Ordermaster

XXII

The clouds that had brought eightday’s rain had lifted, but not vanished, by dawn on oneday, and the air was warm and damp, enough so that even without direct sunlight Kharl was sweating in the green-and-black uniform by the time he had ridden less than a glass southward. The white wizard had left the spot where he had been, nearly due south of Valmurl, and appeared to be moving westward, generally toward the Southwest Branch, the stream that fed the Lord’s Millrace before joining the River Val.

From the maps Kharl had studied and from what Hagen had said, the wizard could be accompanying rebel troops heading to join battle against Casolan’s forces or riding westward to destroy the millrace and dam. Kharl doubted that a Hamorian wizard would want to destroy something that produced golds-especially not as a first resort-but he had been wrong before in his judgments, often enough that he wasn’t about to discard either possibility.

“Warm, it is, for such a cloudy day,″ offered Undercaptain Demyst. The stocky and square-faced man had been blotting his forehead even more often than Kharl.

“It’s likely to get even warmer once the clouds clear.” Kharl paused. “How much longer before we reach the River Val?” To reach the Southwest Branch and the Lord’s Millrace, Kharl and the lancers accompanying him had to cross the River Val first. Then they would turn east if they wished to reach the Southwest Branch, or westward on the south river road if it appeared that the wizard’s forces were heading out to intercept Casolan’s advance force.

“Less than a glass, ser. Less than a glass. The scouts say that the way is clear. No rebel lancers, leastwise. Not this side of the river.”

Kharl nodded and concentrated on riding, and in taking in the countryside west of Valmurl. For at least a score of kays to the west of where they rode, the land stretched out in a nearly flat valley that extended a good eighty kays to the south of the River Val and slightly less than forty to the north. In places, there were low hills, but none rose more than a few rods above the road. Fields, recently tilled, and meadows were everywhere, with cots set at almost regular intervals. While he could see both men and women working in more distant fields, the peasants or smallholders of those lands closest to the road were wisely remaining out of sight.

To the northwest, when he looked back over his shoulder, Kharl could make out the distant hills, and a few snowcapped peaks behind them. He could see nothing but fields and meadows ahead of them-and a line of trees several kays to the south. The trees, he suspected, marked the River Val. While there were some woodlots on the holdings, and a few orchards, most of the land was marked out in squarish fields set aside for crops, and there were almost no hedgerows at all. Those appeared to have been created only in the north and west of Valmurl.

“Why aren’t there any hedgerows here?” he asked the undercaptain.

“Lord Esthaven forbid them here in the valley proper. Said that they gave holders airs. Had to kill a few before they got the idea.”

The more Kharl heard about Esthaven, the less he liked what he heard. “What do they grow here?”

“Maize and oats, mostly, besides gardens. Everyone has a garden. There’s wheat corn south of the river. Doesn’t do as well here on the north side. No one knows why. Around the river, where it’s wet, there’s sorghum. Best molasses in the world here, and that’s why there’s none better than Austran black bread.”

Kharl had enjoyed the dark bread, but hadn′t connected it to the quality of molasses in Austra-although that made sense. With a faint smile atthe thought, and the realization that there was much he had never questioned, he shifted his weight in the saddle. He still wasn’t that used to riding, and the saddle got hard after a while. Awkwardly, he stood in the stirrups, trying to stretch his legs and give his backside a respite. He glanced ahead, hoping that the river wasn’t that far ahead.

“Really won’t be that far, ser,” offered Demyst.

“I’m not a lancer,” Kharl said dryly. “Riding is harder on me than coopering all day.”

“You’ll get used to it, ser.”

Kharl wasn’t certain he wanted to get that used to riding. As he struggled to make himself comfortable in the saddle, he sensed something. Except that wasn’t it. He tilted his head, trying to focus on what he’d felt. Then he realized that for the past quarter glass or so, as he had ridden southward toward the river, he had lost the distant sense of the white wizard-just as if the wizard had vanished.

“Chaos …″ he muttered under his breath. He’d been so preoccupied with his own discomfort that he hadn’t even realized when he’d lost the sense of the other wizard. He tried to gather in a sense of that chaos, but he could feel absolutely nothing.

Had the wizard gone into a cave or something? Or behind a waterfall? That might provide a shield of some sort. Or had he created his own shield?

“Ser? Something wrong?”

“Not yet,” Kharl replied. Now he’d have to be more alert than ever, and especially after they crossed the River Val.

