The Chaos Balance

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The mare jumped forward, and he lurched in the saddle before catching himself. A wry smile crossed his face-he still wasn’t totally used to leading charges while bouncing around in a saddle with a heavy iron blade in his hand. Reflections and shimmers of light-always reflections- wavered off the small polished shields of the white lancers as they rode forward.

  Nylan swung his group to the left so that they remained well uphill of the white lancers. He wanted to force the Cyadorans to look into the sun as well as climb to meet the Lornians. He hoped that would further tire the white mounts-but that meant that the glare from the damned shields would be even greater.

  The smith glanced to his right and downhill where Fuera was almost level with the road and heading into the flat to the east.

  With another gesture of the blade, Nylan turned downhill, and his half-squad followed.

  Onward, on to another round of death…

  The whites slowed, as if puzzled by attacks from two sides, and half the lances swung slowly uphill.

  Before he really knew it, Nylan could see a long white lance seemingly moving toward him. He slipped aside the white lance with his short heavy blade, his eyes watering from the blast of reflected light from the shield-his success due to the “feel” that had come from Ryba’s intensive training-then struck laterally underneath the shaft. The blade sheared through the lancer’s torso and stuck, nearly wrenching the angel from the saddle before coming free.

  Whhsttt…

  The next lancer had dropped his lance, and Nylan had to flatten himself to avoid the sabre that threatened to take his arm. Before he could get his own blade up, he was through the column.

  His head had begun to ache, his eyes to burn, and he had to guide the mare into a turn and back toward the fighting.

  Another white shoved a jagged-tipped and shattered lance toward the angel, but Fuera’s blade knocked it down as the blond galloped past.

  Nylan’s heavy short blade cut deeply into the white lancer’s shoulder near the neck. Blood seemed to fountain everywhere, momentarily, followed by the unseen rush of whiteness and pain that accompanied every death Nylan created.

  The smith, half-blind and fighting the knives in his eyes and the pounding in his skull, kept his own blade in a semiguard position, and let the mare carry him back through the scramble to the uphill side of the road, where he reined up, temporarily alone.

  Two deaths is enough… more than you can keep taking… But he felt guilty, even as he forced his eyes open, burning from both deaths and pitiless sunlight.

  Most of the white lancers were down, and the white haze that only he and Ayrlyn seemed to see flooded the low area around the wagons and the remaining mounts of the Cyadorans.

  A second white lancer galloped south as if his life depended on headlong flight, which it did, Nylan thought.

  He turned and studied the area around the wagons, taking a deep breath of relief to see that Ayrlyn had reined up beside one of the stopped wagons.

  After all the waiting and planning… and the skirmish seemed almost over before it had begun. He turned his mount downhill and northward, toward the three big wagons and their six horse teams.

  “Ser?” The words were croaked, rather than spoken. Nylan turned in the saddle.

  Ailsor rode slowly toward Nylan, weaponless, blood streaking the right arm that held his left. “Ser… ?” Nylan reined up.

  The archer’s face paled, and blanked, and he slumped across the neck of his mount.

  Awkwardly, the angel sheathed his own blade, not bothering to clean it, and eased his mount beside Ailsor’s-too late. The archer was dead, his tunic soaked with blood. Nylan took a deep breath, knowing that he couldn’t have healed the other, not even had he reacted more quickly.

  How many other Lornians had died? He surveyed the road and the grass flats. Only one other Lornian mount seemed riderless. Fuera and the others were stripping the bodies of weapons and anything else of value.

  “Ser?” asked Wuerek, riding up and slowing, but not stopping. “Do we need to do graves?”

  “No. At least two escaped, and we need to get out of here. Take all the spare mounts.”

  “Good.”

  “We need to bring back the bodies of our dead.” Nylan gestured toward the dead Ailsor.

  “Yes, ser.” Wuerek’s voice was decidedly less enthusiastic, but Nylan didn’t care.

  “Tell Fuera.” Nylan chucked the reins and eased the mare toward where Ayrlyn had reined up beside the first wagon. He massaged his neck, hoping that would relieve the pressure in his skull. It didn’t.

