Mage-Guard of Hamor (50 page)

At that moment, thunder rumbled over the hillside. Then, a light misting rain began to drift downward.

“Companies! Forward!”

“Third Company! Forward!”

A single weak firebolt arched from the hilltop and flared into insignificance before reaching the advancing Imperial force.

From behind the earthworks came another group of mounted rebels in their maroon jackets—troopers with sabres, riding hard down toward the Imperial forces. One rebel company immediately swung eastward and broke toward Third Company.

Rahl drew his truncheon, then leaned toward Drakeyt. “I'll try to stop them for just a moment.” He looked at the troopers in maroon, close to a twenty-man front rushing downhill with glittering sabres.

Rahl waited…and waited, then formed a quick shield but, against the weight and speed of the charging rebels, could only hold it long enough to stagger the first rank to a stop. The effort threw him back in the saddle and even halted the gelding. The rest of the company had already begun to cut into the stunned rebels.

That momentary advantage afforded Third Company faded as the following ranks of rebel troopers rode into the melee.

Rahl found himself with three rebels all trying to attack him, but he managed to stiffen his personal shields enough to deflect one slash that would have taken off his shoulder, then thrust the truncheon into the ribs of the second attacker with enough force—if order-boosted—to crack something and topple the trooper out of the saddle. His half parry, half thrust against the next rebel staggered the man enough that one of his troopers finished the man with a cut to the throat.

After that, Rahl lost track as he tried to keep himself in one piece while inflicting what damage he could without totally overextending himself. He had no idea if he'd been effective in reducing the number of rebels or if he'd just managed to survive.

Then, as the rebel troopers withdrew to regroup, a wedge of lancers appeared—coming around the side of the hill above the slope up from the highway—charging directly at the exposed flank of Third Company. Rahl turned in the saddle, then urged the gelding toward fifth squad, where the lancers would strike.

Two chaos-bolts preceded the lancers, and Rahl had to struggle to deflect them.

He barely managed to regain his composure and to focus his concentration on the oncoming lancers before they overran fifth squad and Third Company. As he'd done before, Rahl waited until the tips of the lancers' weapons were almost ready to strike before throwing up a shield broad enough to stop the lancers. Although he only held the shield briefly, three ranks of lancers piled into each other, and Lyrn and fifth squad immediately began attacking the tangled and fallen rebel lancers.

At that moment, Rahl could sense more chaos-bolts arcing toward him and Third Company, and he hastily threw up a shield.

Chaos flared around him, and light-knives stabbed at his eyes so fiercely he could hardly see. When he tried to shake his head to clear his vision, the pain was so great that his eyes watered, and he could see nothing at all.

In desperation, he tried to strengthen his personal shields, since he could see nothing.

He felt a lance slam into his shields, and he knew that the shields had held—but his seat on the gelding had not, and he could feel himself flying backward with such force that his boots yanked clear of the stirrups.

Then a wall of black stones fell on him and buried him.

Rahl woke to find himself lying on his back. Knife-flashes of light seared across his eyes. In between those light-knives he could see, dimly, two low ceilings. He closed one eye. It helped a little—one of the plank ceilings faded, but didn't go away.

“Majer…you awake there?”

Rahl tried to speak, but his throat was so dry that he could barely croak, “Yes…mostly.” He turned his head slowly, very slowly. He was lying on a lumpy pallet set on the floor. Two images of a trooper with a bound arm sat on a stool beside him, looking down at him.

Rahl slowly rolled into a sitting position, then took the water bottle that had been set beside the pallet. After several swallows, he spoke again. “What day is it? Where am I?”

“It's still eightday, ser, a little before sunset. Well…it'd be about then, except for the clouds. This here's a shed. Mighta held sheep, 'cepting the rebs herded 'em all off afore we got here.”

“What happened?”

“We're still at the bottom of the hill, and the rebs are at the top, but they lost a lot more 'n we have. I guess that means we're winning.”

“What about First Army?”

“Same thing, except they got farther up their hill. Lost more troopers, too.”

