The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Not until the meandering path had carried him and the mare back into the ragged and rocky sheep meadows and sagging walls and fences did Justen even consider stopping, despite his near-constant yawns and sore muscles, A few bites of the cheese and a chunk from the stale bread while he rode had helped relieve his headache and the worst of the soreness, but not the yawns.

  Finally, the path turned slightly toward the west-at least Justen felt that it was turning toward the west-and resumed a gentle climb over several hills. Justen had lost exact count, trying as he was to remain awake and being only half-alert, when the path dipped and then turned to run almost due south, alongside a depression between the hills.

  A hint of order, of unseen order, tugged at Justen, and he reined up, shaking his head. He looked downhill, but his eyes had trouble focusing, although from the dimness below, he could hear a gurgling stream, apparently beneath a small grove of pine trees. He squinted and tried to use his senses. So far as he could feel, there was a cleared area under the trees, and neither animals nor people around. The cleared part of the almost tiny valley sandwiched between the two hills seemed to carry a sense of calm.

  Justen studied the hillside. One part of the slope downward was almost clear of bushes and trees, but his eyes seemed to skitter away from the trees. Using mainly his senses, the engineer guided the mare through the gaps and under the tall trees. After he dismounted, his knees almost buckled when his feet touched the pine-carpeted ground.

  “Ooooo…”

  Whuufff…

  “Thank you also, lady.”

  The mare tugged at the reins, pulling Justen toward the stream, which ran over large pebbles and between boulders and larger rocks.

  “Not that way, idiot. You’ll get your hooves stuck there. Here.”

  While the mare drank, Justen studied the setting. No more than a half-dozen tall pines formed almost a circle, covering the center area with spreading branches. The brook appeared from behind a tangle of thorn bushes and redberries, ran through the clearing, and vanished downstream into an equally rambling mass of vegetation.

  Justen pursed his lips and called on his senses again, studying the area, finally shaking his head. Beyond a vague sense of some underlying order, almost permeating the rocks and the pines, he could find nothing. Clearly, years in the past, the miniature valley had been created for some orderly purpose, but of that purpose, nothing remained. At least nothing that he could sense.

  After he watered the mare, he continued to walk around the cleared space, but he could find no sign that anyone had stopped or camped there recently. Finally, he unsaddled the mare and tethered her to a pine branch, with enough leeway that she could browse on the thick grass beyond the trees and in the narrow space before the tangled vegetation sprouted.

  After that, using his senses, since it had grown almost pitch dark, he fumbled out his rations and began to eat, propped up against the trunk of a pine, listening to the gentle gurgle of the stream and the whispering of the pine limbs in the evening breeze.

  Dinner, although it was supper in Sarronnyn, he recalled, was one of the pearapples, some cheese, and a chunk of bread, accompanied with liberal amounts of cool water from the stream. While the water had seemed clean enough, he had still taken the precaution of order-spelling it. Who knew what sheep fields it had seen?

  The heavy needles and the blanket provided the softest bed he had felt in days, or had it been seasons? Although the grove appeared and felt safe, he set a simple ward-the only kind he knew-to wake him if anything large ventured nearby. Then he pulled the blanket around himself and collapsed.

  Waking up was difficult, and his feet felt sluggish. Somehow, he was no longer in the grove, and he had been running after the mare, who kept dancing away from him, just out of reach. On the far hilltop, Gunnar marched northward, ignoring him even as he shouted his brother’s name.

  Yee-ah… ! The black vulcrow swooped from out of the sky, and Justen threw up an arm to ward off the bird.

  Hhsstt! Hssstt! Two firebolts seared past him, one so close that his hair singed.

  He looked over his shoulder. A squad of white-clad riders pounded across the side of the hill. He began to sprint toward the mare.

  Just as his fingers closed around the reins, he stumbled… and looked down at a body in dark clothes.

  “Krytella!” He reached down. The red hair turned darker and shorter, and his fingers clutched at rotting cloth as with a shudder, he dropped the dead Iron Guard, whose liquid flesh flowed into the ground.

