L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

He was surprised that more enemy armsmen were not returning to attack, and yet it made sense. He doubted if any of the armsmen had ever seen a battle between mages, and after a few score of the rebels had been incinerated, the rest hadn’t wanted to remain close. Slowly, he crawled the last twenty cubits to the stone pavilion, partly because he didn’t want armsmen beyond the wall to see him, and partly because he wasn’t sure his legs had yet regained enough strength to hold him.

When he reached the pavilion, he looked around. The white wizard was a slight figure, smaller even than Ghrant. Ilteron had been even taller and broader than Kharl. The slightly built Ghrant was alive. How alive was another question.

The carpenter-mage reached out and grabbed the lord’s leather harness, then began to drag the smaller man across the stones and around the fallen bodies toward the gap in the stone wall-and not the one where the pond was-nearest the side of the hill with the berry bushes. At the edge of the wall, keeping himself low, Kharl glanced around.

Armsmen and lancers were beginning to edge back up the hillside.

“…real quiet up there…”

“…you want to go, you go…”

“…anything take out a white wizard…don’t want to be the one to get in its way…”

Kharl just hoped that would keep them away for a moment.

He girded himself and cast the light shield. He needed to get at least a few hundred cubits downhill before releasing it. He made over a hundred cubits before he did. Thankfully, there was no one nearby when he could see again.

Then he continued, once more, to drag the unconscious lord down the hill. He had to stop every few cubits, and then rest, before dragging Ghrant farther.

Halfway down the hill, Kharl found a mount tied to a tree. Whose it was didn’t matter.

He barely had the strength to lever the unconscious lord over the narrow space in front of the saddle, then untie and mount the horse himself. With the horse’s first steps, Kharl struggled to hang on to the lord with one hand and the saddle and the reins with the other as he tried not to lurch from side to side.

The ride back to the port, with his selective use of the sight shield, felt as though it must have taken glasses. At times, he knew armsmen were near, and he somehow shielded the two of them and the horse, then rode on, slowly. At other times, even without the sight shield, he could not see, but he kept riding.

The sun was low in the western sky even before he reached the harbor avenue. To Kharl, it had all been a blur after leaving the stone pavilion.

Then he was on the pier and riding toward the Seastag . The lines were singled up, and smoke was pouring from the stacks, but…the gangway was down-if with four armsman at its foot.

They had sabres at the ready.

“It’s Kharl! He’s got Lord Ghrant!”

The armsmen still did not move.

Kharl staggered off the mount, and before he could say anything, blackness rushed over him.

When Kharl tried to wake up, he could not, and white chaos swirled around him, then blackness, followed by fiery redness, shot with ugly whiteness. Arrows of pain pierced his body, one after the other, endlessly. He felt as though he walked through fire, then through the coldest of winters, and yet, somewhere in the darkness that clouded his thoughts, he knew he had walked not a step.

“Drink this…you must drink this…” Even the words burned through his ears, like flame-tipped arrows, and whatever he drank tasted like liquid fire.

Worst of all, he could not see, as if he were locked behind his own sight and light shields.

At other times, the words spoken to him, as gently phrased as they were, meant nothing. Every word was strange, as if spoken in the language of Hamor or of ancient Westwind, or even of antique and vanished Cyador.

At some point, a cooling blackness descended upon him, and his sleep was deeper, and dreamless.

Days later, he thought, he woke, without the fire, but he still could not see.

He could sense he was in a large room, with a light and cool breeze blowing across his face, a face that felt cracked and dry, and someone sat on a chair beside the wide bed. There was a darkness to that presence. A black mage?

“Lyras?”

“Yes. I could feel the battle from the north, but it took an eightday to get here. Few coasters were willing to chance the voyage with all the reports of Hamorian warships off the shores.”

“Lord Ghrant?”

“He will recover, although he is yet weak.”

“The rebels…the highlanders?” Even a few words seemed to exhaust Kharl.

“All is well…you need to know that, but you also need to rest.”

“You…should…have…been…here.”

A light laugh answered Kharl’s halting words. “Me? I would have been burned at the first firebolt. I don’t know how you did it. There were close to a hundred armsmen that you flamed. Yet you radiate darkness like the strongest of order-mages.”

“Did what…had to…” Kharl was too tired to explain. He could do that later.

“I said you were stronger than I,” offered Lyras.

“Don’t feel…strong.”

“Don’t complain. Most people who took on two white wizards and companies of armsmen and lancers would be three cubits down-if anyone could find enough to bury. That includes mages.”

“…not a real mage…”

“If you’re not a mage, then water isn’t wet, and ice isn’t cold.” Lyras snorted. “Maybe no kind of mage I’ve heard about, but that doesn’t matter. A mage is a mage, and you’re a mage. No question about that.”

“Mages…not that…stupid…. Ghrant still lord?”

“Oh, yes, and matters will be much better now.”

“The Hamorians…their fleet?”

“Oh…that. When they discovered Ilteron was dead, they sailed off. They weren’t interested in shedding their own blood. Just ours. Enough of the questions. You need to rest.”

Kharl wanted to protest, but the cool darkness flowed from Lyras over him, and he could not say a word as he dropped into another deep and dreamless sleep.

When Kharl woke again, he could see. He was quartered in a corner room in the keep, with white plaster walls and a wide window, its shutters open to the south. The high bed was of triple width, and had sheets of fine cotton, the kind Charee had dreamed of and Kharl could never have afforded. For a moment, sadness washed over him, and tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. Were all luxuries that costly? He blotted the tears awkwardly, wishing he were not crying, trying to ignore the figure hovering over him.

“Are you all right?”

Lyras had vanished. In his place was a young woman wearing a dark tunic and trousers, with her black hair tied back, and very intent brown eyes.

“Just…I’m better.” How could he explain? “Better,” he repeated.

When he could speak, he asked, “Who are you?” Then he tried to look at her more closely, and, abruptly, the blackness dropped across his vision as though he had raised the light shield.

“I’m Alidya. I’m a healer in learning. Lyras summoned me.”

Kharl forced himself to relax, not to think about seeing. “What happened?”

“What do you mean, Master Kharl?”

“I don’t remember much after I got Lord Ghrant to the ship.”

“No one could believe that you rescued him and killed the white wizards. I’m sure you know, but there wasn’t a mark on them. Not on Ilteron, either. Master Lyras, he said that the ways of the black mages are mysterious…Is it true…oh, I’m not supposed to be talking, not so much. Would you like some lager or some ale?”

“Lager…that would be good.”