Colors of Chaos (72 page)

As the vanguard approached the long, gentle incline, the column slowed ever so slightly, and Cerryl felt mounts moving closer to the gelding. He had the insane urge to spur the gelding clear of the column, despite the mounted blue-clad lancers on the knoll ahead.

Teras bellowed another command, and another score of Gallosian and White Lancers pulled to the side of the road and began to ride forward to reinforce the first detachment sent after the blues.

CRRRRRuuummmmmpppp!!!! Earth, stones, bodies, blood… undefined shreds sprayed skyward. Cerryl felt the ground shiver under the gelding, wondering, his eyes darting over his shoulder, at the explosion behind him.

“How…?” demanded Buar, puzzlement and anger flashed across his face.

Cerryl opened his mouth, then shut it, ducking.

CRRRRRuuummmmmpppp!!!! A second gout of colored soil, stones, and flesh erupted into the sky.

CRRRRRuuummmmmpppp!!!! By the third gout of gore, Cerryl found his eyes seared from the pain that had blasted through him, and he tottered in the gelding’s saddle, glancing rearward again.

The first line of white banners had vanished, along with the second group of levies and the third. From pits below the knoll perhaps a score of archers appeared and began to fire upon the vanguard and the remaining Gallosian levies.

Cerryl stood in the saddle, urging the gelding forward. “Back off! Back off!”

The vanguard circled, then charged the knoll, right into the storm of arrows.

Cerryl’s mouth was dry, his orders to back off ignored.

Of the mounted Gallosians but two remained, and they rode back toward the decimated Gallosian levies, already retreating, back toward the green banners of Certis.

Cerryl glanced around, back at the bodies, at the suddenly organized and milling forces, at purple banners being reraised. Then he looked northward, at the now-empty knoll, empty as if the Black mage and the blue lancers had never been there.

What happened? How could it happen? Cerryl had never felt any strange type of order, or even an untoward concentration of order, but whatever the smith had done had been concealed beneath the paving stones. How could you have failed so badly?

He glanced toward the space where the young White mages had been riding, but… amid the carnage… nothing moved. Nothing. The sparks of power that had been mages-nothing.

Faltar!

How… ? That question would not go away, not for a long time… if ever.

He swallowed again, his throat still dry. His eyes flicked back at the gap in the column, and his lips tightened. You were supposed to find such traps, and you and your lancers were supposed to be the ones who triggered them-not Faltar. Not even Myredin and Bealtur. Sweat ran down his forehead, burning his eyes, but he didn’t bother to wipe it away.

Faltar-Faltar shouldn’t have been killed by the Black mage’s trap.

“Now what, ser?” asked Hiser.

Cerryl didn’t have an answer, and his eyes went to the messenger that galloped toward him, one doubtless ordering a re-forming of the attack force.

The messenger kept trotting along the road when, spying Cerryl, he eased his mount toward the mage. “The High Wizard… ser… camp at the bend in the river… to the east there. Already scouted, ser.”

“Thank you,” Cerryl rasped.

“About time,” Hiser muttered. “No sense in milling around here. Blues are gone.”

Cerryl’s eyes went back, but nothing moved. The white banner that had flown so freely lay broken across the eastern low stone wall of the road. Just a broken banner… explosions… and a broken banner… and Faltar was gone.

The trumpet signals confirmed the orders, and Cerryl nodded to Hiser.

“Off the road, to the east!” the subofficer relayed.

Cerryl rode slowly beside the subofficer. He looked but scarcely saw the two kays of the side road to the campsite, where, doubtless, Jeslek and Eliasar would re-form the force.

Once there, Cerryl went through the motions of ensuring the two companies were organized and stood down but found himself standing stock-still, apart from his men and subofficers, in the middle of men and mounts and tents and wagons, almost without thoughts.

At the sharp sounds of a mallet striking a hard surface, Cerryl jerked his head toward where a pair of lancers erected the white tent of the High Wizard. Beyond the tent, Jeslek dismounted, handing his mount’s reins to a lancer.

With a deep breath, Cerryl finally stepped toward Jeslek, barely remembering to hold his shields in readiness, although a part of him didn’t care.

“Ah… Cerryl…” Jeslek just looked at the younger mage. “Your failure was costly. Six young mages… because you could not discern the trap of this Black mage-even after all your warnings of his cleverness.”

