The Order War (26 page)

Yee-ahhhh…yee-ahh
.

Justen tiredly remounted the mare and turned away from the crossroads. There had been a side road two hills back. Because the Whites might get there first, assuming that the second dust cloud represented more Whites—and from its size, a larger group—he would have to chance the open fields.

Restraining his impulse to have the mare trot or canter, he rode back down the gentle slope they had just climbed, his eyes studying the terrain to his right, to the south, trying to memorize it.

Then, at the bottom of the hill, he drew the light-shield around himself and the mare and turned south across the open grasslands, hoping his memory would not play him false.

Eldiren frowned.

“What happened, Ser Wizard?”

“He disappeared. One of those cowardly Black tricks. But it won’t help him now. We’ve got position on him.”

“I beg your pardon, Ser?”

Eldiren shook his head.

The officer just shrugged apologetically, apprehensively.

Eldiren sighed. “It’s simple. He knows that the others hold the crossroads, and he’s an engineer, not a mage. So he will either try to circle around them and get on the river road on the other side of our forces, or he will try to get to that side road up ahead.”

“But…from what you said, he’s more than a kay from it. We’re just a few hundred cubits.”

“He’ll cut across the fields, but he’s going to have to do that half-blind, and that will slow him down. Take another score—say the Fourth. Ride past the crossroads and just keep going until you get to the fork in the road on this side of the river. You’ll know it. After the roads join, it’s only a couple hundred cubits to the big drawbridge that crosses the Sarron into Clynya. The bridge will be up, of course. Just hold the fork as close to the bridge as is safe and wait for us. Forage as necessary.”

“What about the engineer?”

“If you hold the fork, he can’t cross the river. He’ll have to travel into the wilds for another day, maybe longer…but once you go past him and get on the river road, he won’t head that way. And we’ll be right behind him. If you see dust puffs, you know what to do with the arrows.” Eldiren smiled.

The officer shivered.

Justen blotted the sweat from his face wondering how he and the mare had kept going. He was tired, and so was she. Every time he tried to get to the river, it seemed as though more White troops had arrived. He had no energy left with which to shield himself from the damned vulcrow, and the sun never stopped beating all day long. His exposed skin was bright red, and his face burned night and day. His own salty sweat was like acid on his cheeks, and even his skin under the short beard itched and burned. Again, he wished for a razor. Some men used knives to shave, but he wasn’t up to that, especially without some form of soap or oil. He rubbed his aching forehead again, trying to forget the pain in his legs.

So why did he keep going?

The dust that he knew was rising from the road behind him partly answered that question. A score or more of White Lancers and a White Wizard chasing him were certainly good reasons to keep riding.

Overhead, the vulcrow circled, keeping his location pointed out to the White Wizard. Yet it was almost a game, a deadly one, as if the White Wizard were holding back. By sleeping less and riding longer for the past two days, Justen had managed to keep ahead of the Whites. But each day, he awoke from a troubled sleep with less energy left, and no quick or easy way to replenish his supply of now-exhausted bread and cheese. The few shuttered homesteads and hovels in the parched southern grasslands were not abandoned, but filled with armed and fearful souls.

He was almost out of olives, and only brackish water that he had order-spelled had kept them going. At least there was still grass—browned but chewable—for the mare.

At the top of another of the dry and endless hills, Justen turned, taking a deep breath. The Whites were closing in again, and it was but a bit past midday.

He turned again, noting the fork in the road ahead. The
left-hand fork was narrower and headed straight for the dull, gray hills. He could see one stone wall off the left road. The main road swung westward and looked flat and empty.

Justen took the left fork. In the hills, there might at least be somewhere to hide.

Less than half a kay southward into the hills, on the slope above the road, stood a long stone building, roofed in weathered clay tiles. Justen turned the mare up the lane.

Whheeee…eeee
.

“I know. It’s steeper, but we need the water.”

As he rode into the yard, a figure dashed for the door of the dwelling. The door clunked shut with a thud, and a bar dropped into place. By the well lay a bucket filled with water. Justen grinned. He rode the mare to the door of the dwelling.

“If I could trouble you,” he said loudly, “I’d appreciate taking some of that water, and if you had any traveling provisions to spare, I’d leave some coin for you.”

No one answered.

“All right. I’ll just be taking the water, and I’ll leave some coppers by the well.”

Justen leaned forward in the saddle, taking his weight off his sore thighs and cramping muscles, before half-climbing, half-falling, out of the saddle. He steadied himself by grasping the edge of the saddle.

Finally, he dipped a finger in the water and tasted it—slightly brackish, but not enough as to require the order-spelling that he wasn’t even sure he could carry off in his present condition.

There was a circular trough by the well, and he poured some of the water into it for the mare, who immediately began to drink.

“Easy…easy, lady.”

