L. Modesitt - Ordermaster

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 overthe 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.

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 white 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-ononesituation, 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.”