What can you say? That you tried… that he couldn’t have done better? You still failed, and people-including Faltar-died. Cerryl looked blankly at the High Wizard. “I know.”

“Is that all you can offer?”

What else could Cerryl say?

From behind the partly erected tent Anya stepped toward the two mages, a cold smile on her face, a chill and half-satisfied expression.

“The peasants might have been more effective,” suggested the white-haired mage, eyes glittering.

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl felt numb. Why couldn’t you find that black iron or whatever it was? Why not?

“Finding those devices was your responsibility,” Anya added. “You failed on the river, and you have failed here.”

“I failed here,” Cerryl admitted. Not on the river.

“And what will you do about it?” asked Anya. “That will not cost us any more mages?”

Cerryl wanted to shrug but didn’t.

“I am certain Cerryl will be most happy to lead the vanguard all the way to Kleth,” Jeslek said. “Will you not?”

“I will do my best.” Cerryl’s voice was flat, and he lacked the energy to make it more convincing. Faltar… how… ? How could you have failed Faltar so miserably?

“You will do what is necessary,” Jeslek said coldly, turning. “I will talk with you more later, when you have had time to reflect on the seriousness of your failings.”

“They were grievous failings,” Anya murmured to him. “You have much to atone for.”

Not to Anya… but for Faltar and those who relied on you.

Cerryl stood alone in the late-afternoon sun, looking toward the river he did not see, still half-dazed, half-wondering.

“I heard,” Leyladin offered quietly.

Cerryl wondered how long she had stood behind him.

“I was supposed to discover those devices.” He turned, then swallowed. The healer could barely stand, so drained was she-from trying to heal those injured by the explosions he had failed to prevent. He took her arm. “You need some rest… something to eat.”

Not only had he failed Faltar, but his failure had put greater demands on Leyladin. His lips tight, he guided her toward where the cook fires were being set up. They’ll have something for a healer… they will. They must.

CXXVIII

The stars, pinpoints of light in a black-purple sky tinged with green, began to fade as gray seeped from the horizon. A few insects rustled and chirped in the short spring grass. Cerryl stood in the shadows of a tree he did not recognize, looking out almost sightlessly from the low bluff overlooking the gray waters of the River Gallos.

“You got up early,” said Leyladin, slipping through the darkness to stand behind him, encircling his waist with her arms.

“I couldn’t sleep. I was supposed to find whatever traps the smith laid. I didn’t. Faltar, Ryadd, Myredin, Bealtur… the others with them, some I didn’t even know, they’re all dead.”

“You’ve found most of his traps.”

“I didn’t find the ones on the river, and I didn’t find whatever he put under the road. Jeslek and Anya were not kind in their words. I cannot blame them.” Cerryl took a deep breath.

“Do not be too kind to Jeslek. He put you out there to trigger such traps.” Leyladin snorted softly. “In that, he failed as much as you, and for that I am most grateful. Anya only looks for ways to show you have failed, whether you have indeed or not.”

But you did fail… and Faltar, your first true friend… he died. Cerryl shook his head. You can’t bring him back. “The smith used the order of the paving stones… the order of the darkness-damned paving stones…”

“You told me that,” Leyladin said softly. “Going over it won’t help. What could you do differently?”

“If the levies and the mounts traveled the shoulder of the road, I could sense anything in the ground itself. It was the paving stones… something about them.”

“Then tell Jeslek that.”

“It won’t help Faltar.”

“No, it won’t,” she agreed. “You did the best you knew how then.” The healer paused. “Sometimes, our best isn’t enough. Even for mages and healers. It’s hard to accept that.”

Sometimes our best isn’t enough… “Yes…” The word dragged out. But it should be.

“You’re a better mage than most, Cerryl. Better than any, I think. You’re still a man. Even the ancient White demons failed at times, and so did the dark angels.” The healer tightened her arms around him, letting the warmth of her dark order enfold him.

Cerryl kept looking at the dark gray waters of the river, flowing northward to the cold Northern Ocean. “I’m not a demon or an angel. I’m a mage.”

“They lost friends, too, I’m sure. They were people, too. They hoped; they dreamed; and they failed and conquered.”

