Wellspring of Chaos (43 page)

The carpenter released his own air shields, and just sat on the stone, shivering and holding the shields around Ilteron and the white wizard until both were dead. His face burned, and his entire body throbbed by the time he let go of the force holding the hardened air around the two.

But the job was far from done.

After releasing the sight shield, Kharl glanced around warily. There was no one alive within the circular stone wall, but charred bodies lay everywhere, and the stench of burned flesh roiled his guts.

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.”

“Just a moment, ser… I’ll be right back.” Her voice died away, as did the sound of sandals on stone.

Kharl sat in his darkness. Why had he been able to see, then not see? He’d tried to concentrate on seeing the young healer… and it was as if the concentration had brought on the blindness.

Within moments, it seemed, he heard Alidya’s steps returning.

“Here, ser. I’ve got your lager.”

Kharl managed to locate the tankard—a real tankard and not a clay mug—with his order-senses and take it from Alidya’s hands. He took a slow swallow, then another, enjoying the taste of perhaps the best lager he’d ever had. Sometime after the third or fourth swallow, his sight returned, but he did not look directly at Alidya, just enjoyed the indirect light flooding around him and the distant hills to the south through the window.

“You didn’t tell me what happened afterward, after…”

Alidya smiled. “Oh, it was glorious. Lord Hagen rallied the lancers and drove back the attackers and raised Lord Ghrant’s banner. Then he sent a message to the highland lords, and, when they learned that Ilteron and the white wizards were dead, they agreed to return to their lands and recognize Lord Ghrant as supreme ruler of Austra.”

“Ah…” Kharl couldn’t believe it had been so simple. It could not have been that easy, could it?

“Well… he did have to send some captive officers back who saw Lord Ghrant so that they could say that he was alive, and he had to promise that he wouldn’t execute any of the rebel lords. They say that Lord Ghrant wasn’t happy about that.”

“That was all?”

“There was one other thing,” Alidya said. “The rebels wouldn’t agree unless Lord Ghrant named Lord Hagen as both his chancellor and arms-commander.”

Kharl couldn’t help chuckling. He would have rolled with laughter if he hadn’t known it would have hurt too much. Even the chuckling sent spasms through his ribs and muscles.

“I don’t think that’s at all funny.” Alidya’s voice turned prim.

Kharl managed to stop chuckling.

“Why did you laugh, ser?”

“I can’t explain… except…” Kharl shook his head. “Someday… someday, you’ll understand.”

A pained look crossed the young woman’s face, but she did not ask again.

“If I could have some more lager…?” Kharl asked after finishing the tankard.

“Yes, ser.”

Kharl could only drink a third of what she brought before he had to put it down. He was far more tired than he had thought, and who knew how many days he’d been abed?

Later that afternoon, a half glass after Kharl woke from dozing off, Hagen appeared.

“Lord Hagen!” Alidya bolted upright from the chair beside Kharl’s bed.

“You can go, Alidya, and close the door on the way out.”

“Ser…”

“Kharl will be fine, and if he needs you, I’ll call you.”

“Ah… yes, ser.”

Hagen waited until the door closed. “I owe you again.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “And you owe me, after a fashion.”

“Alidya told me about your having to be the lord-chancellor.”

“And arms-commander.”

“Lord Ghrant must not be terribly pleased,” offered Kharl.

“He’s relieved that he’s still Lord of Austra, and Lady Hyrietta has prevailed upon him to keep whatever anger he may have to himself.”

“What will you do with the Seastag?”

“Furwyl will become captain, and the others will move up, except for Bemyr. He’ll always be a bosun.” Hagen looked at Kharl. “Lord Ghrant will be honoring you.”

“I didn’t do it for honor.”

“You’ll pardon me if I didn’t tell him that. I did say that you had seen injustice in your past and that you could not allow it to triumph in Austra if you could help it.“ Hagen grinned crookedly.

For a moment, Kharl did not understand the grin. Then he smiled broadly. “That was almost evil, Lord Hagen.”

“What? To remind him that a lord’s task is to seek justice? To suggest that he owes his entire rule to a man who sought justice?” Hagen’s grin faded. “We are at least fortunate that he is one on whom that makes an impact. Though he will need frequent reminders.”

Thinking of Ilteron—and Egen—Kharl nodded.

“You will be honored. I would guess a purse, a small continuing stipend and estate, and the support of Lord Ghrant, which is not to be dismissed, even here.”