  He woke with a jolt, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Had it been just a dream? For a moment, it had seemed so real. Or was the White Wizard after him again?

  Shivering in the chill, damp air, he let his senses touch the calm around him, reaching out to make sure that nothing lurked in the darkness beyond the grove, but all he could sense was the faint, underlying sense of order. He sensed neither chaos nor dread.

  He fumbled for the water bottle he had set beside the tree trunk and swallowed several small mouthfuls of the cool liquid. What had the dream meant, if anything? He certainly knew that both Krytella and the Guard were dead. Was his mind trying to tell him that he couldn’t catch Gunnar? Or that, for all the calm around him, the White Wizard and his familiar still stalked him? He closed the water bottle and set it back against the bark of the trunk. Then he pulled the blanket around his shoulders again and leaned back.

  In time, his heart stopped pounding and his eyes closed.

  Above him, the pine branches swished in the wind.

  LV

  With the gray of dawn, Justen was up-first, currying the mare as she cropped the thick grass beyond the fir-needle carpet where Justen had slept, then watering her, and finally, washing himself in the stream. Those duties completed, he breakfasted on the next-to-last pearapple, two handfuls of almost-dry berries that he was able to retrieve from the thickets without getting scratched into shreds, and bread and cheese. He refilled the water bottle and stretched.

  Whheee… eeee.

  “You’re even ready to go?” He lifted the gray saddle blanket into place, then the saddle. The mare stood patiently as he fumbled with the girth and cinch. After checking the saddle, he rolled up the blanket and tied it behind the saddle. He stretched again and looked into the bright blue-green sky.

  On the slope beyond the stream, a raft of yellow leaves swirled off a squat oak in the gusting wind that seemed to mix warm and cold air as it ruffled Justen’s dark hair. He used his fingers to brush the leaves off his forehead. “Getting too long.” He touched the itchy stubble on his chin and shook his head.

  Whheee… eeee…

  “We’re going.” Justen checked his limited gear and climbed into the saddle. The mare sidestepped twice before settling down.

  “Feeling frisky, lady?” He patted her neck.

  The warmth of the sun was more than welcome when he rode out of the trees and back up to the narrow path.

  Justen glanced back at the grove and blinked once. Despite the order embodied by the small area, his eyes wanted to skip over the space, particularly the pines, just as they had the night before.

  “Definitely strange,” he muttered. What was there about the trees? Or was he still so tired that he was imagining things? Except that despite the unsettling dream, he did not feel tired, certainly not nearly so tired as the day before.

  The path continued almost due south, over at least a handful of rolling hills, before angling back to the west. The brown-grassed meadows were longer, as if not so heavily grazed, and fewer cultivated fields graced either hills or valleys. Since leaving the grove where he had slept, Justen had seen no trees except for a few scrublike bushes, and but a single hovel, with only a rickety barn. That hovel, like all those save Lurles’s, had been shuttered tight and abandoned.

  In the still, morning air, the twittering of insects seemed subdued, and only a few birds flew, landing to scrabble in the stubbled grainfields.

  After bearing west once more a
nd crossing two more low hills, the path widened into a trail, or narrow road. Justen reined up just below the second hillcrest when he saw the small orchard below and to the left of the road. Half a kay away on the almost-flat ground stood less than a score of nearly bare-limbed trees, surrounded by a low, tumbled stone wall. Two sod-walled buildings, as dilapidated as the wall, sagged toward each other to the west of the orchard Between the buildings was a heap of stone that looked to be a rock-walled well.

  Glancing down at the road, Justen thought he saw a mass of hoofprints beneath a thin coating of dust. He nodded. Of course. All the sheep or goats, or whatever, had been herded westward, perhaps over the bridge at Clynya. Was that bridge still standing, or had the Sarronnese destroyed it, too? Was he ever going to get back to Rulyarth-or to Recluce?

  The sun and the still air had wanned the high plains as though it were a summer day, and he wiped his forehead. Then he took a deep breath and studied the road again, but he could see no recent tracks, although he was well aware that he was no tracker. Slowly, he followed the road toward the apparently abandoned orchard.

