nothing secret about it, is there?”

“Not after our first attack, no.”

“Of course not. Tell me, since it’s open knowledge now—when you say you were hired to kill us, did that mean our whole platoon?”

“Oh, no! Just you, the big one! Not even your friend there.” The sergeant took a deep breath. “How did the two of you manage to beat the whole lot of us, anyway?”

“Magic,” Gar told him. Cort stared at him.

The sergeant scowled. “No such thing as magic.” Gar nodded with approval. “An educated man, I see. What if I told you I was a sage with great powers stemming from meditation?”

“I’ve heard of it,” the sergeant allowed. “Never believed a word of it, myself.”

“I suppose not,” Gar sighed. “Well, then, you’ll have to put it down to practice, constant practice.”

“We always need new targets to practice on,” Cort added.

The sergeant’s eyes bulged.

“Tell me,” Gar said softly, “who hired you.”

“It was the steward!” the sergeant said. “The steward of the Boss of Loutre! Why his boss wants you dead, I don’t know, but he paid for the whole company to kill you.”

Gar knelt very still. Dirk, not knowing what the sergeant had said, called out, “Can I light the fire for the branding iron now?”

“Not just yet, I think,” Gar called back. Then, to the sergeant, “That must have cost a great deal of money—a compliment, in its way. Are you paid by the day, or for the job?”

“For the job—five hundred golden marks for proof you’re dead. We thought it would only take a day or so, but you look as though you’re going to make it expensive.”

“Yes. You might lose on this one.” Gar sighed. “Nothing personal, of course.”

“Right,” the sergeant agreed, eyeing him very strangely. “Nothing personal.”

“Pincers?” Dirk called.

“If you can find her,” Gar called back absently. “So, sergeant, you attacked our whole platoon, just to get me?”

“You wouldn’t go away from them long enough,” the sergeant explained. “The lieutenant who took the infantry platoon out found your trail a mile away, and was going to jump you at nightfall—but he realized you were about to join up with this Blue Company platoon, so he jumped you all.”

“Yes, why wait until you can attack one man alone, when you could assault a dozen?” Gar’s nod was tight with irony. “I hope he isn’t your shrewdest man.”

“He’s an officer,” the sergeant said simply, and left the rest unspoken—that wars would be a lot simpler, less bloody, and shorter, if they just left things up to the noncoms.

“I suppose it’s become a matter of honor now,” Gar sighed. “Your captain feels he has to kill me, no matter what it takes—even if he has to kill the rest of my companions, or even the whole Blue Company.”

“I expect so,” the sergeant agreed. “Captains don’t tell us noncoms, though:”

“No, of course not. By the way, did you see the steward?”

“Yes. He was a lean man, about as tall as your master sergeant, black hair…”

“Torgi.” Gar nodded, then rose and turned to Cort. “Lieutenant, I hereby volunteer to give myself up.”

“We don’t desert comrades,” Cort said stiffly. “Don’t be silly,” Dirk added.

“You stood by us; we’ll stand by you.” But Sergeant Otto was looking grim at the news that Gar had brought the attack down on them all.

“Then let me offer an alternative,” Gar said slowly. “Dirk and I will travel by ourselves. Now that we know they’re after us, we’ll make sure they never find us, and you and your men will be safe from attack.”

Otto shook his head. “The Hawks are looking for our platoon now.”

“Then send this sergeant back with news that we’re going on by ourselves. The Hawks will know there’s no need to attack Blue Company soldiers then.”

“You’re sergeants of the Blue Company now,” Otto snapped. “We don’t desert our own.”

“No, we don’t,” Cort said slowly, “but we can use your plan, with one slight change.” He turned to Otto. “Sergeant, take the platoon back to headquarters. I’ll go on with Dirk and Gar.”

“No, lieutenant!” Otto cried, and Gar said, “Really, lieutenant, it’s not necessary.”

“But it is.” Cort turned to look up at him, fists on hips. “It satisfies the Blue Company’s honor, and it keeps the rest of the platoon safe. Besides, even if you’re as good at stealth as you say, it’s much easier to hide only three of us than the whole platoon.”

Gar stood, frowning down at him, thinking.

“If, by some fluke, they do find us,” Dirk said, “a third sword could be handy.”

“And a man who knows the territory could be even handier.” Gar nodded slowly. “All right, lieutenant. We’ll take you up on your offer.”

Sergeant Otto groaned.

“Honor,” in the chaos of a society dominated by warlords, turned out to have a very solid meaning. If a mercenary didn’t fulfill a commission, no one else would hire him. If a captain didn’t stand by his men, or the men stand by one another, the company would break up and dissolve.

Gar and Dirk learned that much from Cort as they searched for a hiding place. They rode away from Quilichen, and if now and again Dirk turned and looked back when there was nothing to see but trees and leaves or, later, meadowland stretching away from hills, who could blame him? After all, he didn’t do it so often that it might become irritating.

They rode down a shallow stream until it ended in a pond fed by a dozen springs, then found a deer trail and followed it. Dirk brought out handfuls of grain and scattered it behind them, so that birds would flutter down and disturb their tracks while pecking for the seeds. Then, in the evening, the deer would cover even those traces as they came down to the water.

