The War, page 21
And yet—and yet, what did he have now? To go back to the army, that would mean facing Fenris and everyone else, and he would not be able to hide from the memories that lay so threateningly near his consciousness. It would mean more killing, and he did not want to kill anyone or anything for a very long time.
All doors had been closed in his face. He felt himself beginning to tremble inside, afraid to face the pain that was peeling the locked sheath away without his asking. “Can I do anything else for you?” he pleaded, not caring that the desperation bled into his words. “Anything—else?” His voice broke, and he looked down, ashamed, the tears starting in his eyes.
He felt the general’s eyes on him even though he did not dare meet them, and knew that they were seeing steadily, clearly, more clearly than he wanted them to. “What do you want?” the general asked gently.
“Something that does not involve killing.” He was trying very hard to force back the tears, and just managing it.
The general’s hands were on his shoulders. “I have but a moment ago finished writing a letter,” he said. “It is to the king of Fearnland. We sent a rider to him a month and a half ago, before the Runnicorans arrived, but we have had neither word nor sign of his coming yet. While it takes time to muster and march an army, still it is best to take the precaution of sending to him again; any number of things may have happened, and we would not know of it for quite a time, perhaps never. So I have written again our plea for aid, and I will give it to the secretary to make copies; and I shall send out three riders in the dawn to bear word to Fearnland. That way, if two should fail, perhaps the third will make it safely away. Will you be one of them?”
Mordred lifted his eyes to the general, and he could not speak for the gratitude in him; but his eyes spoke for him.
“Go in the dawn, then,” said the general.
Mordred bent his head. “I will go.”
CHAPTER 20
“PLEASE,” SAID INSPECTOR DICKSON FOR the second time. He felt like a child whining for a petty reward, and despised himself for it. In front of the general’s grave, stern eyes at that. But he could not bear to be adrift any longer. The need for a purpose in his life was driving him sleepless, and all day he paced the hateful halls of Mitheren, vainly fending off the horrible sense of indolence.
“You know why I cannot permit you to fight.”
“You let this Grant Eagle join the army,” said Inspector Dickson, the irritant that had been rankling at him finally letting itself out. “He is no more a native of Orden than I myself—he comes from Runnicor, at that. He, too, served as an ambassador.”
A sadness entered the general’s eyes at Grant’s name. “Grant Eagle is following his own path,” he said simply. “He has cast himself upon Orden as one who has nothing else to bind him. You are bound to your king, and neither you nor I have a right to throw your life away before you can return to him. The answer, Inspector Dickson, is no; I cannot let you join the ranks.”
He was right. Inspector Dickson was not so foolish as to fail to realize that. “Then let me do something else for you, anything else. I am done with sloth while everyone around me dies. Please, my lord.”
The general watched him a moment longer, another, peculiar look in his eyes. Then a light came into them, and he said, “Inspector, you may give yourself, if you have a mind to do it, to the hospice in Orden City. The physicians there are overwhelmed with the sick and wounded who come to them now. You will be safe there, and to assist them is the greatest thing you can do for us.”
“Then I will do that,” said Inspector Dickson. He was not afraid of blood, or of the sight of wounds and death. “I will do whatever they bid me.”
The general smiled, and turned aside to stamp his seal beside that of the king’s on a closely written parchment.
“What is that?” said Inspector Dickson, nodding to the letter.
“It is the second plea to Fearnland. The riders go out within the hour.” Again that look in his eyes that Inspector Dickson did not understand. He crossed to the window and looked out into the greying darkness; the light of the tall, glimmering candle played over his quick hands as they knit themselves behind his back.
“Go, Inspector Dickson,” he said. “Seek out the physicians, and serve them well.” Inspector Dickson almost did not hear the final words, spoken so softly as the door shut. “Would that I might help all with such ease.”
Inspector Dickson went down into the courtyard, the words running ceaselessly in his mind. Lantern-glow was streaming out of one stall as he passed the stables, and he glanced toward it to see a tall, very familiar figure saddling a horse. Mordred’s face, even from the distance of several yards, was set like flint, the lean, instinctive fingers intent upon his task.
Inspector Dickson stared for an instant, frozen, and then he withdrew as hurriedly as if he had come upon a snake. His curiosity sought to flag him and turn him back, but he would not listen. The ugly warnings stirring in his belly were deterrent enough. It was no matter what Mordred was doing. No matter at all.
~
Therelane was tired.
He had been walking since sunup. It was only mid-morning, and three weeks ago, it would have been different. But his body was still healing, and it had taken him three days to walk from Mianu to Orden City. Now at last he entered it, just another sun-browned, ragged, worn soldier returning to his regiment. The left sleeve of his shirt dangled empty.
He paused by the great front of the hospice, much like Mianu’s, broad and built of stone with the emblem of knife and leafed branch carved above the lintel of the door; but this one had shallow steps at the front, and looked larger.
Halting made him realize how heavy his legs felt. The barracks were not too far off, he thought. He could spare a rest.
So he sat down against the warm stone, settling his head on his arms, and let the sun beat comfortably down on him and the breeze wobble past his ear. The warmth of summer was coming; May’s days were nearly spent. The humming of insects whirled by him, there and gone, and he breathed in the scent of stone, a smell so elusive it was hardly smell at all. In the peacefulness he began to doze.
