The Way Into Chaos (39 page)

This sense of companionship was as fragile as one of his wife’s tiny cakes, he knew, but it felt good nonetheless.
 

The next day, they set out for the top of the spur, which took most of the morning. It was steep, slow going through thick forest, and even Tejohn was tempted to use the butt of his spear as a walking stick. The only other option, Arla assured them, was to strike out to the north and enter the spur the long way, which would take most of a day.

At the top, the trees grew sparse and the ground became hard-packed dirt with little growth. They reached the smooth, bare curve of the top of the spur and turned southeast, heading toward the pass. By the end of the day they would be sheltered within the mountain pass, and Tejohn would not have to smell the vinegar-sour winds of the Sweeps again until he returned on a Finstel cart.
 

“My tyr,” Reglis said, and pointed toward the edge of the mountains. It was Arla, hurrying toward them with her bow strung.
 

She did not speak until she was close enough to speak quietly and be heard. “Troops, my Tyr, marching under a black banner.”
 

“Can’t you be more specific than that?” Tejohn asked. Half the squares in the empire used a black field. “What marking?”

“They had scouts of their own, my Tyr. I couldn’t get close enough to see. But there are at least thirty spears and five scouts. Smallish shields, like a fleet squad, but they have the longest spears I’ve ever seen.”
 

Tejohn scowled. Someone was getting creative with their equipment.
 

“They are almost certainly Finstels, my tyr,” Reglis said.
 

The fort in Caarilit Pass ahead of them had been given to the Finstels, and every mine they’d passed had been Finstel-held. The shield Tejohn carried on his back bore a Splashtown waterfall design on a black field. But they couldn’t afford to take unnecessary risks.
 

“Let’s find cover. I want those scouts to pass right by us. When the troops come near, Arla will describe them in more detail.”

They found a thick stand of trees at the edge of a steep drop-off at the side of the spur. Tejohn and Reglis lay flat on their bellies and crawled into the bushes. Arla laid leafy branches over them, nearly burying them in foliage, then wiggled in close between them. Her arm, knotted with muscle and darkened by the sun, was surprisingly soft against Tejohn’s elbow.
 

They both shifted position to pull their limbs in.

The wind blew through the leaves. Finally, Arla hissed, “Scouts.”

Tejohn did not move. He didn’t need to see them; he could hear them well enough. One passed fewer than a dozen feet in front of them. Arla, lying close to the edge of the brush, stayed very still. After a hundred breaths or so, she slowly crawled backwards.
 

“Gray jackets, my Tyr, with small bows in hand and knives at their hips. No markings otherwise.”

Gray? Tejohn didn’t know of any unit that used gray as their color. Gray was bad luck. “Watch for the spears and their banner.”
 

It didn’t take long. “They’re out of Splashtown.”

That was what he wanted to hear. “How do they look?”

“Exhausted,” she answered. “Frightened. They’re doing a ragged quickstep like they’ve been retreating all day.”
 

Fire and Fury. That was not what he wanted to hear. Tejohn took a deep breath and shouted, “
SPLASHTOWN!
” in the booming battlefield voice he hadn’t used in years.
 

“That stirred them up,” Arla said. “They’re scrambling to form ranks.”

“SPLASHTOWN! POINTS HIGH! Let’s go, you two. Time to stop hiding on our bellies.”
 

Tejohn was the first to emerge from the thicket. He gained his feet, hefted his shield high and stood his spear against his own shoulder. It was the standard posture for approaching friendly forces—spear point high--but even at this distance, he could see that the Splashtown troops were points forward behind a shield wall.
 

He strolled toward them casually. They were close enough to make out the colors of their shields and banners. The bright red blur above the man in front must have been the brush on his helmet. Tejohn turned slightly to walk directly towards him.
 

“Drop your weapons and identify yourselves!” the man with the brush shouted.
 

“Points high,” Tejohn called back.
 

“Bows!” the officer called, and Tejohn could hear footsteps coming toward him from behind.
 

When Arla spoke, it was through clenched teeth. “My tyr?”
 

Tejohn didn’t break stride. “You expected an arrow in the back, didn’t you?”
 