  Should he think of trees? Who had time? He snorted.

  Tonsar arrived beside Ayrlyn at the same time Nylan did, reining up with a flourish. “These fellows”-the burly armsman jerked his head toward the bodies sprawled in the wagon seat-“they weren’t very good. Some of ours were better after the first eight-day you had them.”

  Ayrlyn and Nylan exchanged glances.

  Had it been a ruse? Nylan wondered. “What’s in the wagons?”

  “Oh, it is copper, many ingots of copper.” Tonsar smiled broadly. “Big ingots.”

  The smith eased the mare over beside the wagon, then dismounted. He pulled back the dusty canvas, ignoring the few dark splotches of blood on the heavy fabric, realizing that his own shirt was equally splotched. As the dust rose around him, he tried to rub his nose one-handed, but failed to stop the sneezes. Aaaa… chew… cheww!

  Finally, he rubbed his nose again and surveyed the wagon bed-filled with bronzish ingots, some already bearing a faint greenish sheen.

  Ayrlyn sat on her mount, motionless, eyes glazed over. Nylan re-covered the ingots, sneezing again and again. “Demon-damned dust.” He rubbed his nose once more, then remounted, waiting until Ayrlyn’s eyes refocused.

  “You think it was a little too easy?” asked Ayrlyn, squinting as if the sunlight had suddenly brightened.

  “I had that thought.” Nylan nodded. “Let’s get the Cyadoran gear rounded up and get out of here.”

  “I’ve already checked on the breezes-such as they are. There aren’t any Cyadorans around. There might be a scout.” Ayrlyn closed her eyes and massaged her neck and forehead with her right hand.

  “I think one got away. Two actually, but one didn’t even try to fight,” said Nylan. “That seemed strange.” He looked at Tonsar. “We can talk about that later. Let’s get some drivers up here, and get these wagons moving. The sooner we’re north of the mines and back in Syskar, the happier I’ll be.”

  Ayrlyn nodded in agreement.

  XCII

  LEPHI STOOD ON the balcony, facing the harbor, his light silvered robes billowing in the gentle breeze rising off the blue of the water to the south, the scent of leydar and orange mixing in the salt air.

  The late-afternoon sun cast the long shadow of the palace almost as far as the stone wharfs that had sparkled spotless white for all the centuries Cyad had stood, for all the generations of lords of Cyador. Each of the score of wharfs extended more than five hundred cubits out into the deep harbor waters; each was twice that from its neighbor. Beyond the wharves the harbor’s greenish blue darkened into the far deeper blue of the Great Western Ocean.

  The Protector of the Steps to Paradise took in the white clouds rising over the ocean to the south, with their promise of rain, and then the wharfs again, where the seemingly endless expanse of white stone dwarfed the dozen small coasters seemingly tied at random.

  “Cyad will again be as mighty as… even more mighty than before…” he murmured. “No barbarians, no forests, no love of luxury… no…”

  Although the shadow of the palace covered the Great Avenue, all the way down to the wharfs, the white paving stones and curbs glistened with a whiteness that leapt out of the shadow, out of the dark green of trees and grass. Indeed, Lephi knew, without looking, that every avenue in Cyad was white, spotless and shimmering in late afternoon, in twilight, even through the nights under the glittering lamps of the avenues. And ev
ery avenue was safe, clean, pure.

  His eyes dropped closer to the palace, toward the hexagonal white market square to the southwest of his balcony. He frowned at the single blue awning among the green and white canvases.

  “Blue? Blue… it will go, like the barbarians.”

  Lephi nodded, his eyes returning to the wharfs, and to the shipworks beyond where the superstructure of the first fire-ship in generations rose above the waves.

  “Cyad… forever.”

  The Protector of the Steps to Paradise smiled.

  XCIII

  THE STILLNESS OF late afternoon had faded into the chirpings of twilight, and a light breeze swept out of the north, with the slightest hint of moisture. The insect chorus melded with the sounds of hoofs, clanking harnesses, and low voices.

