The Chaos Balance

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Ser, we should mount up,” Tonsar insisted.

  Additional watch lanterns flared up, but not along the wall, and the four kept aiming, loading, and firing the clay fire-grenades over the wall a hundred cubits away.

  Thunk!

  Yellow-blue flames and greasy black smoke twisted into the night sky. Thunk! Thunk!

  Nylan looked stupidly down. There weren’t any more grenades.

  “Need to get packed up.” He wiped his forehead, damp from fear, tension, and the wall of flames they had created.

  “That is what I have been saying, ser angel,” said Tonsar. “I hear mounts and angry lancers.”

  Half-blind, using perceptions more than a night vision that strobed and burned, he tried to fold and fumble the empty quilted canister carrier back into a roll on the pack mare.

  “I can do that, ser,” offered Vula.

  ‘Thanks.“ Was his unsteadiness so obvious even in the darkness? He tottered toward his own mare, stumbling.

  No… so much death… so much heat and fire…

  He struggled to turn toward Ayrlyn.

  “Oooo…” With that soft sound, the redhead’s knees buckled, and she crumpled to the ground.

  Nylan, and Tonsar, lifted her onto Nylan’s mare. The engineer hoped they didn’t have to ride too far, but he led the redhead’s mount toward the hills.

  Behind him, Vula and Borsa hurriedly threw the catapult sections into their packs and scrambled after the squad.

  “Let’s go!” ordered Nylan, his voice raspy and unsteady.

  “We go,” echoed Tonsar.

  As they trotted through the swale and the light of the burning camp vanished behind the hill, Nylan concentrated solely on holding on to Ayrlyn and staying in the saddle.

  Anything more would have been too much.

  CIII

  THE LIGHT BREEZE from the north carried the faint odors of charcoal, smoke, dust, and burned meat to the two officers at the head of the column headed southward through the Grass Hills.

  The two glanced back over the short line of riders straggling southward. The once-white uniforms were smudged with charcoal, some with blood. Nearly twoscore walking wounded limped before the three wagons that brought up the rear.

  “His Mightiness will not be pleased,” said Azarphi. A long fresh burn covered his left cheek, and his eyebrows had been burned to stubble. Like the others, he wore a uniform that appeared gray, spotted liberally with dark splotches of charcoal, dirt, and dark red-maroon streaks.

  “No,” answered the majer, his voice flat, as he glanced at the dusty road that led to Syadtar. “No doubt, I will face the Archers of the Rational Stars.” He shrugged, and started to blot his forehead, then stopped as the back of his hand touched the burn at his temple. “There is no point in remaining. We do not receive supplies, and the locals have removed almost everything we could forage for. They will not stand and fight. We cannot tell how or when the barbarians will strike. The men cannot sleep for fear of being burned where they lie. Their new fireballs are far worse than the last. They bum through earthen walls and seek out the roof timbers, and the flame clings to everything.”

  “It is not the barbarians.”

  “It does not matter. We have no corrals left, and no wood to build more. If we stay, what is to prevent them from killing more mounts? Then we would have no way at all to leave. The Grass Hills are too dry, and Syadtar is too far, for lancers on foot, and we have but a handful of wagons left.” Piataphi glanced back toward the trails of smoke that twisted into the morning sky.

  “His Mightiness will send all the lancers, and the white mages to burn them to cinders. He must. For the sake of Cyad.”

  “He may. The thought does not particularly console me at the moment.” Piataphi turned his eyes to the long dusty road southward, ignoring the smoke that still circled into the western sky behind them.

  CIV

  NYLAN ROLLED UP the bedroll in quick motions. Next came the few clothes that went into the saddlebags. He paused to wipe his forehead-the room that had been too small for the four of them was hot, but it had always been too hot. He lifted the shoulder harness from the pallet bed and strapped it on, though he increasingly hoped he did not have to use the heavy blade.

  “Fornal’s out scouting.”

  “Of course,” snapped the smith. “He doesn’t believe that the Cyadorans could have left.”

  “Would you?” asked Ayrlyn, tying up her own bedroll.

  “They’ll be back, and we’d better have found something with this enchanted forest, or-”

  “Or what? We’ll be fugitives again, which is better than staying here and being killed because we’ll be too blind to lift a blade after either one of us kills one more Cyadoran. We just can’t stay here and hope.”

  “So we’re looking for a way out of this mess, another way to develop and use power. Through an enchanted forest?” The silver-haired smith shook his head. “Why does it always come back to power?”

  “It always does,” she answered. “Ryba was right.”

  No matter how often he was reminded by events, the idea that the Marshal of Westwind was right about the use of power still bothered the smith.

  … bothers me, too…

  Nylan reached out and touched her cheek. “I love you.”

  “You don’t say that often. Why now?” Her sunburned nose crinkled.

  Because… just because… and because you understand… The engineer cleared his throat and looked down at the plank floor for a moment. “We’ll have to sneak through the western part of Cyador, if the maps are right.”

  “Changing the subject, again.”