“I guess I did. By the way, the ‘captain’ up ahead isn’t really a captain. His sash is too long and the brush on his helmet hangs off the front.”
 

“Thank you for that.” He took a deep breath. “Acting Captain! You outnumber us ten to one and I have called for points high! You can see the emblem on my shield, can’t you?”

The captain called back, his voice sounding thin in the wind. “A stolen shield, I’d wager. That emblem is three years out of date.”

“I carry it,” Tejohn said, “for the same reason you have attached your former captain’s brush to your helmet: necessity. A Durdric axe split my old one.”
 

“I recognize you,” the captain said suddenly. “Fire and Fury, you’re Tejohn Treygar. Points high!”

Startled by the sudden change, Tejohn halted. “How do you recognize me, soldier?”

“You toured the empire with the prince some years ago, my Tyr Treygar. I saw you on the parade stand. Excuse me, my tyr.”

While the captain ordered his bows to reform a perimeter, Tejohn turned to Arla and Reglis. “That’s an odd bit of luck,” he said, feeling vaguely embarrassed.

“Not really, my Tyr,” Arla said. “I recognized you as soon as I saw you.”

Reglis flushed. “I did not,” he admitted, scowling, “but you looked very familiar. And I heard the men laughing at me the next day because of the way I spoke to you when you landed in that cart.”

Tejohn had no idea what to say to that. Long ago, he’d come to terms with the idea that his name was known all across the empire, but his face? He looked off into the Sweeps, suddenly wondering what it would be like to live out there alone.

Then he sighed and turned to the acting captain, who removed his helmet. He was a short, stocky man, and he was too young to be carrying a paunch. Tejohn said, “What’s your mission, and why do you have so few spears?”
 

“We were heading for the mining camps,” the man answered, looking a little uncomfortable. Tejohn couldn’t tell if he was lying, intimidated, or embarrassed. Maybe it was all three. “To round up the people working there and escort them to safety. The first night, we were attacked by Durdric holy fighters, which wasn’t serious, but then...” He glanced back toward the pass.

“Then what?”

“Two lines of Witt spears cut us off from the fort. The captain tried to break through with a square, but they had scholars fighting with them.”

“What?” Reglis blurted out.

“At least two,” the captain said. “They created stone blocks above the square, crushing the men beneath, and then they turned fire against our flank. That was yesterday. When the captain took an arrow, he gave me his brush and ordered a retreat.”
 

“Are they in pursuit?”
 

“They are. Our bows took their scholars--I believe so, anyway; they hide them by dressing them like the other troops, but of course, they can’t cast with shields or spears in hand--but they still outnumber us two to one. And they’re between us and Fort Caarilit.”

The nearby spears were close enough to overhear them. They looked exhausted and dispirited.

Arla spoke up, “My tyr, the Witt spears have not yet appeared at the mouth of the pass.”

“Good. Did you see any place where we could take the high ground? Someplace narrow where our flanks would be protected?”

“I...” She turned back toward the hill where they’d just climbed. “In the woods near the foot of the spur, there’s a reclaimed iron mine with a narrow dirt ramp. It’s upstream from last night’s campsite.”

“It will have to do.” He turned to the young man with the brush. “What’s your name?”

“I am called Jolu Dellastone, Tyr Treygar.”
 

“Jolu, I am taking command of your spears and bows. Any objection?”

He smiled. “None, my tyr.”
 

“My first order is to take that ridiculous thing off your helmet and throw it away. No, even better, give it to me. Call in the scout that passed us by without seeing us.”

The call was sent out, and the bowman returned before the metal clasps holding the brush to Jolu’s helmet could be pried open. The scout was tall and lean with an ugly face. Tejohn wasn’t much good at reading people, but even he could tell the man expected to be upbraided. “How much more running do you have in you?”

“My Tyr,” the man answered, “I have as much as you require.”

“I don’t need effusive promises from an embarrassed man. I need a straight answer. How long?”

The bowman looked even more embarrassed, if that was possible. “At this pace, until nightfall,” he glanced quickly at the captain, “but not much longer.”