  In the dimness of early evening, Nylan rubbed his neck, then his temples, as he rode at the head of the column beside Ayrlyn. Behind them rode the three squads of armsmen, followed by five riderless mounts, two bearing bodies, a dozen lancer mounts, and the three heavy wagons, which creaked and squeaked loudly enough that each squeak sent another shiver through Nylan’s skull. Ayrlyn merely winced, although Nylan knew that her less severe reaction reflected better self-discipline, not less pain.

  “We can’t keep doing this,” he finally said in a low voice.

  “No.”

  “Did you have any luck with the trees?”

  He got the sense of a shrug, and waited.

  “The trees we seem to dream about-they’re a long ways south. There’s a small grove to the northwest of Syskar- thirty kays, I’d guess-that feels somewhat like that.”

  The smith could feel Tonsar’s puzzlement.

  “We have to do something,” Ayrlyn said. “You can’t go out and fight another battle right now.”

  “Neither can you.”

  “No.”

  “Do we go to the closer grove?” he asked.

  “Do we have much to lose?”

  Ayrlyn was probably right. Had the lancers who had defended the wagons been first-rate, both he and Ayrlyn would have been dead or wounded during their increasingly violent reactions to the deaths they caused. Another skirmish, battle, fight, would have the same result. Yet they had everything to lose. How could they just ride away on the hope that a series of dreams, a sense of order, and a grove of trees might provide an answer, some sort of answer? Especially when Nylan wasn’t even sure what the problem was.

  Overhead, the emerging stars, unfamiliar as ever to the angels, shone clearly, coldly, across the hilly grasslands, grasslands bleached into a faint white even to Nylan’s night vision.

  “Will going to this… grove help?” he asked after a time.

  “I don’t know. You want certainty at a time like this? It’s certain we won’t make it if we don’t change something.”

  That made too much sense, so much sense he didn’t bother answering, knowing that Ayrlyn understood. He massaged his temples again.

  The night darkened; the stars brightened; and the wagons kept squeaking and creaking.

  “That’s Syskar,” Ayrlyn said.

  Nylan looked out into the darkness, catching the few glimmers of light ahead. “Tonsar… send a messenger to the camp. Let ser Fornal, Lewa, Huruc know that we’re coming in, and that we’ve got copper and some more supplies.” Nylan rubbed his temples again, wishing the aching would subside.

  “Yes, ser.” The subofficer turned and called, “Kysta! Up here.”

  The angels rode silently as Tonsar explained the message to Kysta and sent the red-bearded young levy off at a canter.

  “You will not be gone long… on this journey?” Tonsar ventured once Kysta had left.

  “It shouldn’t take long,” Ayrlyn said.

  One way or the other, thought Nylan.

  “The men… they feel better when you lead them,” confessed the subofficer. “No one can stand against an angel.”

  “Right now, a one-armed Cyadoran could knock me off this mare,” Nylan said.

  “That is why you must-?”

  “Something like that,” Ayrlyn answered ambiguously.

  Tonsar nodded to himself as they neared the encampment.

  Torches burned on the stoop of the officers’ dwelling and from the front of the shed barracks, adding a dim light to the area.

  “Fornal’s over there,” said Ayrlyn, half-gesturing toward the left.

  The two rode toward the house and reined up, not bothering to dismount.

  “More banditry and murder, angels?” asked the coregent pleasantly.

  “Copper and supplies, and we got rid of another score of white lancers,” Nylan answered tiredly.

  “How many did you lose?”

  “Two,” said Ayrlyn.

  “We just filled the air with arrows and then charged. Very Lornian attack, ser Fornal.” Nylan could sense two figures in the shadows of the stoop-Huruc and Lewa.

  “Why… the holders would be most pleased. You actually fought… directly.”

  “Yes, we did.” Nylan forced himself erect. “You’ll need to detach some guards to accompany the wagons back to Lornth.”

  “Guards for what?” asked Fornal. “I had thought you brought more supplies.”

  “The wagons are filled with copper ingots. We’ll keep the supplies here, not that there were a lot. But I assume you don’t want to lose the copper to brigands, and the wagons themselves are worth something.”

  “You would not wish to take the wagons to Lornth yourself?”