They came to a shelf of shale and rode along it for a hundred feet, till it buried itself in the earth again. A little farther on, they found a stand of pines and rode through it; the slippery needles underfoot didn’t hold tracks very well.

So they went, taking advantage of every chance to hide their trail, riding at a canter when they could, a trot when the way was open, a walk when it wasn’t, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the Hawk cavalry.

In the middle of the afternoon, though, Gar suddenly reined in and sat, listening, for a minute. “What is it?” Cort asked.

“Horses,” Gar said. “That sergeant made quick time going back to camp. The rest of the platoon is out after us.”°

“They’ll have a jolly time trying to follow, with all the ways we broke our trail,” Dirk said, grinning.

“They surely will,” Cort agreed. “By the way, Gar, what did you do to anger the Boss of Loutre so?”

“I didn’t,” Gar answered. “I doubt he even knows about it. But I tripped up his steward badly, when he was translating for the boss with a merchant I was guarding—mistranslating, I should say. He was trying to get the boss to pay more than the merchant was asking.”

“He would have pocketed the difference!” Cort exclaimed. “No wonder he wants to kill you—if you tell his boss about it, the boss will kill him!”

“That does lend him some reason,” Gar admitted. “Myself, I think he’s just piqued at having someone catch him at his game.”

“But to hire a whole company to murder you! Where did the steward get that much money?”

“That is an interesting question, isn’t it?” Gar asked, with a hard little smile. “I think I’ll ask his boss about that.” He halted suddenly, losing his smile, cocking his head. “We’d better find shelter, quickly! The Hawks will find our trail after all!”

“How do you know?” Cort asked, frowning. “Because I hear hounds! They’ve bought themselves dogs someplace! Ride!”

Gar whipped his mount into a canter. Dirk followed with Cort right behind him, marveling at the big man’s hearing.

By nightfall, though, Cort could hear the hounds himself. Worse, they had come out of the woods into a flat plain, too dry for any life but grass and the multitude of living things that grazed. Cattle roamed here and there, sheep grazed by the roadside, but there were few people, and virtually nowhere to hide.

“We have to find somewhere!” Cort said. “The horses can’t keep going much longer.”

“I know,” Gar said, thin-lipped, “and I keep looking for a haystack to hide in, but all I see is the hay without the stack!”

The moon’s first sliver bulged over the horizon, showing the silhouette of the hill before it.

Gar stiffened, staring ahead. “What’s that?”

He knew darned well, Dirk thought. “Looks like one of those half-dome hills.”

“Stay away!” Cort reined in his horse, dread of the supernatural striking ten times stronger in the night. “The Fair Folk will kill us if they find us near their hill—or take us captive for twenty years, if they’re feeling merciful!”

“Old stories,” Dirk said with scorn.

“They’re much more than stories!” Cort reddened with anger. “I talked with a gaffer myself who’d been in one of their hills! Gone in a young man, he had, and come out an old one, and couldn’t remember more than one night among them!”

“What was his name?” Dirk asked. “Rip Van Winkle?”

“Wh…? No! His name was Katz!”

Dirk frowned, unsure suddenly, but Gar said, “If those Hawks catch us, I’ll be losing a great deal more than twenty years. I hope you two will have the sense to surrender, but I’m very much afraid that you’ll fight, and the Hawks will kill us a great deal more surely than your Fair Folk.”

“Well,” Cort admitted, “they don’t always kill trespassers. Sometimes they don’t even take them captive, just toy with them for a bit, then let them go. They’ve even sent some peasants away with riches. You never can tell with the Fair Folk.”

“Then at least we’ll have a chance on their hill,” Dirk pointed out, “and if dread of it would have kept you away, it might keep the Hawks away, too, at least until morning.”

“And by dawn, our horses will be rested,” Gar agreed. “I say it’s a chance worth taking!”

“What other chance do we have?” Cort sighed, and followed them as they galloped toward the hill.

Halfway there, the baying of the hounds suddenly grew louder. Turning, Cort could see they had come over the horizon and were there on the road behind, a blot in the moonlight. He turned back to the front, calling, “Faster!”

They rode faster indeed. The horses ran flat out with their last spurt of energy, fleeing from the belling and barking behind them, though their breath came hard with exhaustion. The hounds were far fresher—most of their afternoon had been spent at the walk, with their noses to the ground. They ran easily, and the horsemen behind them kept pace. Then they passed the hounds, riding for the trio whom they could see now, fifty men on horses, leaving the dogs to their peasant handlers.

But the hill was close now, so close. Finally the companions’ horses thudded up twenty feet on the hillside, and Gar reined in, leaping off his horse and drawing his sword. “Surrender, gentlemen! It’s for me to die, not you!”

“Sometimes you can be a real pain, you know?” Dirk sprang down and drew his sword, taking his stance back to back with Gar.

Cort felt his death coming upon him, and was only sorry there would be no gleeman to see it and sing his saga to Violet. He dismounted and took station by his companions, sword and dagger drawn. “Let them come down!”

They came up, though, with thundering hooves and yells of triumph, swords flashing in the air, swinging high for the death strokes.

Then the earth groaned and shook. A glare of light split the night, throwing the companions’ shadows long before them, and a vast, cavernous voice echoed all about them:

“Who disturbs the home of the Fair Folk? Who dares come near the Hollow Hill with Cold Iron in hand?”