  Once he reached the wall, he stopped, studying the trees, thinking they might be olive trees. As he followed the road closer to the buildings, he sent his perceptions ahead, nodding in relief as he discovered the structures were empty.

  He looked at the almost-empty saddlebags, then at the buildings. Finally, with a look the dusty road to ensure that no one was coming, he turned off and rode along the short lane to the two soddies.

  “Hullo!”

  Only silence greeted his hail, not that he had expected a response.

  Dismounting by the well, he was pleased to find a battered bucket and a rope. In a few moments, he had lifted a bucketful of water, order-spelled it, and refilled his water bottle, drinking a mouthful and splashing the road dust off his face. Then, since there was no trough, he refilled the bucket and set it out for the mare. She slurped noisily.

  Justen studied the buildings. The one to the right of the well looked like it had been a dwelling and not repaired in years. The door on the windowless second building was newer, and fastened with an iron latch. A set of recent wagon ruts ran from beside the second sod building back toward the lane and presumably out to the road.

  Again, Justen looked to the road before walking over to lift the latch and open the door. A trace of brine drifted to him as he peered inside at the empty timber racks. Not quite empty, he realized. Beneath one rack stood the recently shattered remnants of a large barrel.

  With another look around, Justen slipped into the building and walked over to the barrel. The top had been removed, and small, round objects littered the floor; olives. He peered into the bottom of the barrel to discover several handfuls or more of the fruit. After reaching down and pulling out a damp olive, he nibbled at it. Beneath the saltiness of the brine that had been used to cure it, the olive was certainly edible, if still somewhat bland.

  The olive growers had been in a hurry to pack up their wares, since they had taken what they could easily retrieve and left the rest.

  Since there was nothing in which to store the remaining olives, Justen walked back to the mare and unstrapped one of the saddlebags, the empty one, and carried it back into the warehouse, where, leaning headfirst into the barrel and avoiding the sharp points of the two broken staves, he began retrieving the still-damp fruit, eating some of the olives in the process and trying not to break his teeth on the pits.

  He finally straightened and saw that the bag was more than half full. He started to leave the storeroom, then shook his head. Even though the olives, had he left them there, would have spoiled, he couldn’t just take them. Finally, he laid two coppers on the rack.

  When he stepped back into the yard, the mare whickered, then moved toward a clump of grass and began to graze. Jus-ten set the saddlebag on the well coping and lowered the bucket again, this time to wash his hands of the salty residue. After rinsing them, he dried them on his trousers,

  He looked at the saddlebag. He had not been able to use all of the abandoned olives, since some had begun to spoil already. Finally, he shrugged and began to concentrate, hoping he could add enough order to the fruit to at least retard spoilage.

  A hint of dizziness passed over him, and he sat down on the stones next to the bag to rest.

  “For a mere engineer, you’re not doing that badly.”

  Yee-ahhh.

  Justen straightened with a jump.

  The vulcrow perched on a dead olive branch, its head cocked to the side, almost as if studying the engineer.

  Whheeee… eeee.

  “I know. We’re in trouble, lady.” He looked toward the road, but saw no one. Then he stood, lifted the saddlebag, and walked over to the mare to refasten the leather bag in place. He took a few more olives and popped one in his mouth before remounting.

  Yee-ahhh… yee-ah. The vulcrow was still calling from the olive tree.

  Justen flicked the reins, and the mare carried him out to the road. The air remained hot and still.

  In less than two kays, the road turned south again. Justen had opened his tunic as much as possible. Sweat oozed from his entire body, and the sun had not even reached its zenith in the blue-green sky.

  The grass stretching out from the road was shorter, browner, and sparser now, with patches of sand and rock between clumps. The rock walls had vanished after he left the olive orchard behind, and no streams graced the flat plateau he rode across. Only the heavy wagon tracks over sheep prints indicated use of the road.

  After unstoppering the water bottle, he took a deep swallow.