  “Not particularly,” Nylan answered. “Even with the transfers from Huruc’s forces, we still only have a score and a half,” added Ayrlyn tiredly. “The copper wagons need at least a squad as an escort.”

  “Guards for copper. That would make us like merchants, not warriors.”

  Fornal was more than that, reflected Nylan, more of a warring pain in the ass with his pomposity. No wonder Gethen kept his son at arm’s length and then some. The engineer still wondered about heredity. How could one man have a daughter so bright and a son so dense? Or did the cultural imperatives stifle male intelligence?

  “Ser Fornal,” the engineer said slowly, “the copper on these wagons is worth several dozen golds, maybe more. Your sister and your sire need those golds to supply you. They also need to claim some victory to the holders, as you have pointed out. Sending the wagons to Lornth will do both.” Nylan paused and added. “Especially with your armsmen guarding them.”

  After a moment, Fornal nodded, slowly. “That does make sense, ser angel, and I could send a request for more armsmen to replace our losses, also.”

  Nylan could sense both the anger and discomfort from Ayrlyn, as well as a feeling of grim amusement.

  “The other thing is that we’re going off for a few days- call it a magely quest.” Nylan held up his hand. “It’s important, but I can’t tell you why.”

  “You will be taking your squads?”

  “No. I’d thought perhaps three men, and, of course, Sylenia and Weryl. Three would not make a difference here.”

  “A magely quest-that I could scarcely deny. Not after such a handsome result from your arms.”

  And you’ll need us more than ever when the whites finally react. Which they will. Nylan locked eyes with Fornal, until the regent looked away. Then he turned his mount toward the corral.

  Ayrlyn followed, chill still radiating from her.

  XCIV

  … AND WHEN THE white lancers of Cyad had come at last to the copper mines of the north, those of Lornth threw down their picks and shovels and their blades, and fled into the Grass Hills, for they well knew that the copper mines were not theirs, and they were sore afraid of the righteous wrath of the Lord of Cyador.

  The white lancers rebuilt and refurbished the mines, and brought order and discipline back into the Hills of Grass, nor did they afflict the peoples nor their hamlets.

  The wily Nylan, like the mountain cat who cannot face the well-prepared hunter in the light of day, advised the gu
ileless council of Lornth behind heavy doors, saying, If the Cyadorans cannot eat and they cannot sleep, they will not hold to the mines that your fathers and forefathers have worked. And they will depart.

  The delvers and diggers of Cyad labored long and with great effort to bring forth the copper from the mines, trusting in the honor of the Lornians and in the forces of the most honorable white lancers.

  For in that time, none believed that even the wily Nylan would stoop to slaughtering innocent horses, nor to murdering hapless wagoners, nor to raising fireballs in the night and dropping them upon lancer and digger alike while they slept. All this did Nylan, and more, terrible and dishonorable deeds better lost in tumult of time. Yet remember we must, for this is how the dark angels came to power in Candar…

  Colors of White

  (Manual of the Guild at Fairhaven)

  Preface

  XCV

  THE ANGELS REINED up at the crest of the low hill, where Nylan unfastened his water bottle and took a deep swallow. Sylenia twisted in the saddle and offered water to Weryl, who swallowed, splashed water across his tanned legs, and then thrust the bottle back before Sylenia was ready. The bottle slid off the saddlebags and bounced into the dust of the road.

  Even before Nylan could put down his own water bottle, Fuera had vaulted from his saddle and recovered the water bottle, handing it up to Sylenia. A dark splotch remained in the road.

  “Thank you.” The black-haired nursemaid smiled.

  “Just tell Tonsar that we looked out for you.” Fuera flashed an openly charming grin.

  Sylenia shook her head, but the smile remained as Fuera remounted with the same dash.

  Ayrlyn offered the faintest of ironic smiles. Nylan smothered his own smile, then looked at the vista before them.

  Under the mid-afternoon sun, and a green-blue sky with a few scattered and puffy white clouds, the road wound down the hill to the right, and then angled up yet another grass-covered hill, topped by a small grove of low trees. A flock of sheep grazed on the mostly green meadow west of the road, and beyond the animals were several low buildings and a sod-roofed dwelling.