The Chaos Balance

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “So am I, ser. It has been good to get away from Lornth, from the sadness.” She brushed back a strand of black hair, and, it seemed to Nylan, something dark within, before giving him another shy smile.

  Nylan patted Weryl on the back. “Stronger and faster, every day.”

  “Faster,” agreed Sylenia.

  Nylan bent and set Weryl on the stoop, then took the two stairs onto the stoop itself. But he hadn’t even stepped into the shade before Weryl threw both arms around his left leg.

  Sylenia scooped up Weryl. “Let your daddy eat. He has been working. Smithing be hard work.” She sat on the edge of the stoop, her legs dangling in the sunlight, one arm loosely around the silver-haired child.

  “Daa woo haaah.”

  “Yes, I’ve been working hard.” Nylan laughed. “Not that hard. It’s better than riding all over southern Lornth.” Far better than killing…far better. His eyes went to Ayrlyn, sitting in the shade, and he smiled at the sparkle in those brown orbs, and the warmth behind them.

  She gestured toward a small block of cheese and a dark loaf resting on a square of waxed cloth beside her on the bench. “Have some. You’re more hungry than you think.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s just bread and cheese, and some cold water,” Ayrlyn explained.

  “Daaa!” Weryl twisted out of Sylenia’s grasp and charged across the stones toward Nylan before he could even sit.

  “Weryl…” Nylan hoisted his son again. “Determined, aren’t you?”

  “And who does he take after?” asked Ayrlyn.

  “You would ask.” Nylan sat on the shaded end of the bench, holding Weryl on his right knee, the one away from the bread and cheese, with one arm. With the other he reached for the bread.

  “Wedd, daa?” Weryl lurched toward the chunk of bread the smith held.

  Nylan frowned. “You’ve eaten. I haven’t.”

  “Wedd!”

  Sylenia stepped forward. “We’ll take a walk, young man,” the nursemaid insisted, “long enough for your father to eat.” Nylan slowly ate several mouthfuls of the dark bread, then glanced up, his eyes following Ayrlyn’s.

  Sylenia held Weryl in her arms, but a squat armsman- Tregvo-stood opposite her, talking loudly. “… you… up to the subofficer… he be a clown…”

  Nylan started to rise, but Ayrlyn touched his arm. “Do you wish I call the angels, Tregvo? Or Tonsar? Go, and trouble me no more.” Sylenia’s voice was cool, firm. “Some day… you will be mine…” Sylenia’s cold eyes just burned, and Tregvo stepped back. After a moment, the armsman walked toward the barracks, looking back over his shoulder once.

  Sylenia set Weryl down, and the two ambled toward the well.

  “I don’t like that,” Nylan said quietly. “She handled it all right.”

  “What if we’re not around?”

  “Even Fornal wouldn’t tolerate his actually forcing himself on her.” Ayrlyn took a swig from the water bottle. “The other thing that bothers me is the masculine assumption that women . appreciate force and crudeness-or that they respond to it.”

  “Force again…” mused the smith, accepting the water bottle from the healer, then drinking. He ate several more mouthfuls of bread before speaking. “Dear?”

  “What, dear scheming consort?” Ayrlyn’s eyes sparkled for a moment. “Me?”

  “You. When you ask like that, it’s trouble.” Nylan laughed. “Maybe. I have a really strange request. Can you do one of your searches on the winds? I mean, I know you can, but I wanted to know if some night you could try to find a sort of oasis-trees filled with order and chaos that are balanced? Maybe some place not too far away?”

  “Those dreams are getting to you.” She smiled. “Yes. I’d already thought about it.”

  “They’re getting to you?”

  “Something like that.” She paused. “I can’t sing anymore. The notes feel like they’re copper… or lead. Even Weryl winces.”

  “All the deaths, you think?” She nodded.

  What was it coming to? If they didn’t stop the relatively small Cyadoran expeditionary force, then Lornth would fall for nothing-and he and Ayrlyn and Weryl would be on the run in even more hostile lands, from what he could figure, and still required to survive by force of arms. Westwind would be surrounded as well. Yet stopping and destroying the Cyadoran force, as he knew from experience, would result in more massive retaliation.