“I had not thought…” Kharl had indeed not thought of rewards… or of the possibility of remaining in Austra, and Hagen’s words said that his entire future might well be different—if he desired that future.

“You had not. I know that.” Hagen straightened. “But I thought you should know.”

After Hagen had left, Kharl looked out through the window into the brilliant gold of sunset. What did he want? Really? Could it be that his actions might bring a reward? Could that really be so after all that had happened? Or would he need to remain on the Seastag? Thinking of Furwyl, Rhylla, Ghart, and Tarkyn, he reflected that a man could have a fate far worse—far, far worse.

A faint smile crossed his lips, and he closed his eyes.

Once Kharl was finally alert and eating, he recovered quickly, although he was left with a scar on his left temple, a jagged red mark no longer than the width of his thumb that resembled a miniature lightning bolt. His hair had been cut far shorter, probably to trim off all that had been singed and crisped. Dead skin had also flaked off over most of his face, leaving new and pinkish skin beneath.

By the end of the eightday, he was up and walking through the keep, which was not so much a keep as a large country house, around which walls had been erected at some time, certainly not a structure designed to withstand a lengthy attack or a siege.

His own garments, doubtless too rent and bloodstained to save, had been replaced before he had even recovered with far finer garb, two dark gray shirts that were almost silvery, black trousers, and a black jacket. Even his boots had been replaced with black leather boots fitted to his feet. The garments signified changes, more than he’d wanted to consider. First, the colors—that had been obvious. The black and gray were because he was a mage, but the quality… that bothered him. He could not have afforded such finery, and yet it was almost plain compared to that of those in the keep who attended Lord Ghrant, although somewhat finer than that of the servants or of Alidya.

In the late afternoon of eightday, he stood on the corner of the upper terrace, outside the walls, looking to the ridge and park to the north. The winter sky was clear, and there was no wind to dissipate the mild warmth of the sun. From close to a kay away, outside of a handful of gashes in the turf, Kharl could see no sign that a battle had been fought days before.

He still had a hard time believing that his tricks with hardening air had been so successful and that everyone seemed to think that he was a mighty mage. He had managed to learn a few things about order and chaos—but he’d be in real trouble if he ever encountered a truly accomplished white wizard. That, he understood, even if no one else seemed to.

“Ah… the mysterious mage…”

At the sound of Hagen’s voice, Kharl turned. He shrugged helplessly. “I’m ready to go.”

“Not yet,” Hagen said with a smile. “You need to stay here for a few more days. Just until threeday.”

“Why then?”

“Because that’s when Lord Ghrant has set your audience,” replied the new lord-chancellor. “It would be most unbecoming to depart before then.” Hagen grinned.

“Do I want that audience?” Kharl asked dryly.

“I would judge so, unless you want to go back to being a ship’s carpenter or a wandering mage. As for the moment, I came out here to suggest that now that you are well, you might join me and several of the lancer officers for supper.”

The thought of company for a meal—rather than being served in one of the small dining halls with minor functionaries he did not know—did have a certain appeal to Kharl, but he had no doubt that Hagen had more than that in mind. “Senior officers?”

Hagen smiled. “I am certain they would appreciate any information you might provide about what you saw…”

“Such as the officers dining in the town the day before the final battle?” asked Kharl. “While others were fighting?”

“They might not like such, but I would be indebted to you for such candor.”

“And they are not likely to doubt a mage as much?”

“They know that you have no history with the Austran lancers,” Hagen pointed out. “Unlike me.”

Kharl thought he understood and gestured for Hagen to lead on.

The two walked back across the terrace and through a narrow bailey gate—where two of Ghrant’s personal guards stood stiffly—before reen-tering the north wing. Kharl followed Hagen down a wide but short side corridor, one adorned with oversized portraits of men in restrained finery. The corridor ended in two double doors, the right one open.

Hagen motioned for Kharl to precede him, and the carpenter-mage did.

Inside, five officers in the green and gray of Austra stood around one end of the large circular table already set for a meal with white linen cloth and cutlery. More portraits graced the white plaster walls above the blond wainscot paneling.

“Lord Hagen… mage,” offered a gray-haired and mustached officer with a broad forehead, pointed chin, and perfect mustache.