Almost half a glass passed before they neared the river. During that time, they had seen no one nearby on the road, although one cart and another wagon had turned down side lanes to avoid the lancers. While Kharl had gotten a quick impression of faint traces of chaos several times, the traces had vanished so quickly that he only knew that the wizard was somewhere to the south. Were the rebels moving farther south and trying to circle behind Casolan’s forces? Or were they already west of the bridge and heading out to attack Casolan? Kharl couldn’t be certain, and that worried him.

It was most likely that the wizard had some sort of shield and did not want Kharl to track him easily. But why now? Had he just discovered that Kharl was near?

Kharl blotted his forehead. The clouds had thinned, and at times, fainthazy sunlight had oozed over the riders. The day had continued to warm, and the heavy armsman’s uniform had gotten less and less comfortable.

Kharl took in the raised earthen causeway that led to the bridge itself, then the river that stretched away from the bridge. The River Val wound in wide, sweeping arcs, its course meandering through the river plain, its banks clearly marked by earthen levees and trees planted behind the levees. The bridge itself was an old and heavy timber structure that was supported by three stone piers evenly spaced across the riverbed. The roadway was broad enough for a large wagon or three horses abreast, and the side rails were weathered heavy timbers. The watercourse itself was perhaps ten rods wide under the bridge. The plank roadbed was worn, and in places, as he crossed, Kharl could see the swirling gray of the water below through gaps in the planking. While the bridge creaked slightly as the squad rode across the spans, he could feel no swaying or give, but he was glad to reach the causeway on the south side.

Kharl caught the faintest sense of whiteness to the south and west, but when he tried to focus on it, the feeling was gone.

“You be wanting us to head back toward Valmurl, ser, or out west.”

“West,” Kharl said with a certainty he did not feel. “They’re past here and headed west.” He glanced back toward Valmurl, but the river road was empty.

“No tracks on the road, ser. Doesn’t look as though they came this way.″

“Not by the road,” Kharl admitted. He somehow knew that the rebel forces had not returned to Valmurl, but where could they be? The fields immediately to the south of the river road were flat and open, and the smell of turned bottomland occasionally came to Kharl on the intermittent light breeze from the west.

Another kay or so to the west, he could see a stand of trees. As they rode closer, he realized that the trees extended nearly a kay to the south, and certainly that far west, if not even farther.

“What are those trees?”

“Red pears, ser. Don′t grow many places.”

Kharl had heard of red pears, but never seen one. The orchard was old, and the trees seemed close together, so much so that he could not see more than a few trees into the mass of foliage, despite the thinner early-spring leaves.

As the squad passed the eastern edge of the orchard and continued westward on the river road, the clouds thinned more, and Kharl could feel the spring sun on his back. He had to blot his forehead more frequently, and he had lost all track of the white wizard, except for traces of white that felt almost due south, and closer. What had happened? Where was the wizard?

Demyst coughed, then swallowed. “Back there, to the east, ser …″ Demyst’s voice was almost apologetic as he pointed.

Pouring out of the orchard less than a half kay behind them was a column of lancers-men in black and green, with the blue sashes and behind a blue banner bearing a device Kharl did not recognize, not that he was familiar with heraldry, especially Austran heraldry.

“That’d be Lord Hensolas. That’s his banner, ser. Looks to be three companies.” Demyst swallowed. “And there’s another company to the west, maybe two. They’re riding toward us.”

Somewhere among the eastern group was the faintest trace of chaos. Then, a blaze of white appeared among the larger force.

Kharl wanted to hit his forehead with his palm. He’d known that the white wizard had hidden his chaos behind some sort of shield, but he’d thought that the wizard had done that to conceal his approach to Casolan’s force or to keep Kharl from tracking him. Instead … the wizard was after him-with five companies. And Kharl and his squad were trapped, with a thick orchard that was close to impossible to ride through to the south, at least at any speed, and with the river to the north.

“How deep is the river?” Kharl snapped.

“Two to three rods, five in places. Current’s real strong here, ser. We’d be sitting ducks for crossbows. They got crossbows, ser.”

Kharl understood the unspoken. Most of the lancers couldn’t swim. Even Kharl wasn’t that good a swimmer, although he might have been able to manage the river. But … he’d been the one to get them into the trap.

He looked toward the orchard, and the ancient and crooked split rail fence between the trees and the road. His order-senses did not find any other chaos, except that of the single wizard, but … he frowned. There was the thinnest mist of blackness all across the orchard. Order. From the orchard itself? From the spring growth? Behind that order was something else, not quite chaos, or a different kind of chaos, or order. He wasn’t certain, and he didn’t have time to puzzle it out.

“Form up right between the fence and the trees. Make it tight!”