“Are you hurt? Come, let me help you in.” The light, clear voice pulled him back from sleep.
“No—no,” he said blearily, shaking his head as the drowsiness lifted. “I’m coming back—to the army; I just stopped a moment to rest.” He looked up at her—wide, limpid blue eyes, springing curls, a brow puckered in concern, a wicker basket overflowing with linen bandages on her arm.
But then the frown washed away and her eyes widened further. “Therelane Grey!” she cried.
He took another look at her, and recognized the face, but he could not put a name to it. “You’re—”
“I’m Mirda King. You remember me, don’t you? Braegon’s sister. I came down here to help nurse the wounded, but—well, it was mostly a hope that I would get to see Braegon somehow.”
Therelane nodded. “I’ve seen him recently. He’s all right.”
Her face beamed on him at the words, full of earnest, transparent joy. But the motherly concern pushed back. “You are hurt. You don’t look well, Therelane. Where is it? Come, show me—” And she saw his hand.
“Oh,” she said. And, “Oh, Therelane.”
He was very careful not to look at her. He knew her pity was not of the unpleasant, condescending kind—Mirda was too bright-hearted and genuine for that. But he was not ready for pity, not now, when he was just learning how not to pity himself.
“Thank you,” he said, and was relieved that his voice sounded quite ordinary and steady. “I have to be going.”
“Good-bye, Therelane Grey. You’ll greet Braegon for me and Filian if you see him again?”
“I will.” Therelane dared to lift his eyes to her face again and met that frank blue gaze. Suddenly something in him was lost, and as he went on down the road there was only one face and one name in his mind.
~
The barracks murmured with low, lazy talk. It was cool and shaded inside the wooden walls, a pleasant change from the fierce sun on the training ground.
Braegon came over to the corner. “How is it, Fenris?”
He did not need to explain what he meant. Fenris stared at the dusty floor. “Why did he have to go?”
He meant it not as a rebellious outcry, but as the broken, bewildered plea that was in his heart. Mordred had always been there for him, separation an unknown thing. And now he was choosing to go.
“Whenever he leaves me, he becomes hurt.” Fenris lifted his eyes to Braegon’s. “I am afraid for him. And—more than that—” His voice trembled a little.“You know what happened at Delgrass.”
“Aye.” Braegon was waiting, his kind eyes full of sympathy.
“He has not been like himself since then—ever. There is so much pain inside him, and it is getting worse and not better. I could see it when he was with us for those two days. He tries to hide it, and he cannot”—Fenris struggled to speak past the tears rising in his throat—“and it is killing him.”
“Aye, Fenris.” Braegon put an arm around his shoulders. “Would that I could help.”
“If only I could see him,” Fenris whispered. “If only I could know where he is.”
~
Mordred touched his heels against the horse to goad it into a canter. Catching a hint of motion and the sound of hooves to his right, he swung away from it. They were not to ride together, the general had ordered, so that if one of them were seen the other two would remain undetected.
The trees made him uneasy. In an hour or so he should come out onto the bare stretches of the Great Waste, but for now the forest was all around him and anyone might be hiding in it with an arrow trained on him.
He told himself not to be foolish; the leader’s camp was south of here anyway. What chance was there that a patrol would be riding twenty miles to the north?
But they would. He knew that. They would very well be patrolling in this area, watching for riders such as him, watching for anyone who left the West Gate . . .
The arrow whistled past his cheek. He twisted in the saddle, caught a glimpse of several horsemen behind him, and kicked his heels into his mount, urging it to a gallop.
“E, turta!” came the shout, and Mordred had been among the Runnicorans long enough to know what that meant. “Halt!” the man shouted again, this time in the common tongue. “There! Who are you, and where are you going?”
Mordred only leaned low over the horse’s neck and spurred it on harder. He had been on horseback much in recent times, and was a better rider than he had been a month ago, but this was a speed beyond his experience and he was quite sure that he was either going to fall off, or hit a tree—and then he would definitely fall off. Chancing a second look back, he saw a blurred flash of the horsemen again, more than ten. Maybe twenty.
The arrows were whining around him in a rain now. The horse shied, and Mordred clamped desperately to it with knees and arms. He could not fall, he dared not fall.
“Faster, lad,” he murmured, even though he was already blinded and almost out of control by the speed. “Faster, if you can. If they catch me, there are only two others.”
Onward he galloped. Whether they were gaining he did not know, but they could not be falling behind, for the arrows still hissed past.
Suddenly the horse arched with a shrill whinny of pain and reared up, thrashing its forelegs. Mordred’s grip on the reins was too slack; they tore themselves loose from his hands, and as he snatched for them, his balance betrayed him and he tumbled backwards. He remembered an instant of fearing that his feet would catch in the stirrups, and then his head struck the ground and all was black.
~
Something in him knew the danger he was in and forced him awake in bare moments. His eyes came open and he staggered up to his knees, tasting blood in his mouth. Shooting pain danced through his head, and subsided.
