Ordermaster

XXIII

Somewhere, along the road back to the bridge over the River Val, Kharl passed out. Or fell asleep. Or dropped out of the saddle.

He knew that because he found himself lying on something hard and cold-the ground. Someone was washing and blotting his face with cool water. But the water tasted and smelled like ashes.

“Ser Kharl … ser.”

Kharl managed to turn his head to the side and cough out some of the water that had been choking him. Despite the hazy sunlight, there were large irregular patches of darkness drifting across his eyes. The lightstars and the daggers that they jabbed into his skull seemed to have subsided a little. Rather than being agonizing, they had become more like the lashes of a tiny whip.

″Sorry …″ he mumbled.

“Are you all right, ser?”

Of course he wasn’t all right. No one who fell out of a saddle was all right. He could tell that his left leg was sore and bruised, and that there was a large lump on his forehead above his right eye. “ … getting there …”

“One moment, you were riding,” Demyst said, “and the next you weren’t.”

“Happens sometimes after magery,″ Kharl said slowly, coughing some more.

After a time, he struggled into a sitting position. He’d thought that he wouldn’t collapse anymore after doing magery. He’d been wrong. Again. “There’s some bread and cheese in my saddlebags … might help.”

“Sileen … get the provisions from the mage’s saddlebags.”

“Yes, ser.”

Kharl just sat on the ground on the shoulder of the road, looking blankly eastward. The River Val bridge was less than ten rods away. He supposed he’d been lucky. He could have fallen off on the bridge, hit his head on the railing, and gone into the water and drowned. At least, that way, he wouldn’t have to explain how he’d been trapped by Hensolas. He hoped Hagen and Norgen didn’t ask too many questions … but Hagen didn’t miss much.

“Ser …” As the undercaptain extended the provisions bag, and a water bottle, his voice was both solicitous and respectful.

Kharl wondered why. He’d led the squad into a trap, almost gotten them burned to ashes, and then he’d collapsed and fallen right out of the saddle. That sort of behavior shouldn’t have created respect. “Thank you.”

He forced down the bread, which tasted of ashes, like the water had, and chewed off several morsels of the hard yellow cheese. The black patches that drifted across his field of vision shrank, but did not disappear entirely. Much to his surprise, he did finish everything in the bag, as well as empty the water bottle.

After eating, he took a damp rag and wiped the blood from the gash over his forehead and the ashes from his face.

“We could wait here a while,” suggested Demyst.

“No. I should have eaten right after the … fight. Magery takes food.” Except that he doubted he could have kept anything down then.

“You’re in charge, ser.”

“In a moment, we’ll start back.”

Demyst nodded.

Kharl’s legs were still a bit weak when he finally stood and walked toward the gelding, but he remounted, if carefully. He patted the horse’s shoulder. “Be trying not to fall out of the saddle again,” he said to the gelding. “Makes us both look bad.”