  Nylan grinned sheepishly.

  “It’s all right. I know it’s hard for you.” And you’re trying.

  “In more ways than one,-” he admitted.

  After a long moment, Ayrlyn offered a gentle laugh. “Back to hard reality in southern Lornth. I can scout out things, enough to avoid any large Cyadoran patrols. It may be slow, but I can’t imagine the Cyadorans being concerned about three riders and a child, especially if we avoid the main roads.” Ayrlyn lifted her saddlebags and surveyed the room. “I don’t see anything we’ve left.”

  “We’ve never had that much. Weryl has more than both of us,” he pointed out, hoisting his own gear, and the larger bags that carried Weryl’s.things. “Do you think I’m right to bring him?”

  “Who else would defend him? Tonsar would, but you can’t count on his always being here. Besides, you’d worry so much you couldn’t even think about why we’re going.”

  “There is that.” And your promise to Istril to take care of him, and that didn’t mean for someone else to. After a quick look around the room, Nylan stepped out into the empty main room, almost as hot as their quarters, then crossed the dusty plank floors to the half-open front door where he stopped for a moment and watched.

  Sylenia sat on the bench on the shaded side of the stoop, holding Weryl. “We will take a long, long ride, Weryl, longer than the ride here…”

  “… wide orsee, Enyah?”

  “You have your seat…”

  The smith stepped onto the stoop, with Ayrlyn squeezing out after him.

  The nursemaid looked up. “We be ready. I have changed him, and given him a biscuit.”

  “You don’t have to come, Sylenia. This could be a long ride.” Nylan laughed gently and added, “As you told Weryl.”

  The black-haired woman glanced toward the near-empty barracks, then toward the still-blood-darkened dust beside the path to the well. “Better I go. Tonsar must not worry about my safety.”

  “Are you certain?” asked Nylan.

  Sylenia nodded, shifting the squirming Weryl from one knee to the other. “I will be safer with you.”

  Nylan wasn’t so sure about that. Safer crossing the Grass Hills and trying to sneak through some part of Cyador to something resembling an enchanted forest or the local equivalent? Based on a disruption in planetary order fields that only he and Ayrl
yn and a handful of other interplanetary refugees or local mages could sense?

  “Da?” pleaded Weryl.

  Nylan bent over and kissed him on the cheek. “Hang on. We have to get the mounts and load them.”

  As he and Ayrlyn walked toward the corral, Nylan spoke softly. “She worries about him worrying about her. Does he worry about her worrying about him?”

  “In this case… yes. Our boastful subofficer has a softer side.”

  “Unlike Fornal.”

  “He hasn’t found the right woman.”

  “It takes that?”

  “It helps to find the right woman. Or man,” she added with a grin.

  Nylan shook his head. “Fornal never will.”

  “You may be right.”

  After carting their saddles out to the corral, Nylan cornered the mounts, one by one, while Ayrlyn saddled them, almost as fast as Nylan could lead them to the shaded roof at the side of the corral.

  As they finished strapping gear onto the pack mare, Tonsar crossed the dusty ground from the barracks area, his boots raising puffs of dust. “You are leaving?”

  “For a time,” temporized Ayrlyn.

  “Tonsar… we need to take another magely journey,” Nylan began. “I hope we’ll be back before too long.” He held up his hand. “You can lead the squads, if you have to. You know enough, and they’ll trust you.”

  “It is not the same…” protested the burly armsman.

  “It should be now.” Ayrlyn’s eyes fixed the brown-bearded and burly Tonsar.

  “Remember,” Nylan added, “there’s no great honor in being killed if you have another choice that doesn’t hurt others.”

  “Someday, mage… I will understand.” Tonsar shrugged.

  “We’ll be back if we can make it.” He paused. “It may not seem that way, but we wouldn’t be much good in a battle the way we are now. We have to see what we can do about that, and there won’t be any white demons around for a while. You can tell Fornal that. We left a note, too.”

  “I saw.” Tonsar glanced back toward the barracks. “I saw again with Tregvo. You feel each death as though your blades struck you. Yet you would strike if it must be.” He frowned.

  “To have the strength to suffer death and strike again… angels are terrible.” A broad smile followed the frown. “Yet you love, and… you are good to Sylenia.”

  “We try.”

  “You will take Sylenia.” Tonsar was not asking a question.

  “She has asked to come, although she cares for you.” Nylan frowned. “I don’t know that it is fair, but that is her choice. She worries that worrying about her will distract you.”

  “She must go. You will protect her.” Again, the armsman glanced toward the shed barracks, as if he feared one of the levies might hear his words.

  “We will protect her as best we can,” Ayrlyn affirmed.

  A lanky figure stepped from the forge that had been a chicken coop, then dashed toward the group, stopping a pace back of Tonsar, waiting.

  Tonsar turned, almost in surprise.

  “You’ve got it, Sias. You are now armorer and general repairman.” Nylan inclined his head toward the former apprentice. “And you fix anything that Tonsar needs fixed. Or ser Fornal,” he added as an afterthought.

