Colors of Chaos (60 page)

Cerryl should have looked into the supplies more closely, but all the screeing and waiting and worrying had distracted him, tired as he was from all the effort required to use the glass so much and so often.

A wave of unseen white, a fading echo of some distant and massive use of chaos, swept across Cerryl as he stood in the small provisions shed. He fought off the shudder. What has Jeslek done? Raised more mountains?

Hiser looked at Cerryl. “You all right, ser? Matters… stuff, it be not that bad yet.”

The mage shook his head. “It wasn’t… isn’t that. Someone is using chaos-too much.”

Not quite rolling his eyes, Ferek glanced at the younger subofficer.

“My being able to sense those sorts of things has kept most of your company alive, Ferek.” Cerryl’s voice was mild, even though he wanted to yell at the man. Then, was that because he worried about what Jeslek-or someone-might have done?

Hiser glared at Ferek.

“Ah… begging your pardon, ser… didn’t mean…” Ferek stammered out the words.

“That’s all right, Ferek,” Cerryl said quietly. “Even most lancer officers don’t understand.” He paused. “I’ll send a scroll to the High Wizard stating our situation and asking for coins so that we don’t have to take from the locals. If he doesn’t respond, then we do what we have to.” But you hope it doesn’t come to that.

“Some of the fellows said there’s a boar rooting in the woods over and down by the creek feeding the bigger stream.” Ferek offered. “Wild-like, I mean.”

“Well… if they can bring it in, that’s better than taking from the nearby hamlets.”

“They can, and it’s enough to stretch things, the cooks say.”

“Fine. I’ll send off another message sent to the High Wizard.” Cerryl half-turned. “I’ll be in my cot. Need to see why all that chaos…”

“Yes, ser.”

The White mage who’d never wanted to be an arms mage walked through the fine, cool mist that promised to turn into a full cold rain before twilight, back toward the cot he had grown to know too well over more than two seasons.

After closing the door, he set several sticks and a log in the hearth and tweaked them into flame with the smallest touch of chaos. Then he uncased the screeing glass and set it on the table.

As the faint heat from the hearth tried to beat back the chill seeping in around the door and the closed shutters, Cerryl concentrated on the glass and upon the chaos he had felt so strongly earlier.

The silver mists swirled into place, then lifted to reveal another kind of chaos-a city on a river, with gray stone walls toppled as if swept down by a giant’s hand and water puddling in the streets, a raging torrent running down the River Gallos, except the Spidlarians called it the River Spidlar, or most of them did, from what Cerryl recalled.

After a year, after saying he would not destroy any cities after Axalt, Jeslek had done just that. He had raised another wave of chaos and brought down another city-or part of it, since the glass showed some structures untouched.

Why? Because the Black warleader was good enough to hold off an entire White force with a fraction of the men and equipment?

Rubbing his forehead and standing with his back to the growing warmth of the hearth, Cerryl let the image slip from the glass.

What had really happened in the campaign for Elparta? Cerryl was convinced there were too many details he didn’t know. And things you really won’t want to know?

“That, too,” he murmured to the empty glass. “That, too.”

Then he took out ink and quill and parchment. Regardless of what had happened in Elparta, he still needed to inform Jeslek about the provisions needs of his lancers.

His eyes flicked westward as he reseated himself at the table.

CIII

The aroma of roasting pork mixed with the dampness of the mist that had hugged the hamlet area for more than an eight-day. Cerryl half-smiled as he walked from the cot toward the cook fires, his eyes going to the low clouds that continued to roll westward out of the Easthorns. The morning patrol had been cold and damp, but every patrol lately had been that way. He rubbed his forehead, trying to hasten the departure of the headache that followed every prolonged effort with the glass, efforts that continued to show no signs of either more supplies and levies or of Spidlarian forces near the Axalt - Elparta road.

Would the rest of the fall be filled with damp and rain? Darkness hard on the the harvest… if there even is one. Or early snows? Cerryl shivered at that thought, and his fingers went to the buttons on his jacket, a jacket that looked more splotched tan than white after two seasons in the field.

“We found three of ‘em, a sow, an old boar and a younger one,” said Ferek with a wide grin as Cerryl approached.