″Ser …″

“We’ll try magery. If it doesn’t work, the men will at least have a chance of escaping through the trees. The rebels can’t ride through them, not at any speed.”

“Ah … yes, ser. You pick the spot, and we’ll form around you.”

“Just behind me.” Kharl turned the gelding toward a gap in the fence, not exactly a gate, but an opening wide enough for a wagon. He glanced to the east, but the rebel lancers were not galloping or even trotting, but closing in inexorably at a fast walk. He looked to the west, but that force was also closing in on them.

Kharl decided against staying at all in the open, even just in front of the trees. He rode right up to one of the gnarled and ancient pear trees. There, he dismounted and walked the gelding back toward the second row of trees. The trees had been pruned just enough to allow him to walk between them, but riding at more than a walk would have been dangerous, as he had guessed. He tied the gelding and hurried back to the front row.

“Ser?” Demyst looked puzzled. “We can’t get that close to you, not with all the trees.”

“Get into the trees-in back of the first row.” Kharl studied the oncoming riders.

The white wizard was hanging back, with a full company of lancers between him and Kharl and the lancer squad. Kharl could also see a score of crossbowmen dismounting less than twenty rods away. That didn’t surprise him. The white wizard clearly knew about Kharl’s shields and wanted to exhaust the black mage before using chaos-fire. Or perhaps he would just watch for an opportunity.

Could Kharl tap the order of the orchard? He reached out, nodding as he gathered in some of the orchard’s order, then waited. Both forces drew closer, then reined up, waiting, except for the crossbowmen, who continued to set up.

Finally, the crossbowmen lifted their weapons. Kharl smiled grimly. Just before the quarrels sleeted toward them, Kharl raised a shield of hardened air, only long enough to halt the quarrels. Bent quarrels and iron shafts rained down short of the trees. He hoped that the attackers would continue to fire in volleys, but he watched closely as the crossbowmen rewound their weapons.

The white wizard had done nothing-except remain well back from the center of the orchard, as if he knew that Kharl’s ability to strike was limited in distance.

″Oh …″ murmured one of the lancers.

Kharl continued to consider what he could do. Before long, either armsmen or lancers would charge in force, and he could not hold shields for that long, not around even a small group. His last efforts with releasing chaos had not been totally successful, but perhaps … maybe … using the order of the orchard … and his own shields …

His lips tightened. He would have to see.

Three more volleys flew toward Kharl and the lancers. Between the thick foliage and Kharl’s quickly raised and lowered shields, none reached the defenders.

Then a horn sounded, and a full company of rebel lancers dressed their lines, then unsheathed blades.

“Don’t leave the trees until I tell you!” Kharl hissed to Demyst.

“You heard the mage,” the undercaptain ordered. “Stay under cover till you get the word.”

“Sitting ducks …″ murmured someone.

“Not yet,” replied a deeper voice.

There came two blasts on the horn-off-key-and lancers trotted toward the orchard, blades at the ready.

Kharl disliked what he was seeing, because Hensolas and the white wizard were sacrificing troops-essentially Ghrant’s troops-to wear down Kharl. Yet, Kharl reminded himself, the same thing would have happened, and might anyway, in a pitched battle between Casolan′s forces and those of the rebels.

Kharl concentrated on a single section of the split rail fence, waiting until the lancers were almost upon it, when he unlinked the order in a section a third of a yard long, erecting a curved hardened air shield behind that fence section.

Whhhsssttt! … Crumptt!

The glare was so bright that, for a moment, Kharl could not see, and even behind the shield, he could barely stand.

Belatedly, he dropped the shield, and almost collapsed as the wave of death swept over him.

A blackened quarter circle radiated from the section of the fence a rod in front of Kharl. Nothing remained except blackened heaps and fine ash for a good five rods. For another ten rods beyond that, everything was blackened, as if a fire had swept across everything.

The air was filled with screams of mounts and groans of men-notfrom the attackers, for none of them remained, but from the second company of lancers, those almost twenty rods back.

Point stars of brilliant light flashed before Kharl, and he had to squint to try to focus on the remainder of the attackers’ forces. He could feel a wave of fatigue somewhere, but he called on more of the order from the orchard and walled off that tiredness.

Hssttt! A firebolt flared toward the orchard-aimed directly at Kharl.

The mage flung up an order shield, and fire sheeted to both sides.

The branches and leaves that protruded forward of Kharl flared into flame and ashes, and Kharl found himself standing in the open, if half-concealed by fine gray ash floating everywhere. He took a step backward, under a heavy branch. He was breathing deeply, trying to catch a solid gulp of air as ashes finer than dust swirled around him.