Hagen returned the greeting with a nod, then spoke. “I thought that it might be useful for Kharl to dine with us. He saw a side of the last battle that none of us did.” He inclined his head to the graying officer. “Kharl, this is Commander Vatoran… Majer Reseff, Majer Tralk, Majer Fuelt, and Majer Nyort.”

Kharl nodded solemnly in response, hoping he could keep the names and faces in mind throughout the dinner.

Hagen moved to a place at the table, the one that faced the doorway. “Kharl, perhaps…” He gestured to the chair across the table from him.

Kharl took the suggestion, but waited to seat himself until the other officers began to do so, and they waited until Hagen actually settled into his chair.

A long silence followed, one that pleased Hagen, Kharl felt.

“Commander Vatoran is the eastern district commander,” the lord-chancellor finally explained to Kharl as servers circled the table, asking each man whether he preferred wine, ale, or lager. “In effect, he commands all of the lancer forces east of the Shiltons. Each of the majers commands a subdistrict, usually with between ten and fifteen companies. The organization is the same for the foot, but we’ll be meeting with them later.” Hagen turned to the server waiting patiently at his shoulder. “Wine. Red. The Asolo, if you have it.”

Kharl stayed with lager. To him, wine was too close to sweet vinegar. “You have not been a lancer, or an armsman, mage, have you?” asked Vatoran, his deep voice calm and even. “I fear not, commander.”

“But you have been in battle?”

“Against pirates and a white wizard. This was my first battle where both sides were lancers and foot.”

Hagen made no comment, just nodded and waited. Kharl took advantage of the moment of silence to sample the lager, a slightly edged but refreshing brew. One of the two women servers deftly slipped slices of white meat onto the gold-rimmed, pale blue china plate before Kharl, and the second added dumplings. A third followed with strips of green cetalya, then ladled a white sauce laced with black mushrooms over both meat and dumplings. Kharl cared little for the bitter cetalya and would have preferred the sauce over the vegetable as well.

“What weapons have you used? Besides your magely skills, that is?” asked one of the majers.

“I’m not one for the blade,” Kharl admitted. “Cudgel and staff.”

One of the other majers sniffed, but did not speak as the first majer asked, “How many men have you killed, mage, that is, with your weapons, not magery?”

Kharl didn’t care much for the majer’s tone, or the unspoken condescension of the other majers, but he fingered his chin before replying, thinking about Tyrbel’s assassin, about the very first white wizard and his guards, and about the pirates. “I can’t say for certain. I know about five for sure, before the battle here.”

“The mage is being modest,” Hagen interrupted. “Against the pirates alone, he took out ten men with his staff.”

Kharl reflected once more. If he counted the deaths of the men killed on the ridge by the white wizard’s efforts to stop him, then the total was doubtless several score.

“Would you agree with Lord Hagen’s assessment?” asked Vatoran, a slight smile without humor lifting the corners of his mouth.

“Lord Hagen may have seen more than I did. He had a better vantage, and he is more familiar with fighting and warfare,” Kharl said. “I was just doing the best I could.” He took a bite of the meat—boar, he thought—and a mouthful of the flavorful dark bread. Then he tried a dumpling, surprisingly delicate, with a plumlike flavor.

“The mage cleared the deck of one vessel,” Hagen explained, “but he lost two toes and cracked his ribs in a number of places.”

“What about—”

“I think we can dispense with more questions about the mage’s familiarity with weapons and fighting,” Vatoran interjected, turning back to Kharl. “Did you see much of the fighting before the day that you bested the wizards and Ilteron?”

Hagen gave the slightest of nods to Kharl.

“I had not realized that the fighting had begun,” the mage replied. “I was in the town, looking for somewhere to eat, and I went into a cafe. There were four lancer officers there, and they were eating and drinking, and talking about the fighting… about how close the rebels were to Dykaru—”

“… must be some mistake…”

“… sure they wore the green and black?”

“They were in the green and black,” Kharl affirmed, “and when I left, I saw a wagon filled with wounded, and the teamster was complaining that he’d lost his way and that his captain didn’t seem to know much about where the battle was or how to direct the teamster…” Kharl took a swallow of ale before continuing. “That was what I saw and heard before we got into battle the next day.”

Vatoran nodded as if to himself before continuing. “I’d be most curious, mage, as to why you risked your life for Lord Ghrant. You don’t have to speak to that, if you don’t want to, of course. It’s enough that you acted, whatever the reason.”