“I can smell that.”

“We left the young sow for now. Be a while yet, but the men can wait.” The older subofficer gestured toward the clouds. “You want a road patrol this afternoon?”

“Just to those cots to the east. Some of the folk have returned.”

“After the men eat?” asked Ferek. “Pork’ll do ‘em good.” He grinned. “Kieral found near on a stone of potatoes in the side field there, at the back. Missed them earlier.”

“That’s only good for a few meals,” mused Hiser, from beside Ferek.

“Take ‘em where we can get ’em.” Ferek nodded emphatically.

“The message should reach the High Wizard tomorrow.” You hope. “Late this afternoon is fine for the patrol.”

The three looked up at the sound of hoofs. Three lancers rode toward the corral and the cook fires. The lead rider wore the sash of a messenger.

“A message for Mage Cerryl from the High Wizard,” gasped the lean young lancer, extending a scroll.

As he took the rolled and sealed scroll, Cerryl noted absently that one of the lancers who rode with the messenger was a woman, older and hard-faced. “I have it. Why don’t you three dismount? We’ll be having a hearty midday meal, and I imagine it will be welcome after a cold ride.”

“Thank you,” the messenger answered.

The other two lancers nodded… and dismounted.

Cerryl stepped away from the cook fire that held two cauldrons filled with potatoes. The two boars were being turned on makeshift spits at the other two fires. After breaking the seal, he began to read.

Greetings, Cerryl,

As you may surmise from this, your presence is needed in Elparta, your presence and your particular skills. Now that Fairhaven controls Elparta and the River Gallos, as I trust you have discovered through your glass, protection of the road from Axalt is less important and provided as much by our control of both Elparta and the upper reaches of the river…

We expect that you will decamp immediately and make your way with prudent haste to rejoin us here in Elparta…

Jeslek had signed the scroll, but the signature was almost a scrawl, unlike the more precise lettering of earlier messages. The impact of using so much chaos, or because he’s hurried?

That also brought up the question of who had written the scroll itself. Anya? There hadn’t been any scriveners coming along the main road, nor any apprentice mages, and Cerryl doubted that Jeslek would have trusted Fydel to write anything. Then, he trusted Anya less than either Fydel or the High Wizard.

Cerryl rerolled the scroll and thrust it inside his jacket, then stepped forward.

Both Ferek and Hiser were waiting, but neither said a word, though their eyes were filled with questions.

“The High Wizard has summoned us to Elparta. We will depart at dawn.” Cerryl smiled. “There’s time enough to enjoy the boar.”

“Good,” said Ferek.

Hiser nodded politely.

“… about time,” came from one of the lancers loitering by the adjoining cook fire.

“… that blue commander… wonder if they got him…”

“… never happen… say he’s a giant…”

“… won’t have to freeze here anyway…”

After what his glass had shown of Elparta, Cerryl had the feeling that wintering over in Elparta-for that was surely what Jeslek had in mind-would scarcely be that warm. It would require at least some labor to repair enough of the city to house those lancers and levies stationed there through the cold seasons. And the following spring and summer would only bring more difficulty with the blues and their near-mythical commander.

CIV

As he rode downhill and westward, Cerryl saw the flattened trees and shrubs before he glimpsed the River Gallos. Despite the weak midday sun and the cold wind from the east, a sickly smell rose from the mud that covered the floodplain. Once below the eroded bluff that years before had slumped into a gentle incline, the road turned and ran along the ancient levee north toward Elparta, wide enough to allow four horses abreast-or two wagons wheel-to-wheel.

“Two abreast, Hiser,” Cerryl ordered, not wanting any of the mounts walking through the stinking mud bordering the road, already repacked into a solid clay surface from heavy traffic. Here and there on the slope above the river were heaps of thatch and planks or water-smoothed mud bricks that had once been cots or outbuildings. Cerryl tried not to breathe deeply.

“Demon-darkness stench,” Ferek commented. “Worse inside the walls, I’d wager.”

“Surrender couldn’t have been this bad,” said Hiser.

Of that Cerryl wasn’t certain. He glanced ahead toward the slumped outline of what had been city walls. A full company of lancers, dismounted, was gathered just outside the rubble.