  Another kay ahead, he could see a few low bushes in a line almost perpendicular to the road he traveled, and above them, the air seemed to waver, like the mirage of a lake. Jus-ten looked over to the west, but the plain seemed unchanging as he rode toward the illusion, which receded, and the bushes, which did not.

  The bushes marked the junction with another road, wider, and marked intermittently with stones. The new road also had animal and wagon tracks, all of them headed toward Clynya, Justen hoped.

  “Maybe this time, we’ll actually get there.”

  Justen drank more of the water, then touched the mare’s neck, trying to sense how she was doing in the heat. So far, she seemed strong.

  Although the sun continued to shine through a cloudless sky, a faint breath of air puffed out of the west as Justen rode toward the river road. The few scattered hovels were, like the others he had seen, abandoned.

  Justen frowned. Were all the Sarronnese petrified of the Whites? Why? Despite their dislike of the Legend-holders, the Whites generally fired or destroyed only the cities of those who refused them. Then Justen grinned wryly. By their belief in the Legend, most Sarronnese probably had to refuse the Whites.

  Still… wasn’t there any way to stop the Whites? He shook his head, absently patted the mare, and continued to ride.

  Toward midday, he began to look for another hovel, without people and with a well, as much for the mare as for himself.

  Unbidden, the image of the dead Iron Guard appeared in his thoughts again, clutching the damned black iron arrowhead. He pursed his lips and squinted in the bright light, trying to determine whether the lump on the plain ahead meant available water.

  The lump turned out to be another sod-walled hovel. Although it had a well, the water in it was almost brackish, and Justen was so dizzy after order-spelling the salt from two buckets that he sat on the sandy hot ground eating warm olives and sipping from his refilled water bottle while the mare drank.

  Before he left the hovel and the well, even though he felt full, he drank more water and topped off his bottle.

  Toward mid-afternoon, the grass began to thicken once more, and the suggestion of rolling hills began to appear, along with a few trees, and stone pillars to mark the corners of grazing lands. He passed three houses that stood almost in a group; while shuttered, they were substantial and seemed well tended. He took advantage of their vacant s
tatus to water the mare and refill his bottle, since in the flatness of the land, he had found no streams.

  Then he began to see more grainfields, with still more dwellings, again shuttered, although he had the feeling that some of them were occupied.

  Even later, the ground began to slope downward. He passed another side road, the first one in a while that was more than a path; it was almost as wide as the road he traveled, but it headed due south, not exactly what he had in mind. It also bore wagon tracks. Justen nodded and urged the mare toward the river. A slight breeze blew out of the west, bearing a hint of dampness and the odor of something like hay.

  As he crossed the crest of another hill, Justen peered toward a hazy line of trees pasted on the horizon. Undoubtedly, they marked the river. He glanced toward a bare-limbed tree beside the road and swallowed as he saw the vulcrow again, staring… waiting.

  Yee-ahh… yee-ah. The bird flapped away over a field as the mare carried Justen steadily westward. He wiped his forehead again. While he could feel a faint breeze, the late afternoon sun still beat down on the road-and on him.

  By the time Justen reached the top of the next hill, he could make out puffs of dust ahead, if slightly to his right, between the infrequently spaced trees that apparently followed the river. His stomach tightened. A horse train that long meant troopers, perhaps a score of them, and any troopers in this part of Sarronnyn could only be White lancers or Iron Guards. That they were already almost in front of him meant that they would reach the crossroads before he did.

  While he could not see the White Wizard’s vulcrow, he had no doubt that the bird lurked somewhere nearby.

  He reined up. What would they do once they reached the crossroads? Would they head on toward Clynya or turn toward him? Were they really after him?

  He pursed his lips, thinking, absently stroking the mare’s neck. He was too tired and not strong enough to hold a light-shield for long, yet it was almost another two kays to the crossroads. Finally, he pulled the mare over next to a scrub oak and dismounted. If the troops headed his way, he could just wait, use the light-shield, and let them pass. If they continued on to Clynya, he could follow at a discrete distance.