Rahl took another swallow of water, thinking…or trying to.

A thin officer stepped into the shed—or rather two images of him did, and it took Rahl a moment to recognize Taryl, what with the two images and the light-knives that occluded his vision.

“Ser…” Rahl began.

Taryl looked at the trooper, who immediately left the shed, closing the door hastily. He surveyed Rahl with eyes and order-senses, then nodded. After a moment, he spoke. “I hope you realize that the only reason you're alive is because you're a mage-guard.” Taryl's voice was dry and contained an edge of irritation.

Rahl understood that. Without his shields—

“No. It's not that. You got yourself unhorsed in the middle of a battle, and several troopers were injured, and one was killed, recovering you. They don't care about Rahl, the person. The reason they went after you is the same reason a trooper goes after a sabre knocked from his hand. You're a weapon. But you do that again, and they might not choose to see if you're alive, especially if there are chaos-bolts falling all around.”

Rahl wanted to wince, but even the thought sent light-knives slashing through the twin images that shifted in front of him.

“For a time your actions were solid, but then, when you rode out to stop that lancer attack…that was another example of foolhardiness. Rahl…you could have done the same thing without drawing attention to yourself. Why didn't you?” Taryl didn't wait for a response, but went on. “Golyat's mages knew you were somewhere near Third Company, and the lancer attack was an attempt to draw you out and wear you down, then kill you and force us to retreat.”

Rahl wanted to protest that his failure couldn't have been the only reason for the retreat.

“It wasn't,” Taryl replied, “but it forced us to retreat earlier than would have been optimal, before we had inflicted as much damage on the defenders as we could have.” He paused and looked directly at Rahl. “Also, it wouldn't hurt to practice your shields when you're exhausted. Other mages certainly won't respect your tiredness, and merely shielding your feelings and thoughts takes little energy if you do it right.”

“Yes, ser,” Rahl replied tiredly, making the effort.

“That's better.”

So it was better. What difference did it make? All Taryl did any more when he met with Rahl was criticize, and that wasn't exactly helpful.

The overcommander shook his head. “I can't order-sense what you're feeling, but shields don't do much good if people can read your face.”

Rahl said nothing. He had the feeling that Taryl wasn't even angry, but withdrawn, and perhaps tired.

“I could provide you with greater counsel, Rahl, but counsel does not develop independence and judgment. You must make enough mistakes, while trying your best, and while someone else can deflect the blame, in order to gain wisdom. Your magisters of Recluce did you no favors, nor did they do me any, either. I ask you this—would I spend so much time with you when so much is at stake if I did not care?” After the briefest of pauses, he went on. “Now…get some rest and eat as much as you can. And while you're resting, try to think over the situations you might be in and the way to respond by using the least order-effort possible.”

With that, Taryl nodded, turned, and departed.

Rahl lay back on the straw pallet and looked up at the twin, last-flashed images of the rough plank ceiling of the shed, all too aware, especially now, that he was out of the cold and mist just because he was a useful weapon. Was that all Taryl had wanted? It couldn't be, could it? Taryl had worked with him long before anyone knew about the revolt…and he said he cared, and Rahl had to admit that he was getting more attention than did most junior officers. Yet Taryl expected
something
of him. That, too, was clear.

Rahl took a deep breath. Whatever the reason, he hadn't exactly pleased the overcommander.

The double images remained with Rahl's sight through the remainder of eightday but had vanished when he woke early on oneday. The dull aching in his head that he had not noticed because of the sharpness of the light-knives remained, as did occasional flashes. He also had bruises on his back and shoulders that were more than tender to the touch, or when he stretched, but he still managed to find and saddle the gelding.

Overhead, the same thick clouds that had darkened the sky on eightday remained, and beneath them, swirls of misty fog rose from the river, swathing Selyma and the lower part of the hillsides with thick white curtains that shifted with the barely perceptible breeze. With the fog came a damp and almost fetid odor, and a sense of decay that went beyond mere smell. Was that an effect created by the rebel mages? Or just what happened in Selyma when winter fogs rose off the Awhut River?