Then he drank some of the remainder and splashed the rest across his face and neck, both to cool himself and to remove the dust and grit. Remembering his promise, he took two coppers from his purse and set them on the coping. Then he lowered the bucket into the shallow well and brought it up. After retrieving his water bottle, he began to fill it.

“Get out of here! Go on!”

Justen looked up to the doorway of the dwelling, where a woman had an antique crossbow trained on him. Her dark hair, shot with gray, flared away from her narrow face as she concentrated on her aim.

“I’m leaving,” Justen protested. “The coppers are right there.”

“That’s the only reason you’re not dead.”

Justen capped the water bottle and replaced it in the saddle holder. Then he forced himself to take another deep swallow of water from the bucket. “You might be careful. There are a couple score Whites on the road behind me.”

“I’ll be careful enough. But bother your Whites…you brought them, you deserter. Let them chase you into the Stone Hills, for all the good it will do you.”

“I’m not a deserter. I’m a Black engineer.”

“You’re all one and the same. Now get on that poor horse and get out of here.”

“The Stone Hills?” asked Justen, pouring some of the water in the bucket into the now-empty trough. He could tell that the mare needed more, and the water was warm enough that she wasn’t cramping.

“Maybe you’re not quite so bad…it doesn’t matter. Just like the Roof of the World is the coldest spot in Candar, the Stone Hills are the driest. And that’s the only place this road leads to…except for the old copper mines, but they’re long worked out.” Her face hardened. “Soon as your horse finishes that, you be gone.”

“Could I buy a loaf of bread or something?”

“Your coin’s not worth it.” She raised the crossbow.

“Thank you.” Justen half-climbed, half-dragged, himself onto the mare, half-fearing a bolt in the back. But the bolt did not come as he rode back downhill and turned toward the Stone Hills. Perhaps the Whites would not follow past the copper mines.

With a glance over his shoulder at the dust cloud that was less than two kays behind, he laughed harshly.

“Sending Beltar to Sarronnyn was a masterstroke, Histen.”

“No, sending gold to Recluce was better. Without that marine turning on the Storm Wizard, we could have lost another army.” Histen stepped away from the screening glass upon the white-oak table.

“What happens when the Storm Wizard recovers?” Renwek absently adjusted his red-leather belt.

“Nothing. He’s on the way back to Recluce, it appears, with the remaining engineers. Except for the one that Beltar claims is wandering loose in Sarronnyn.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“Actually, it is rather good, because Zerchas and Beltar are arguing about what to do. And young Derba, who’s more of a hothead than Beltar, doesn’t want to cause trouble until he knows who will win.”

“What about Jehan?”

“I worry about poor Jehan. He thinks too much. So does Eldiren. Of course, you do, too, Renwek.” The High Wizard cracked a smile as he walked to the window. After glancing at the cold autumn rain and rubbing his forehead, he eased the window closed. “There are times I wish we had a Weather Wizard.”

Renwek coughed nervously. “Won’t that Weather Wizard reveal your…influence?”

“My bribery, you mean? What is there to reveal? The only person the wizard could know about has joined the Iron Guard.” Histen poured two glasses of the red wine. “It is going rather well.”

“Not that well. We have lost a small army and almost half of another.”

“We have Sarron, and we’ll have all of Sarronnyn before long—those parts that Beltar doesn’t reduce to rubble. Besides, losses like that will keep Zerchas humble.”

“Zerchas is rather cunning.” Renwek pursed his lips.
“But then…Beltar is stronger than Zerchas. If he takes on Zerchas, he might—”

“He might replace Zerchas? Of course he will. Not all of Zerchas’s scheming will work. Jehan’s too smart to do Zerchas’s treachery, and Zerchas knows it. More important, Jehan will somehow avoid crossing Beltar.”

“You think you know them all, don’t you?”

“That’s the real part of being High Wizard. Any young fool with power can incinerate his rivals.”

“And what will you do when Beltar climbs the Tower like Jeslek did?”

“If he does get that far…hmmm.” Histen paused. “Like Sterol, I would offer him the amulet. Unlike Sterol, I would not scheme, but offer my full support before leaving for Lydiar…just about as fast as I could manage.”

“That is not exactly the height of honor.”

“There is a great difference between breaking one’s word—which I have not done—and waiting around to be incinerated by someone who doesn’t understand the difference. Beltar won’t chase after me. Derba would, the arrogant idiot.” Histen drained the glass. “In the meantime, send another shipment to Recluce.”

“But why? You don’t need—”

“Renwek…always pay your traitors well, even after their treachery. If no one finds out, they’ll be grateful, and you might need them again. If someone does find out, it draws attention to the gold and not to the giver.” The High Wizard laughed. “In this case, the gold probably wasn’t necessary. I’m sure he was only following his own inclinations. But guaranteeing his inclinations was cheap.”

