Douglas Niles - Measure and the Truth

Eyeing Dayr, Jaymes continued, “I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding about these orders. I will need the bombards as soon as he can finish constructing them-certainly at least two of them can be done before the end of summer. And I will take delivery of the powder and balls in small batches, as they become available.”

“Certainly, my lord.” Dayr said, looking away then turning back to Jaymes. “May I ask if there’s a reason you’re worried about a misunderstanding? Might the dwarf be reluctant to follow your orders?”

“No, of course not. But I trust you to see that Dram receives the order and carries it out.”

“Of course. And your orders for the Crown Army? Shall I hold them in place here?”

“No. Take your army back to Thelgaard; you can expect to stand down for the rest of the year unless something untoward happens. But keep the garrisons sharp.”

“Yes, sir. Naturally. Are you taking the legion back over the pass to Palanthas?”

“No. I’m putting them into permanent camp a few miles up the river from here. Vingaard will not be given a chance to forget about them. I intend to have General Weaver practice the legion in open field maneuvers on the plains since there’s a lot more room here than there is beside the city and the bay.”

“Of course, Excellency,” Dayr said, saluting crisply.

Those dispositions made, Jaymes turned at last to his horse. He would ride with the full company of Freemen, a hundred strong; they would escort the wagon containing the tax payment. Palanthas was seven days away, a journey that would take him over the pass in the Vingaard Range, and past the High Clerist’s Tower.

Those mountains were etched along the western horizon, jagged and imposing, with a crest marked by numerous glaciers and snowfields. Some of those peaks were dazzling and white, while others were gray and ominous, shaded by the thick clouds of a massive thunderstorm.

He suddenly missed his wife very much. Jaymes wished he were back home already. He had little spirit for the long ride over the mountainous terrain.

But it was time to get started.

Blayne Kerrigan pulled his oilskin cloak over his head, leaning forward against the neck of his horse in a desperate attempt to block out the torrential rain. He couldn’t see the trail-such as it was-before his nose, so he clung blindly to the saddle. His horse forged ahead, shrugging off the water, shivering against the cold. It was a brave and steady animal and showed its true heart, heading resolutely into the savage weather.

But the mount was as weary as the rider. They had traveled hard through the night, entering the mountains not long after dawn, following a hunting trail Blayne remembered from earlier trips. The trail ran along the bed of a ravine and climbed steeply upward for many miles.

After the all-night ride, the storm had broken on them about noon, and for the rest of that day, they pressed through a steady rain that occasionally, as at that moment, became a lashing downpour. Because of the steep walls rising to right and left, it was practically impossible to get lost, even with the almost complete lack of visibility, so they simply continued blindly, stolidly onward, past a stream spilling down a rock-filled channel in the middle of the ravine.

Blayne had nervously watched the water level increase during the course of the rainy afternoon. In places where the ravine walls closed in, there was no dry land between the intermittent streams and the rock wall, and at times the horse surged through water up to its knees, driving forward until the passage widened and it could again scramble up onto what passed for dry land.

They were hampered by visibility and fatigue and couldn’t maintain their pace after dark. Blayne looked around for a place to stop for the night. But the ground was steeply sloping there and everywhere was exposed to harsh elements. He remembered the presence of a rocky overhang, which would provide minimal shelter, a mile or two farther on, and he resolved to keep going. How different it was from the last time he was on that path. Then he had been on a carefree hunting adventure; at that moment he was fleeing for his life.

It was his father who had first brought him to those mountains. There, Blayne had learned to shoot a bow and arrow. The deadfalls of the forests had burned in their campfires, and Lord Kerrigan had regaled his only son with tales of Vingaard Keep, of the heroes of the past, the War of the Lance, and the battles against minions of evil. Always that great keep had awaited their return, secure on the plains, master of the great, placid river.

His thoughts wandered until a surge of white water, swollen by the heavy rain, rushed around a corner of the ravine before him. The sudden deluge overflowed the banks, and a wave higher than his head came at him so fast that he had bare seconds to react. The horse reared in terror, hooves flailing, and Blayne slid from the saddle.

Landing on his feet, he sprang toward the ravine wall, scrambling desperately. His fingers clutched a gnarl of roots, his boots pounded and kicked, pushing up on rock edges. The water struck him with impossible force, and he was slammed sideways, hearing frantic whinnies as the flood swept his steadfast horse away.

But a thick root dangled just above him, and he seized it with one hand, then both. It was solidly anchored. He clung to the root as the water tugged at his legs, hungrily seeking to bear him away. Gradually he felt the strength of the torrent wane, the water receding until it dropped to his waist then slowly down the length of his legs. Only then did he try to move, desperately hauling himself up from the water onto the steep side of the ravine.

His horse was gone, surely dead. He had no food, no home, very little hope. How long he stayed there, he had no idea, but when he awoke, he was surrounded by pitch darkness and frozen to the bone.

Selinda materialized within her rooms, exhausted and disheartened and full of fear. Those emotions were exacerbated when she saw the outer door to her chambers was open, and several of the emperor’s men-at-arms were searching through the place. One had a wardrobe open and was pawing through her dresses, ignoring the fabulous raiment in a desperate rummaging for… something. Another was on his knees, peering under her bed.

In a flash she realized they had discovered her absence.

“What in the name of the Oath and Measure do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, forcing into her voice every ounce of authority she could muster.

“My lady!” cried the kneeling guard. “Thank Kiri-Jolith you’re safe!”

“Why shouldn’t I be safe?” she demanded. “Safe, that is, except from the presence of rude men who burst into my chambers without an invitation. I repeat, what are you doing?”

The guard in the wardrobe had withdrawn with as much dignity as he could demonstrate, closing the door behind himself and bowing to Selinda. “Begging your ladyship’s pardon, but we came through the door when you didn’t respond to our knocks-over the span of hours, of course! And when we came in, we didn’t see you-”

He blinked and scratched his head. “That is, where were you, my lady?”

“I should think the wife of the emperor is entitled to a few moments of privacy,” she said icily. “It is not necessary that you know everything about my room! Now, leave me, please. At once!”

The two men exchanged glances but wasted no time in retreating, whispering to their companions in the outer hall and bowing and scraping as they pulled the door shut behind themselves.

Only then did Selinda allow herself to breathe easier. Realizing she was trembling, that her knees seemed on the verge of buckling, she dropped into a chair and tried to collect herself.