“I’m not sure that it is, commander,” Kharl found himself saying. “I used to think that myself. I was a cooper. No secret about that. So long as I made good barrels, didn’t matter to me why I made them. But it did.”

He shrugged. “I found that out. Heard enough about Ilteron and had seen enough of Lord Hagen to realize there was a difference. Didn’t get to make a difference in Nordla, but I had a chance in Austra. That’s why.”

“But you are not Austran,” Vatoran pointed out. “Lord Hagen’s acts had made it clear that right is right. Wrong is wrong. Doesn’t matter where. If you only protect what’s yours, and everyone does that, then wrong usually wins, and right loses. In the end, you do, too.”

Vatoran looked as though he wanted to reply to that, but, instead, the commander frowned, then asked, “How did you get into battle?”

“Lord Hagen thought that I might be of some use in making sure that Lady Hyrietta and the heirs were safe…” Kharl went on to tell about the battle, but avoided any exact details about what magery he had used, only saying, “I managed to use what I knew about order to block their firebolts and imprison them in a web of order. That killed the two wizards and Ilteron. Then I dragged Lord Ghrant off the ridge and managed to get him onto a mount. It took a long time to get him back to the harbor.”

“In the middle of the battle?” Vatoran’s eyebrows lifted. “That part of the battle was pretty near over. At least, no one was fighting there right then, and no one was looking at a carpenter dragging and carrying a wounded man. They were still worried about the firebolts on the top of the ridge.” While what Kharl said was true—no one had been looking at them because they couldn’t have seen them—the evasion of truth bothered him, but he didn’t want to reveal exactly what he had done. “And you just rode to the harbor?”

“What he says is true,” Hagen interjected in a calm voice. “We were on the Seastag, and we saw a rider come up the pier with a figure over the saddle before him. Until he dismounted, we didn’t realize that it was the mage with Lord Ghrant.”

“It took a long time,” Kharl added. “I couldn’t get there directly.” That had been absolutely true.

“I see. What did you notice about the foot and lancers in the battle that we should know?”

“Some of them—Lord Ghrant’s men who held the little stone pavilion on the south side—they were brave and well-ordered. They were holding the pavilion even against the one mage until I killed him. There were others who ran and fled from the white wizards before I got there. More of them were in green and black, but there were some in yellow and black. Lord Ilteron’s forces withdrew a number of rods when I was battling the last white wizard, but I didn’t see any of them breaking or running.“ Kharl shrugged. ”That’s what I saw. I wasn’t looking at the lancers and foot, though. I was trying to stop the wizards and find Lord Ghrant and Ilteron.“

“Did you see any standards or banners…”

“Did you see any other rebel livery besides the blue…”

“What about cannon…”

Kharl replied to the questions as well as he could, even if most of his answers were negative. In between questions and answers, he kept eating.

After a time, Hagen cleared his throat. Loudly.

“I think the mage has been most forthcoming. It is most clear to me, both from what I saw and from what the mage and others have reported, that we have a solid task ahead of us if we are to be successful in halting other attempts by Hamor to weaken Austra.” Hagen’s smile to the officers was polite, but far from warm as he stood and nodded to Kharl.

Kharl stood and inclined his head to the commander. “My best to you, ser, and I trust I have not disturbed you too greatly, but I could only report on what I saw and experienced. I know too little about lancers to say anything but what I saw.”

“I am certain that is so, mage.” Vatoran had risen, as had the majers, and he inclined his head in response.

Kharl followed Hagen out and down the corridor.

The lord-chancellor said nothing until they were back in a small study or library, where both walls were filled with shelves brimming with leather-bound volumes. Hagen closed the door, but made no move to seat himself at the black oak desk. “That will do.”

“I don’t think they were happy with my words,” Kharl said.

“They weren’t supposed to be. I wanted them to know that more than a few people understood that some of the lancers had not responded well. Eating in town while the fighting was going on.” Hagen snorted. “Running from battle while others fought…”

“Was that why you did not see eye to eye with Lord Ghrant before?”

“Something like that.”

“Is there anything else you’d like from me?” asked Kharl.

Hagen laughed. “Just be polite and mysterious for the next few days, until you meet with Lord Ghrant, and then we’ll talk about what you’d like to do next.“

Kharl understood that, too. He wasn’t going to get a direct answer until something else happened, probably between Hagen and Lord Ghrant.