Renwek nodded, but pursed his lips.

Justen slowed the mare to a halt, trying to sense what was bothering him. Overhead, the sun still blazed with the heat of summer, hotter with each step the mare carried him into the Stone Hills. Was he even in the Stone Hills?

He glanced up the road, still wide enough for heavy wagons, if crumbling at the edges. Where were the copper mines—abandoned or otherwise?

Yee-ahhh…yee-ahhh
.

The vulcrow landed on the limb of a weathered gray cactus overlooking the road, stared at him for a moment, then flapped back into the cloudless sky.

A dull pounding, almost like the roll of drums, startled Justen, and he looked over his shoulder. A line of White lancers, less than a kay away, had spurred their horses into a canter toward him. Even as he looked, they seemed to close the gap to several hundred cubits.

Justen turned and glanced around. The road ran above the dry watercourse between two low hills. A few clumps of brown grass, scattered cacti, sand, and rock covered the hillside. The hot wind threw grit at his blistered and raw face.

To the right, about two hundred cubits ahead, was a road cut into the hillside, and after the cut, what had been the main road narrowed to little more than a trail.

The mines? Justen nudged the mare with his boots. Tired as she was, she began to trot. The engineer glanced back again. The hard-riding lancers were close enough that several had lifted their blades.

Justen turned his attention to the road. Should he take the narrow trail or the mine road?

He decided on the mine road and urged the mare toward the road cut. “Come on, lady.” The effort was probably useless, but with a White Wizard so close and looking for him, and with no vegetation or cover, even light-shielding wouldn’t be enough.

Yee-ahhh…yeahhhh
. The vulcrow swooped in front of Justen, one wing almost grazing his face.

Wheeee…eee
. The mare skittered and nearly fell. Justen grabbed her mane to stay in the saddle as she stopped just below the road cut.

Yee-ahhh
.

Justen flicked the reins. “Please…lady.”

Thunnggg…hissttt
. The arrow flew past his ear.

“Shit…” he muttered, realizing that it had come from in front of him. He flattened himself against the mare, simultaneously trying to cast a light-shield around them both.

Thunnnkk…

Whheeeee…
The mare screamed, and Justen winced at the pain that her cry carried.

“Got the first horse, leastwise. That fellow won’t make it far without a mount.”

“Get the damned bird!”

Thunnkkk!

As the mare slumped to the ground, Justen felt his way clear, grabbing the half-full water bottle and the blanket from their holders and trying to sense his way off the road.

The lancers charged toward the fallen mare, who must have reappeared from nowhere, thought Justen, as he struggled away from the mine-road cut.

Thunggg…thungg…

“Ambush!”

“…’ware the arrows! Watch out!”

“Call the wizard!”

As the lancers regrouped, Justen slowly limped toward the narrow trail that he could feel rather than see. The vulcrow flapped in the road, an arrow through one wing, and a single lancer lay in the dust. Justen did not look back as he struggled uphill.

He doubted that the few Sarronnese hill folk, tough as they might be, would stop the lancers for long.

Hhssttt!
A firebolt splashed on the uphill side of the road behind Justen.

He continued to walk blindly and steadily away from Sarronnyn, away from any water he knew about, and away from the White Wizard, his feet upon a quickly narrowing trail.
The trail did not so much halt as merge with the now-dry watercourse that climbed gently between the two browning hills.

Justen reached the top and stepped behind the husk of a dried cactus before releasing the light-shield.

Below, the lancers had dropped back beyond bow range, and waited.

One of the Sarronnese archers, almost indistinguishable from the brown and muted red of the land, nocked another arrow and let it fly.

Hhhsttt!
The firebolt tracked back the arrow’s path.

“Aeeeiii…” The screaming archer flamed for a moment, then toppled into a charred heap.

Another archer lofted an arrow toward the lancers, this time without leaving the rocky cover.

Hssst!
The firebolt flared harmlessly against red sandstone.

Justen nodded and slipped downhill and out of sight. Since he had seen only one vulcrow, it might be a while before the White Wizard could bring another one after him. He hoped so.

Farther downhill, he stopped and took a deep swallow from the water bottle, then threaded the loops through his belt. After loosening the strap on the blanket roll, he slung it over his shoulder and let the blanket swing under his arm.

He looked at the gray hills ahead. He hoped there were a lot of cacti, because he was headed for Naclos, like it or not. He had no illusions. Most likely, he’d die on the way. But Naclos offered a chance, and he had no doubt that surviving in the hill country of Sarronnyn for any length of time was impossible for him. Perhaps he could struggle through the Stone Hills to the green lands of Naclos. Perhaps there was something to the dream, the vision of the silver-haired druid. Perhaps.

He snorted and kept walking, his eyes peeled for any vegetation that might harbor either water or nourishment.