Once he mounted, even with his order-sensing, it took Rahl some effort to find where Third Company was forming up.

“Should you be out here?” asked Drakeyt, when Rahl rode up and joined him.

“As much as any officer,” replied Rahl with a wry smile, “but I won't be able to do as much magery. I can still handle the truncheon.”

“You might as well call it a blunted blade.” Drakeyt shook his head. “If anyone had ever told me I'd serve with an officer who did more damage with a truncheon than most squads do with blades, I'd not have believed it. How…” He didn't finish what he might have said.

“I was taught truncheon from the time I could hold one,” Rahl said slowly. “Then I worked with blade masters when I was older, and…well…I can add a little strength to the truncheon when I wield it.”

“You're a mage-guard, but I've served with them before, and most of them, even the ones who can handle blades, use a sabre more like an ax.” Drakeyt laughed softly, but the sound carried in the foggy air. “They couldn't chop that hard, either.”

“I was fortunate. I've had good teachers.” Rahl looked up at the dark clouds. It seemed strange that he could see the clouds overhead more clearly than a trooper twenty cubits away.

“You think it will rain?” asked Drakeyt.

“Sooner or later, and it could be a downpour.”

“Maybe that's why they've got us out early. The overcommander wants another try at the hill before it turns to slick mud.”

Rahl almost asked if that wouldn't hurt the defenders as much as the Imperial forces before he realized one simple thing. The rebels only had to stop the attack, and if mud did the job…

“Would you like to ride out with fourth and fifth squads?”

“Of course.” Rahl realized that Drakeyt was suggesting where he ought to be, and that position made sense for many reasons. He inclined his head and eased his mount eastward.

Lyrn nodded as Rahl took position even with the first ranks and between fourth and fifth squads.

Rahl could see less than fifty cubits ahead through the foggy mist. Why was Taryl continuing the battle under such conditions? Because ordermages could sense better than chaos-mages? Or because all the water in the air reduced the power of the chaos-mages? Or just because he wanted to keep pressure on the rebel defenders? Or was there something else that Rahl was missing?

“Companies! Forward!”

“Third Company! Forward!” echoed Drakeyt.

As he rode forward, Rahl had to remind himself that his task was to use his truncheon to protect himself and the Third Company troopers, while being more aware of everything that was happening and learning from it.

Farther uphill, he could sense a concentration of chaos.

Whsst!
The firebolt that flew from the earthworks at the top of the hill plowed into the damp and matted grass a good hundred cubits short of Third Company. The chaos-fire barely spread at all beyond the impact area before dying away.

A second firebolt fared little better.

Rahl kept pace with the front ranks of fourth and fifth squad as they rode up the gentle slope. He kept trying to reach out beyond the misty fog with his order-senses.

Near the top of the hill and to his left, Rahl could sense riders—lancers—forming up just in front of the crude earthworks. With the fog surrounding him, he could not see the lancers, only order-sense them. They dressed their lines and began to head downhill, initially moving at little more than a fast walk.

Why were the rebel lancers heading downhill and into the fog? The slope was even enough and dry enough for the moment that footing wasn't likely to be a problem, but it still seemed foolish to Rahl—at first glance. On second thought, it made much more sense. The fog was thick enough that the Imperial forces would be hard-pressed to see a lancer and react before that lancer was upon them. The lancers could just strike and break away, and the fog would hide them from archers and what few chaos-bolts Taryl could muster.

“They're bringing lancers from the east side of the hill, the same way they did yesterday,” Rahl called to Drakeyt, using a touch of order to project his words to the captain.

“Third Company, to the left, half wheel!”

As Rahl swung to the left, he tried to think of what he could do.

Could he slow the charge of the lancers? Did he have to? If he couldn't see the lancers, how could they sense the individual squads of Third Company? Rahl let himself grin, then checked the lancers' position.

“Fourth squad! Fifth squad! On me!”