One of the city gates lay broken against the rubble of one guard tower. Only the iron straps of the other remained, blackened and thrown across the shattered planks of the first gate. Cerryl nodded. Jeslek-or Fydel or Anya-had taken out some wrath on the gate.

On a makeshift platform beside the opening into the city stood a lancer officer. “The High Wizard is in the high house on the hill.” Captain Teras inclined his head to Cerryl, then gestured over his shoulder. “He expects you. I will see your men are quartered… with what we have.”

“Thank you.”

“Dester and Huyl will guide you. The ways are not what they once were.” Only the faintest tinge of irony colored the voice of the hulking lancer officer.

Cerryl turned in the saddle. “Don’t let the men run loose, no matter what anyone says. If they’re allowed the freedom of the place, make sure they go in threes.”

“I would second that, Subofficers,” Teras added.

“Yes, ser,” Hiser and Ferek answered almost simultaneously.

“I be Dester, ser. This way, if you would.” Dester was a rail-thin figure with a gray goatee who eased his mount alongside and then slightly in front of Cerryl’s gelding.

The other lancer, a true white-bronze lance in his holder, merely nodded as he joined them.

Some sections of the stone walls of Elparta had toppled inward, and the dwellings and other structures within fifty cubits of the walls were largely rubble as well. As Ferek had predicted, the odor was higher once past the walls.

“Is anything left standing?” Cerryl asked.

“Most east of the river walls, especially beyond the merchants’ hill. That’s where we’re taking you, ser. Doors don’t fit lots of places. Some of the fellows like that.” Dester sniffed, almost in disapproval.

Huyl remained silent.

The street had been broad for a city not designed by White mages, but the piles of fallen roof tiles and rubble from walls had narrowed it to little more than space for two mounts. Huyl fell back.

Cerryl found his hands going to his dagger, and he shook his head. Better chaos than a dagger, but he hoped he had to use neither.

A long scream echoed from somewhere to the left of where Cerryl rode, a long and despairing scream. He turned his head to look down the half-blocked lane off the main street, but the cobblestones were deserted, and he saw neither lancers nor a woman. The scream had told him enough, and there was little he could do. Still… his stomach clenched.

Slowly, the three made their way along the main street, for perhaps three-quarters of a kay, before turning eastward. After several hundred cubits, the side avenue began to slope gently uphill, ending another 300 cubits farther east at an open brick - and - stone gateway guarded by four lancers.

“Here be the High Wizard’s headquarters and quarters,” announced Dester. “And we’ll be a-heading back.”

“Thank you.”

With a nod, Cerryl rode through the gates. Another set of lancers were stationed by the carved doors to the mansion. As he dismounted and tied the gelding to a hitching post carved in the likeness of a red deer, Cerryl glanced around. The walls around the large house, larger even than Layel’s, had been roughly patched and the courtyard cleared of fallen brick and roof tiles.

One of the second-story windows was missing shutters, and a thin crack ran across the stone facade of the dwelling on the left side of the arched front doorway where the two lancers stood.

Before Cerryl reached the lancers, the door opened, and Anya stood there. “So… you finally made it.” Anya offered her blinding and false smile. “Jeslek will be pleased to see you. Do come in. You must have had a cold ride.”

“I’ve had warmer.” Cerryl used the boot scraper and brush by the door before stepping into the house, finding himself in a hallway twice the size of the cot where he had spent the last two seasons and with a ceiling nearly four times higher.

Anya closed the carved door of stained dark oak.

“You had more trouble taking the city than anyone thought, then?” Cerryl asked, his tone mild.

“We could have done this last spring.” Anya shrugged, and the smile faded.

“I imagine Jeslek had his reasons.”

“He had the thought that it might be better not to have to rebuild the city.” Anya’s brilliant smile returned. “As I told you a long time ago, Cerryl, appealing to people’s better nature almost always fails. They respect but force. So… it’s better to use what force you must quickly and get on with it.”

“I see that the High Wizard came to that decision as well.”

“He had no choice. Hydlen provided few lancers and no levies to speak of. Nor did Lydiar. The perfect of Gallos grudged every body that came down the river. Even the second-promised levies from Certis were late and few.”