Read Online The White Order by L. E. Modesitt Jr. - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: L. E. Modesitt Jr.
Tags: Speculative Fiction
Ads: Link
blade.
Cerryl blinked. The reddish white glow surrounding the blackness of the blade-had he seen that? Right through the heavy log? He thought he had before, but on this afternoon, the glow seemed brighter. He squinted, leaning toward the mill, his fingers tightening around the broom handle.
Why could he sense something he couldn't see? Not see properly anyway. The reddish white glow was there-the same glow he'd felt in the mines that even Syodor had avoided-and the same glow that, in a much lesser degree, permeated the books from his father.
He frowned. Another question, one he pondered, time and time gain. Why had his uncle never mentioned that he had been the master-miner? Cerryl hadn't learned that until Dylert had said so.
He studied the yoke, then nodded. Even Brental would be pleased. He looked back at the blade. It seemed brighter, yet with an angry reddish tint, one he hadn't seen before.
He bent down to lift the yoke to carry it back up to the stables, but his eyes went back to the mill, where the reddish white of the blade, that color no one else seemed to see, loomed over the massive log and the mill blade, almost as though it were ready to lash out at Brental and Dylert. He took a step down the causeway, then stopped and glanced back again.
His lips tightened before he set down the brush and yoke and scurried into the mill, almost running down the center aisle, the clomping of his heavy boots drowned in the screech of the saw and the thumping of the waterwheels.
Dylert, standing on the platform above and to the right of the saw, waved him back.
Cerryl shook his head and pointed toward the blade.
Dylert gestured again, impatiently.
"Please, ser! Stop the blade," Cerryl shouted, but his words were lost in the whining of the blade. He pointed to the blade again, gesturing, trying to make Dylert understand. Then he glanced toward the drop gear on the small platform below Dylert.
Before Cerryl had taken more than a pair of steps, the millmaster had dropped down to the drop gear lever and yanked it.
Cerryl took a deep breath as the whining screech of the blade died down, and a dull clunk reverberated through the mill.
Dylert turned away from the drop gear, clambered back to the water gates and closed them, and set both wheel brakes.
Brental looked from Cerryl to the saw platform, where the blade was still hidden, locked in the big pine log.
Viental just scowled.
The millmaster climbed down and walked toward Cerryl. "Now ... never seen you run like that, lad. Hope this be worth it. Best be worth it, indeed." His face was streaked with sweat, with sawdust plastered across his cheeks and imbedded in his beard. His jaw was set, waiting.
Cerryl swallowed. "Ser ... the blade ... something be-something is wrong with it."
After a moment, Dylert frowned. "You be seeing that from without?"
"Hearing, ser," Cerryl lied. "It... sounded wrong. I know ... you are the millmaster ... but I had to tell you."
"Hpphhmmm. Sounds he hears," grumbled Viental.
Brental glared at the stocky laborer.
"Well... we be shut down. Might be looking afore anything else." Dylert frowned. "If there be a crack or flaw," he shrugged, "then we stand lucky. If not," he looked at Cerryl, "a lot of work you'll have to do, young fellow. A darkness lot to make up for this."
"Yes, ser."
Dylert glanced at the other two. "Got to clear the blade anyway. Let's be at it."
Cerryl stepped back and watched as the three men wrestled the log off the blade. Sweat continued to ooze down his back.
"Now ... he has to hear it..." mumbled Viental, with a look at the youth.
"Time enough to complain when we find he be wrong," answered Dylert. "If he be wrong. Cerryl's not a flighty chap, like some."
A last shove by Viental, and the log slipped away from the blade. Brental looked at the drop gear and then at the water gates before taking a cloth and brushing away the sawdust that had swirled around the circular toothed blade.
The color drained from the
Cerryl blinked. The reddish white glow surrounding the blackness of the blade-had he seen that? Right through the heavy log? He thought he had before, but on this afternoon, the glow seemed brighter. He squinted, leaning toward the mill, his fingers tightening around the broom handle.
Why could he sense something he couldn't see? Not see properly anyway. The reddish white glow was there-the same glow he'd felt in the mines that even Syodor had avoided-and the same glow that, in a much lesser degree, permeated the books from his father.
He frowned. Another question, one he pondered, time and time gain. Why had his uncle never mentioned that he had been the master-miner? Cerryl hadn't learned that until Dylert had said so.
He studied the yoke, then nodded. Even Brental would be pleased. He looked back at the blade. It seemed brighter, yet with an angry reddish tint, one he hadn't seen before.
He bent down to lift the yoke to carry it back up to the stables, but his eyes went back to the mill, where the reddish white of the blade, that color no one else seemed to see, loomed over the massive log and the mill blade, almost as though it were ready to lash out at Brental and Dylert. He took a step down the causeway, then stopped and glanced back again.
His lips tightened before he set down the brush and yoke and scurried into the mill, almost running down the center aisle, the clomping of his heavy boots drowned in the screech of the saw and the thumping of the waterwheels.
Dylert, standing on the platform above and to the right of the saw, waved him back.
Cerryl shook his head and pointed toward the blade.
Dylert gestured again, impatiently.
"Please, ser! Stop the blade," Cerryl shouted, but his words were lost in the whining of the blade. He pointed to the blade again, gesturing, trying to make Dylert understand. Then he glanced toward the drop gear on the small platform below Dylert.
Before Cerryl had taken more than a pair of steps, the millmaster had dropped down to the drop gear lever and yanked it.
Cerryl took a deep breath as the whining screech of the blade died down, and a dull clunk reverberated through the mill.
Dylert turned away from the drop gear, clambered back to the water gates and closed them, and set both wheel brakes.
Brental looked from Cerryl to the saw platform, where the blade was still hidden, locked in the big pine log.
Viental just scowled.
The millmaster climbed down and walked toward Cerryl. "Now ... never seen you run like that, lad. Hope this be worth it. Best be worth it, indeed." His face was streaked with sweat, with sawdust plastered across his cheeks and imbedded in his beard. His jaw was set, waiting.
Cerryl swallowed. "Ser ... the blade ... something be-something is wrong with it."
After a moment, Dylert frowned. "You be seeing that from without?"
"Hearing, ser," Cerryl lied. "It... sounded wrong. I know ... you are the millmaster ... but I had to tell you."
"Hpphhmmm. Sounds he hears," grumbled Viental.
Brental glared at the stocky laborer.
"Well... we be shut down. Might be looking afore anything else." Dylert frowned. "If there be a crack or flaw," he shrugged, "then we stand lucky. If not," he looked at Cerryl, "a lot of work you'll have to do, young fellow. A darkness lot to make up for this."
"Yes, ser."
Dylert glanced at the other two. "Got to clear the blade anyway. Let's be at it."
Cerryl stepped back and watched as the three men wrestled the log off the blade. Sweat continued to ooze down his back.
"Now ... he has to hear it..." mumbled Viental, with a look at the youth.
"Time enough to complain when we find he be wrong," answered Dylert. "If he be wrong. Cerryl's not a flighty chap, like some."
A last shove by Viental, and the log slipped away from the blade. Brental looked at the drop gear and then at the water gates before taking a cloth and brushing away the sawdust that had swirled around the circular toothed blade.
The color drained from the
Similar Books