“On the majer!” called out Lyrn.

Rahl turned the gelding almost north, checking with his order-senses, then swung back south and halted, waiting for the two squads to dress lines. He turned to Lyrn. “We're north of their charge. Once they pass by uphill of us, we'll swing behind them.” Then he turned to the end trooper in fourth squad and repeated his words, adding, “Pass it on.”

“Weapons ready!”

The sound of hoofs preceded any sign of riders through the fog, and the dampness magnified the sound.

At the same time, Rahl heard a single thunderclap, somewhere to the north, he thought. He waited for another thunderclap, but he heard none—or if there had been another, it was lost in the growing rumble of hoofs beating downhill.

Rahl forced himself to wait, to check positions until the first of the rebel lancers thundered past, thirty cubits uphill, barely visible through the fog.

“Fourth and fifth squads! Forward!” ordered Rahl.

His two small squads struck the side and rear of the lancers, and in moments, close to a score of the rebels were down, and the flank attack had clearly slowed the impact of the charge on Third Company and the adjoining Nineteenth Company.

A rebel half turned and tried to swing a long lance at Rahl and the trooper flanking him, but Rahl managed to deflect the weapon, no longer shining, but dull with moisture and other encrustations. He slipped under the lance and cut-thrust with the long truncheon. The lancer gaped, then doubled over and toppled out of the saddle, one boot still caught in the stirrup.

Rahl turned the gelding to the right, trying to keep on the edge of the lancer formation rather than plunging into it. He parried another lance, but the rebel wheeled away before Rahl could deliver a direct blow.

An ominous and prolonged roll of thunder rumbled over the hillside battle.

More and more of the rebel lancers discarded the long lances and began swinging shortswords, not even quite so long as the Imperial sabres. That was fine with Rahl, because his truncheon was longer than a sabre.

A flash of lightning lit the fog, if but for a moment, and then fat drops of rain pelted the back of Rahl's neck, first intermittently, then with increasing regularity, until water seemed to be coming from the clouds as if from a cataract—or so it seemed.

Another lancer charged Rahl, who leaned in the saddle, then slashed the shortsword out of the man's hand by breaking his wrist.

As the fog began to thin, Rahl continued to concentrate on defending himself and unhorsing rebels, but he could both see and sense lancers and troopers alike being unhorsed on the muddy and slippery grass. Combatants on both sides were losing weapons as the chill rain numbed arms and hands. Even with the cross-hatched grip of the truncheon, Rahl found himself occasionally two-handing his weapon just to hang on to it. Icy water ran down his neck and spine, and his riding jacket and uniform were close to being sodden all the way through.

A trumpet call of paired triplets rang out from the top of the hills, and within moments the lancers and their mounts struggled to climb away from the Imperial troopers.

The fog had lost a battle of sorts to the cold rain, because the rain was washing the fog right out of the air, Rahl realized.

“Second Army! Hold position! Hold position!”

“Third Company! Re-form on me!”

Rahl glanced toward Drakeyt, glad to see the captain uninjured, then repeated the orders. “Third Company! Re-form!”

As the company squads straggled into line, Rahl glanced uphill at the churned mud, almost the color of the ooze he'd created before. Could he use that against the rebels? He let his senses check the ground. Then he shook his head. The entire hill was little more than soil, clay and sand piled high and deep, with little rock and gravel.

If he tried what he'd done on the road to Lahenta, and he couldn't contain it, especially now, when he was far from full strength as an order-mage, all of Selyma would end up falling into a massive sinkhole filled with ooze. Rahl didn't think either Taryl or the Emperor would exactly appreciate that, and the liquefaction process would be slow enough that most of the rebels could probably escape.

What else could he try?

“Companies! Return to quarters!”

As Rahl shivered in the cold rain and rode beside Drakeyt back down the hill through the rain that now poured down in sheets, he tried to think about what else he might be able to do, but his teeth were chattering, and his whole body was damp and chilled, and all he really wanted to do was to get out of the rain and dry off.