He wrenched himself to his feet and ran, a part of him realizing that he was finished, as good as dead, and he wove side to side, desperate to throw off their aim, another part of him thinking that maybe, maybe he could lose them. He panted raggedly for air, the sounds behind him were closing in, and then—
Like a blow from a fist, something smote him in the back of the leg and he went flying forward with the cruel force of it. Beaten, and a little dazed, he pushed himself up from the ground and looked down at the long arrow-shaft protruding from his boot.
It hurt. It hurt very badly, and every second it hurt more, a pinching, grinding throb that sent queer feelings into the pit of his stomach. His breath shook unevenly as he struggled to swallow back the nausea.
The enemy soldiers approached through the trees, surrounding him. Mordred realized that all their bows were trained on him, and wondered if a dozen arrows could hurt more than one, and if it would be a very long time before he was dead.
“Stay!”
The bows lowered.
“You, boy,” said the clipped, accented voice with sharp recognition. And Mordred raised his eyes to the face of Captain Alétun.
“Private Gerald Richardson,” Captain Alétun said with grim distaste. “The Paraki will be pleased that we have caught you after all.”
“He is a spy,” said another. “hall we not shoot?”
“Nay,” said Captain Alétun briefly. “Cern Dersturi will wish to see him and have him executed in his own time.” He swung down from the horse and drew his sword.
The sickness had subsided enough that Mordred, with a sharp, resolute breath, forced himself to stand. His leg seemed twisted in a thousand contortions of pain under him, but he stumbled back to the nearest tree and it braced him so he could stand on his unhurt leg. He reached for his own sword and pulled it awkwardly from the sheath.
Captain Alétun strode towards Mordred, shaking his head. “Put it down, Richardson,” he said, his blade pointing at Mordred’s neck. “It will be no gain to you to fight.”
But Mordred tossed his head contemptuously, his chin hard and his grip tightening. Did they think he would give in to them now?
The captain shrugged. “So be it.”
He flicked his own weapon up, catching Mordred’s, and Mordred was hard put to it to hold the blow with only one leg to balance on. Sweat began trickling down his face as he lunged forward with a harsh, ill-timed stroke at the other’s arm.
Landing square on his right leg, he crumpled with a gasping cry. Out of a red hazy cloud he felt Captain Alétun pulling the sword from his hand and twisting back his arms. He tried to struggle, but for that he drew a string of curses from the captain, and someone brought the flat of a blade heavily across the back of his head. Darkness fell.
~
Day passed away into eventide, and into night. The patrol of twenty-five trotted back into the Runnicoran camp, harness creaking and jingling, and sent for the Paraki.
He came out to them. “What news is so urgent you must call me from my tent? Make haste, speak!”
Captain Alétun dismounted and nodded toward a figure slung across the bow of a saddle. Someone lit a brand and shone it over the unconscious young man as two soldiers lifted him down.
The leader’s brows snapped together in surprise and he strode forward, staring at the white, clear-cut face. “Mordred Kenhelm,” he muttered.
He turned to Captain Alétun. “Well, this is a fine catch. Perhaps something is beginning to go right after all. Get that arrow out of his leg, and bring him to a tent. I will come shortly.”
~
Sounds lapped around his consciousness, dim and wavery, then clearer. At first he did not care. His leg burned, his head was aching, and those things were all that seemed to matter.
“What do you mean, he is still asleep? Have you tried to rouse him?”
The voice, brusque and familiar, jerked him aware. He heard a garbled reply, too faint for his exhausted head to focus and distinguish the words.
“He ought to have come around by now. I do not wish to be kept waiting.”
All Mordred’s confusion fell away into a single thought: he must keep the leader thinking he was asleep. He felt the presence bending over him, held himself still, breathed with light regularity—but he did not anticipate the kick that struck him with winding agony in the ribs. His eyes flew open and he stifled back a cry.
“Ah, so it seems he is awake,” said the leader, the impatience in his voice replaced by satisfaction. “You may go, Pacra.”
He leaned forward over Mordred, one side of his mouth curling in a faint sneer. “Our paths cross again, Richardson, or Kenhelm; unexpected, is it not?”
Mordred’s head felt feverishly light, the air thick and heavy. He wanted water.
The leader bent down on one knee, frighteningly close, his breath gusting over Mordred’s already hot cheeks. “Come, you are awake and you have a voice yet. Tell me, Private Kenhelm, why did you leave Orden and whither were you sent?”
Too dazed to summon a disdainful attitude or scathing answer, Mordred shook his head.
The leader’s mocking smile deepened. “Nay, I will not press you. I had no need to ask at all; I merely wished to see if you would acknowledge the truth. But the sealed missive in your jerkin told all that I need know.”
Mordred’s breath escaped in a small, sobbing sigh. The pain pulsed harder in his head, and in his weakness and utter wretchedness he longed to weep. He clenched his teeth, harder, harder, until it hurt.
Cern Dersturi stared down at him with scorn in his piercing dark eyes. “What a touching plea your general wrote. A pity the king of Fearnland will never see it.”
So he did not know about the other riders.
“Of course,” the leader continued, coolly, “he will have sent out more than one rider. But we will not let them get far.”