  “It’s the proverbial no-win situation,” Ayrlyn confirmed. More and more, Nylan thought, she knew what he felt even when he did not speak his mind, and that, too, was strange. “You could, too. You just don’t look.” Nylan swallowed. Why didn’t he? Because… because he feared what he might see? “Go ahead… look at me…”

  He swallowed again, but he let his eyes and senses rest on the redheaded healer and fighter, singer and lover. Besides the patterns of dark and light, almost like the dreams of his dreams and subconscious, besides the flame of song… there was something else.

  “I’m not fragile, not that way,” she said. I love you, smith and engineer… won’t lose me except by turning away… and I love your son… because he’s you… and himself… The engineer’s eyes burned… hardly good enough for you…fumble through everything… can’t really even protect you half the time…

  “I don’t need protecting. I need you.” Her hand grasped his. gently, but firmly… and I need you to see me as I am… fumble, too… get angry… impatient… don’t turn away… it’s hard, but… fear you’ll leave when you know me… really know me…

  “That’s what… I worried about all along.” How could anyone love me… if they knew…

  Her laugh was gentle, and her other hand touched his cheek. “I’ve known all along.”

  “All along…” and he hadn’t seen it, or wanted to. Some mage…

  Some healer…

  They both laughed, tears in their eyes.

  XC

  NO MORE BEER?“ asked the thin-faced captain.

  “No, ser,” offered Serjeant Funssa from the gloomy back of the narrow room. Despite the open windows, and the faint twilight breeze, he wiped his forehead before continuing, “But the supply wagons should be here afore long.”

  “They should have been here an eight-day ago,” snapped Miatorphi, looking glumly at his mug full of almost-brackish water.

  “They won’t be here,” said Piataphi in a low voice, low enough not to carry outside the staff room. “The lancers operate on schedule, even in places like Syadtar.”

  “What happened?” asked Funssa, his eyes searching through the gloom, going from one shadowed officer’s face to the next.

  “Exactly? I don’t know.” The majer coughed. “Angel-damned dust. The barbarians got them-the smart one, probably.”

  This time Azarphi and Miatorphi exchanged looks. Funssa pulled at his short ginger beard.

  “There have to be two barbarian groups out there,” the majer explained slowly, picking his words as though he had drunk far too much beer. “Nothing else makes sense. There were two camps. They don’t even act the same. One is the same old barbarian tactics-hit and run, but some semblance of honor. The other one avoids any skirmish except where he can destroy our force totally, or pick off a lot of our lancers with almost no losses. He’s the one who dumped the fireballs on the corrals. Did you notice that he went for the fodder, too? What barbarian thinks about fodder, for darkness’s sake?”

  “A barbarian is a barbarian,” offered Miatorphi. “Your shafts were closer than you thought, Azarphi,” continued Piataphi, as though Miatorphi had not spoken. “A barbarian would not think of fodder, but an angel might. And an angel would think of supply wagons.”

  “What do we do now?” asked Azarphi. “We can’t exactly beg for more lancers and a bunch of foot.”

  “No. We can make His Mightiness force them on us.” The other three looked dubious.

  “Trade and gold-that is all those in Cyad value. Pah… they talk of honor, but we have no fleet because it woul
d have cost many golds to rebuild it. Even His Mightiness builds but one fireship, when we need many. The steamwagons fail because it takes too many golds to replace them, and with only barbarians around, why need we such devices?” Piataphi looked owlishly through the twilight. “So… we are going to send all the copper we have mined back to Syadtar. And we are going to do everything that we can to ensure that the barbarians know this.”

  Funssa swallowed. “Ser… the men?”

  “I am most certain that you will pick the men most suited for such a mission, Funssa, as well as a messenger and a scout that could ride like skyfire if anything untoward happened.” Piataphi looked soberly around the staff room. “His Mightiness would wish to know if anything happened to his precious copper, and so would the white mages.”