Cerryl swallowed. “I haven’t been that much help on this… whatever it is.”

“What good will it do if you turn your back on all this now? Would you leave Anya and Jeslek to their devices?”

“They’ll do as they please.” He pursed his lips.

“Someone’s coming,” she whispered.

They stood in the dimness by the tree as two other figures walked the path below them.

“I don’t understand, Jeslek. You raised those mountains, you brought Axalt down into rubble, yet you won’t use chaos against these worthless traders.” Anya’s sharp voice carried uphill. “You were too gentle on Cerryl… for his failures.”

“I do not have to justify what I do. But, to please you, dear Anya, I will.” Jeslek’s voice oozed irony.

Cerryl winced. Didn’t Anya understand?

“She still thinks she brought down Sterol,” Leyladin whispered in his ear.

“Best it remain so.” Cerryl smiled bitterly to himself. “I would not be the one to tell her otherwise.”

“Axalt was a city of parasites, adding to the cost of trade and siphoning off coins that better should have gone to Fairhaven. L:ikewise, the middle highlands of Gallos were worth little to any but herders. Spidlar, on the other hand, is rich in farmland, rich in timber and even in metals. Those make the land valuable, and you wish me to turn it to cinders?” Jeslek laughed once, harshly. “I will bring down another city as I did Elparta, but only if that will place all Spidlar within our hands.”

“You are letting lancers die.”

“Lancers will die. That is their job.” After a moment, Jeslek added, “Besides, the prefect has sent fivescore Kyphran lancers and an additional tenscore heavy foot. He would rather send those of Kyphros. They are less loyal than those from the north of Gallos.” The High Wizard turned and gestured. “Cerryl! Come on out. I can sense your chaos blazing.”

Leyladin let go of his hand, and Cerryl stepped from the shadows of the tree and began to walk toward Jeslek.

“I see you, too, could not sleep long.” Jeslek’s words were mild, far milder than those he had used upon Anya.

Unseen chaos coiled around Anya, almost as strong as that which entwined the High Wizard, but the redhead did not speak.

“So… how do you propose that we avoid these latest traps?” asked Jeslek. “I presume you have thought upon this.”

The younger mage repressed a sigh. “Ser… I have checked. He can only hide that much black iron under something ordered-like the paving stones. The ground is dry, now, and if we march beside the walls…”

Jeslek nodded, his eyes cold, as Cerryl explained. Beside the High Wizard, Anya’s pale eyes made the High Wizard’s seem warm.

CXXIX

In the shadows cast by the late-morning sun, Cerryl stood behind the higher earthworks on the top of the rise to the south of the slightly higher hill where the Spidlarian forces were dug into an entrenched circle. The west river road from Elparta to Kleth angled up the slope from southwest to the northeast. East of the hill that held the forces of Fairhaven were the bluffs overlooking the river, and to the west the hills sloped downward into the Devow Marsh, which stretched westward a good four kays. Farther west of the marsh were the Kylen Hills, rugged and filled with potholes and crumbling sandstone ledges.

Overhead, high, thin clouds gave a gray tinge to the morning. A light southerly breeze barely lifted the banners of the White forces but carried the odor of burned fields.

Pushing his senses outward, Cerryl had tried to find the smith. The glass had shown that Dorrin rested in an earthworks somewhere, and Cerryl had determined that the Black mage was somewhere on the opposite hillside, but he could not sense where. That bothered Cerryl The last time the Black smith had been present had not been pleasant, either. Not pleasant? An ironic and self-mocking smile crossed Cerryl’s lips. Faltar would have said more than that… Except Faltar would have forgiven Cerryl. Will you be able to forgive yourself?

From midway down the hill sounded a wavering horn, the first signal of the assault to come.

Cerryl glanced sideways to where Jeslek stood, flanked by Anya and Fydel, all looking over the berm of the earthworks to the north. None of the three moved as the horn sounded a second time, even as gouts of chaos fire flared from the ramparts fifty cubits below the one where Cerryl stood.

Whhhsttt! Whhhssst! Whhstt! The globules of chaos splashed across the hillside and the Spidlarian earthworks.

Cerryl sensed little change and could hear no screams, but earthworks were a good shield against chaos fire, although several thin lines of greasy black smoke spiraled upward. A second line of fire followed the first.