Hssst! Another firebolt slashed through the ash-filled air.

Kharl staggered. He couldn’t keep up the defenses much longer, and no one was moving close enough for him to use the order-release of chaos effectively. What else could he do? He was limited in how he could create chaos, and he couldn’t fling it the way the white mage was.

He swallowed, coughing, blocking yet another chaos-bolt.

There was one other possibility …

He waited for the next bolt, and as it flashed toward him, he formed a curving tube, almost like an invisible curved cannon that was aimed back toward the banner that showed-he hoped-where Hensolas was. As the firebolt slid through the tube, Kharl released a touch of order from the very air behind the firebolt, adding speed and force to it, then juggled the tube, trying to focus it on the banner.

But … Kharl had overdone it, and the firebolt flared behind the banner.

He went to his knees, under the storm of death and anguish that slammed into him, a wave almost as great as the effect of his one order-released chaos blast-and far more deadly, landing as it had in the midst of two companies of waiting lancers.

The banner had fallen, and mounts and men scattered.

Kharl could sense the white wizard, could feel that the other’s shields had weakened.

Almost without thinking, Kharl began to move, walking swiftly through the gray ash and dust that was everywhere, straight toward the white wizard. He was just trying to get close enough to clamp hardened air around the other.

Another firebolt flared toward Kharl, and he redirected it, this time, toward the two other remaining intact companies of lancers, those on the west side of the road.

Drawing even more strength from the orchard, the last of that black mist of order, Kharl staggered when a deep groan, an anguished wail, emanated from the very earth itself, or so it seemed. Even with that anguish shivering through him, he managed to remain upright and cover another ten rods before the next firebolt came, a slightly weaker blast that he directed toward a group of officers who had clustered around a single figure-Hensolas, Kharl thought.

White chaos-fire splashed directly into the center of the officers, and more death washed over Kharl. The remaining lancers and armsmen, those still alive, were scattering away from the wizardly battle.

Kharl could feel, solidly now, the shredding shields of the white wizard, and he clamped the air hard around the other, throwing back one chaos-bolt then another, then, later, a third, one that guttered out even as it splashed around the dead form of the white mage, a form that vanished in white ash as Kharl released the hardened air around the wizard.

Kharl coughed, trying to clear his throat and lungs.

Ash was everywhere, ash and the odor of death and burned flesh. Ash and blackened forms that had been men and mounts.

Kharl couldn’t help retching as he turned and stumbled back toward the orchard-except it was no longer there. Where the orchard had been was also an ashen wasteland. All that was left were two ash-covered oblong shapes that might have been barns.

Twenty-one riders waited, covered in gray, still mounted, as Kharl stumbled back toward them. Brilliant point stars flashed before his eyes, flaring, and each flaring star sent a dagger through his eyes and deep into his skull. Every muscle, and every part of his body, even down to his toenails, ached.

“Ser … that you?”

“It’s me.” Who else would it be, he wanted to scream. Who else?

Demyst guided the gelding toward Kharl. The mage had to clamp his jaws together to climb into the gelding’s saddle, and his legs almost gave way before he got his boots in the stirrups.

The undercaptain turned from side to side, his mouth open, staring at the wasteland of ashes and blackened stumps and fallen figures, and at thelines of blackness seared through the very earth to the southeast of the river road. “Never seen … never …″ His voice faded away.

“Chaos-fire … what the white wizards use.” Kharl realized his words were dull, stating the obvious, but his throat and jaws throbbed when he spoke, and he didn’t feel like explaining more. He doubted he could, or would ever want to.

“Now … what do we do, ser mage?” asked Demyst.

“We head back to the Great House.” Kharl turned his mount eastward. In the few moments when he could see, in between the lightstars and pain daggers that blinded him, causing involuntary tears that carved lines in the ash covering his face, he thought he made out a handful of riders moving eastward, back toward Valmurl.

Kharl felt as though he should be elated, or at least satisfied. Hensolas and the white wizard were dead, and so were most of the rebel armsmen and lancers. But most of those troops had not been rebels. They had served the rebels, and Kharl doubted that they had been given much choice.

His mouth tasted like ashes, and each breath he drew in, raggedly, reeked of ashes and death. When he could see, he saw lancers gray-coated in ashes, and when he could not, he could remember all too vividly the pain of all the deaths, and the last groaning from within the earth as he had gutted, unknowing, the vast orchard for the force necessary to prevail.

He tried to wash the taste of ashes out of his mouth with a long swallow from his water bottle, but the water tasted like ash and death going down his throat.