The captain had finally pried off his bright red brush. Tejohn took it from him and gave it to the scout. “That’s fine. Put this on; I don’t care how. Then find two more strong runners and take the banner straight down the spur. I want you to be far enough from the Witt scouts that they can not see anything but that spot of red moving against the green.”

The brush would never stand on the scout’s leather cap, but he took it anyway. “I will lead the enemy into the wilderness,” the bowman said, “for my brothers.”
 

Tejohn had always hated that pious crap about
brothers
. At least two of the spears were held by women, and half the bows. “I want you to draw the Witt spears down the hill, then turn them around and bring them back along the base of the spur. There’s a freshwater stream for you to follow. Bring them to us.”
 

He started off. Tejohn turned toward Jolu. “Form your spears into two columns. We’re going downhill. I don’t want it to look like a herd of okshim bulled through and I don’t want anyone falling onto anyone else’s spear.”
 

The spears formed up and marched down into the forest. Arla lead the way, and three of the Finstel scouts remained behind to hide their trail.
 

With the flutter of windblown cloth, the tall scout sprinted away down the stony slope. He had two companions with him, and they were beyond Tejohn’s field of vision in no time at all. He offered a silent prayer to Monument and The Great Way for their safety.
 

He and Reglis started down the slope.
 

They were going into battle. Tejohn’s skin prickled with anticipation.
 

One of the soldiers lost his footing and slid down the dirt slope. Tejohn hopped after him and helped him off his back. His arms were bone thin, his face sallow, and his breathing ragged. This was no soldier. “What unit is this?”
 

The man who’d fallen was gulping too much air to answer. The man who’d been his partner--a tall, fit fellow with a tumbler’s build--spoke up. “The Sixth, my tyr.”
 

Of course, the tyrs had called up their militias.
 

The man lined up behind the tumbler muttered, “What’s left of it.”

“Fire take that talk, soldier,” Tejohn snapped. “Song remembers every word and thought.” Tejohn turned to the scrawny man who’d fallen. The man stared up at him strangely. “The militias--common citizens taking up arms to defend their lands--are the backbone of the empire. It’s a proud tradition.” He shoved the man back into his place in the column. “Try to live up to it.”

As they marched away, Tejohn puzzled over the man’s expression. It was common enough to see a frightened soldier, but that man had been afraid of Tejohn himself. Was his reputation so awful that the man expected to be punished for falling on a steep hill? It was the only explanation he could come up with, but he knew it didn’t fit. If they survived the next few days, they’d have to think on it.
 

The trip down the hill was faster than the trip up, of course, but they didn’t make as much time as Tejohn would have liked. They didn’t reach the spot Arla had chosen until nearly dark.
 

The mine was partway up a cliff face, with a long dirt-and-stone ramp leading up to it. There were trees well above, but three men standing on each other’s shoulders at the mouth of the mine couldn’t have reached them. A pair of streams splashed through the cliffs to the south. To the north was a deer path that ran along the stream. While Jolu formed the spears at the base of the ramp, Arla led Tejohn and Reglis to the mine entrance.
 

Reglis glanced inside. “That’s the shallowest mine I’ve ever seen.”

“Very funny,” Arla said. “It’s been reclaimed, as I said, my tyr. The Durdric ‘heal’ wounds in the mountains by trying to fill them in, then lay that line of shells across the mouth to warn others away.”

“Is this a temple to them?” Tejohn asked. Bad enough to fight Witt spears, but he didn’t want a Durdric holy war at the same time.
 

Arla shrugged. “To them, the entire mountain range is sacred.”
 

“My tyr,” Reglis said. “Will we really be forming our square here? We’ll have nowhere to retreat.”
 

“Then we’ll have to fight all the harder. Come along. Let’s get ready. “ He ordered a trio of soldiers into a copse of pines to collect pitch, and a squad of ten to cut down and strip a fat fir tree. Jolu organized a late meal while Arla positioned their four remaining archers.
 

Tejohn sat alone at their dinner meal, well apart from the others. The soldiers ate in silence, giving him furtive glances. Eventually, Tejohn waved Reglis over to him.