  “I do not understand,” protested Funssa. “Am I supposed to sacrifice good lancers and foot to protect mere copper?” asked Piataphi. “And with the losses we have had, because our forces are not adequate to fight two barbarian lands-or is it three with the dark angels?-I cannot spare more lancers and still hold the copper mines that His Mightiness has entrusted to our care. So…” The majer shrugged and stood. “We do what we can.”

  “Ser.” Funssa swallowed once more.

  “Good,” replied Piataphi ambiguously. “Good evening, captains.” He turned and walked out the half-open door, each step taken with exaggerated care.

  Funssa looked at Azarphi and Miatorphi. “Sers?”

  “You heard the majer,” said Miatorphi.

  With a deep breath, the serjeant departed.

  “He must have been hoarding the beer for himself,” Azarphi muttered.

  “Wouldn’t you? Do you know what his life is worth right now? Or ours?”

  “Why is he doing this?” asked the thin-faced captain.

  “To get all the merchants roused up, I suppose, and His Mightiness to send more lancers, before we get whittled down to nothing and killed.”

  “We’ve still got more horsemen than they do, lots more.”

  “For how long?” asked Miatorphi. “We’re getting picked off. They aren’t. Besides, they don’t seem to care if they die, just so long as they die honorably. I do.”

  Azarphi shook his head.in the dark.

  XCI

  A LIGHT BREEZE whispered across the sun-browned and dusty grass. The two angels remained mounted at the head of their three squads on the back side of a low hill. On the west side of the hill, one indistinguishable from the other Grass Hills, ran the rutted road between the mines and Syadtar, although the mines-and the bulk of the Cyadoran troops-were a good fifteen kays north of where the Lornian force waited.

  A single man rode from the north, puffs of dust and bits of brown grass tossed up by his mount’s hoofs.

  The angels waited until the rider reined up. Both man and mount were breathing hard.

  “The wagons are coming!” exclaimed Wuerek, his eyes going to Ayrlyn. “They’ve got less than a squad guarding them. And slow… I could hear the groaning from up in the grass.”

  As her eyes unglazed, Ayrlyn smiled to herself. “Those wagons, they’re not rolling faster than a walk, with mayhap fifteen lancers,” Wuerek repeated.

  Nylan and Ayrlyn exchanged glances. It made a sort of sense. No military commander wanted to denude himself of resources-wagons, horses, or whatever-merely to supply goods to civilians. So the wagons carrying the copper ingots back to Cyador were heavy laden and-this first time- lightly guarded.

  “We’ll set up below the next hill, as we planned,” Ayrlyn said. “At the turn before the climb.” She turned in the saddle and glanced at Tonsar, who nodded slowly.

  The setup was straightforward. Accompanied by one squad, the two archers-Buretek and Ailsor-would wait until the supply convoy reached the turn where the road rose. Then they would begin shooting, and keep shooting their shafts until they ran out-or until the lancers reacted.

  At that point, Nylan would bring the squad with the archers down, while Ayrlyn and Tonsar would strike from behind.

  It was, Nylan reflected, simple enough, if it worked. Simple enough to get a few more armsmen killed, but he needed the wagons close enough to a side road or trail that would allow him to circle back to Syskar far east of the mines-and that meant a locale where digging up more boulders wasn’t feasible.

  If things went the way they usually did, he’d probably pay for not doing the hard work with something else-like lives. As he flicked the mare’s reins and began to lead his squad to the southwest side of the hill, just out of sight of the road and the oncoming wagons, he hoped one of those lives didn’t happen to be his-or Ayrlyn’s.

  Fuera eased his mount up beside Nylan’s. “You still want me to take the second group, ser?”

  “Yes,” answered the angel. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  The blond shrugged.

  “You’re impatient,” Nylan added, shifting his weight as the mare continued onward, “but I need someone who will lead, not talk. Just wait until I give the order. That’s all.”

  “What if-”

  “Fuera, you wait until I give the order. The only reason you shouldn’t wait is if lightning or something knocks me dead. Then you’re in charge. If that happens, I wouldn’t charge. I’d turn those left alive and ride out of here as fast as you can.”

  Fuera’s heavy blond eyebrows furrowed.

  “Look,” Nylan explained slowly. “Anything that can take out a force’s commander even before the fight starts can probably do worse to all of you. If that happens, look to Ayrlyn or Tonsar. Follow their orders. If they’re out,” he shrugged, “you can do as you think best.”

  The blond nodded. “You think we can take out these lancers?”

  “We should be able to-if we follow the plan. Let the archers get rid of some of them first.”

  “It doesn’t seem… exactly… fair…”

  “War isn’t fair. It wasn’t fair of the whites to slaughter the children in Kula or Syskar, or in those Jeranyi hamlets, either. We’re not in this to be fair. We’re in it to win.” Inside, Nylan winced. How much had he come to take on the characteristics he’d deplored in Ryba? Did war do that to everyone who wanted to survive?

  As his squad rounded the side of the hill, he looked northward to where the road ran downhill and to the south. A low rise still blocked the more northern section of the road from view. “All right. Rein up. We’ll wait here.”

  Ayrlyn and Tonsar would be farther north, waiting behind the hill crest until the wagons passed, until the archers began to shoot.

  Leather creaked; harnesses jingled; horses whuffed gently. The brown grass hung limply in the hot midday sun. A low drone seemed to come from the north-the conversations of bored lancers?

  Nylan turned in the saddle and motioned to the archers. “Buretek… Ailsor.”

  The two eased their mounts around Fuera’s gray and reined up.

  “They’re on the way. Get your bows ready.”

  Buretek gave a single sharp nod, Ailsor a sad and faint smile. Both unwrapped the longbows and took the covers off their quivers.

  The low droning continued, accompanied by an intermittent series of creaks and sharper voices.

  Nylan wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm, and bits of dried and sunburned skin stuck to the silver hair on the uncovered part of his arm. Sunburn-another occupational hazard.

  The sound of the wagons increased, and Nylan stood in his stirrups, then motioned the archers forward, up beside him. “Won’t be long now.”

  “Ser,” said Ailsor quietly.

  The sun continued to burn into Nylan’s neck as they waited, as the white lancers neared the turn in the road.

  He eased his mount forward to where Ailsor and Buretek would have a clear shot, wondering how long before they were seen. The two reined up and looked at him. Still, the lancers did not look uphill.

  “Fire!” commanded Nylan.

  Buretek and Ailsor began to loose their shafts. Several passed by the lancers
unnoticed-until the first buried itself in a stained and soiled cream tunic. Even the civilized white lancers were having trouble with laundry, Nylan noted absently, wondering as he did why he’d noticed that.

  “Barbarians!”

  “Where?”

  A Cyadoran stood up on one of the wagons and pointed toward the three Lornians. “There! After them!”

  Nylan watched as the squad of lancers milled, then slowly formed, and began to ride toward the hilly rise.

  “Just keep firing,” the silver-haired angel said. “Hold your mounts!” he ordered as he turned and looked back at Fuera, and those behind the young hothead, still half-concealed from the oncoming lancers. Couldn’t the idiot see that every shaft that struck left one less lancer able to fight-or fight well? Dust rose from the north as Ayrlyn led the other two squads down on the three wagons from behind. Four of the remaining lancers turned toward the new threat, almost in slow motion, it seemed to Nylan. The fifth lancer reined up and studied the attack, and then spurred his mount out across the flat to the southeast-the only area where there were no Lornians. “I’ll get him! I can get him,” said Fuera. “Hold it!” Nylan snapped at the blond armsman. “The whites right in front of us.”

  Fuera bared his teeth, but held his mount. Nylan waited. Let the whites do some of the riding- uphill.

  White lances out, the Cyadorans continued to canter toward the Lornian group, although three lancers had gone down, and another clutched his arm and trailed his squad, as if uncertain what to do.

  A fifth looked stupidly down as an arrow slammed through his chest.

  “Bows away!” Nylan told the two archers. “Fuera, you take the left; I’ll lead the right. Remember, angle from the sides. From the sides. They can’t move those lances like a blade.” He shut his mouth, realizing he was talking too much. If the training hadn’t taught them, talking right now wouldn’t do anything.

  As soon as the silver-haired angel saw the two archers had sheathed their bows, he took the blade from his waist scabbard and lifted it. “Now!”