  The lanky blond stepped forward. “You will be back, and I will show you.”

  “Good.”

  Sias flashed a shy smile. “I could be a smith. In a small hamlet, anyway. Except for the tools.”

  “Until we don’t return, the tools are yours. I brought everything except the anvil-so… no matter what happens, you can keep the smaller hammer and the second tongs-they’re yours. You earned them.”

  A broad smile crossed the young armsman/smith’s face.

  “Be careful with your blade. You want to live to start that smithy,” Nylan advised.

  Sias looked down sheepishly and scuffed a battered boot in the yellow dust.

  “Best you go.” Tonsar’s eyes flicked toward the eastern hills.

  After a moment of silence, Nylan nodded, then turned and walked his mount and the pack mare toward the stoop where Sylenia waited. Ayrlyn led her mount and Sylenia’s after the pair Nylan guided.

  The nursemaid walked forward and handed Weryl to Nylan. The smith eased his silver-haired son into the seat behind Sylenia’s saddle, while she lugged her bags-and the two bags of hard biscuits and cheese and other assorted provisions Nylan had commandeered-toward the pack mare.

  “Orse. Orse.” Weryl jabbed his hand toward his father.

  “Definitely a horse.” Nylan fastened the straps in place, then stepped back and pulled the floppy hat from his belt. No sense in getting further blistered by the sun that remained far too hot for too much of the year.

  “Ready?”

  “I’ve been ready,” answered Ayrlyn.

  “I know. I’ve been talking too much.” He swung up into the saddle. After a last gesture like a salute to Tonsar and Sias, he turned the mare toward the lane and the road southward.

  Tonsar raised his bare blade in return, holding it up for a time. Sias just stood silently by the subofficer as the four horses carried their riders out of the encampment and toward the brown slopes of the hills to the south.

  “Wadah pease, Enyah?” asked Weryl.

  “In a moment… a moment,” choked the woman.

  Nylan glanced back at the valley, more yellowed and dusty than ever under the pitiless sun and the green-blue sky, then toward the long and dusty road ahead.

  CV

  THEMPHI CHECKED THE saddlebags again, then mounted. The lancer officers behind followed his example. Belatedly, so did Fissar.

  The white mage glanced back at the small house that had been his quarters for more than a season, frowning momentarily as he saw the green wall to the north.

  “I don’t understand, ser,” said Fissar, easing his mount up beside Themphi’s. “His Mightiness sent us here to hold back the forest, and now that you’ve pushed it back here on the south, we’re supposed to leave it and go to Syadtar? And let it take over everything we’ve won back?”

  “Yes,” answered Themphi.

  “One questions the lord of Cyad at great risk,” offered Majer Jyncka, from where he rode on Themphi’s left. “I know.”

  “You are pleased to leave?” asked Themphi, turning to Jyncka.

  “It is a chance to redeem myself in battle.”

  “Battle?” asked Fissar. “The dispatch… it did not mention a battle,” he finished lamely.

  “I see you have mastered some of my lessons. The ones about screeing what you could not see.” Themphi laughed. “Would you were so assiduous with all of them.”

  Fissar kept his eyes on his mount’s mane.

  “Young magelet,” offered the majer after they had covered another kay westward and toward the Grand Canal, “one must read not only what is written, but what is meant. Sometimes, the most important words are those which are not committed to parchment.”

  Fissar nodded solemnly, waiting, not glancing toward the white mage.

  “Syadtar is the northernmost city in Cyador. If something is pressing enough that His Mightiness must recall your master and a disgraced lancer officer from battling the Accursed Forest, then either a great campaign is planned against the northern barbarians or they threaten us. Either way means a battle-or many battles.”

  “The news is not the best,” added Themphi, “not for Cyador.”

  Fissar turned toward his master.

  “For its size, Cyador has not that many lancers and foot soldiers and mages. Triendar knows that the Accursed Forest will swell in our absence, yet has chosen to summon us.”

  “No, that is not good news,” Jyncka agreed. “Yet Cyador has always prevailed. How could it be otherwise?”

  Themphi frowned, but said nothing as they rode westward.

  CVI

  AFTER ADJUSTING THE floppy hat and drying his forehead, Nylan stood in the stirrups to try to stretch his legs and thi
ghs, and to unkink his knees. When he reseated himself, he glanced out across the rolling hills of sun-browned grass, hills that seemed to extend forever southward. “Two days and the hills still seem endless.”

  “Another day and they’ll get flatter, more like steppes or high grasslands,” predicted Ayrlyn. “Just think what it would be like on foot.”

  Nylan winced. His lips and mouth seemed dry all the time, and the water in their bottles was nearly gone. “We don’t have that much water left.”

  After the first day, they had turned off the main road and followed a trail that led more to the southeast, back toward the still-distant Westhorns. Nylan thought he recalled that the mountains extended farther westward in the southern half of Candar, but that could have been wishful thinking. Then, anymore, what wasn’t wishful thinking?

  A thin stream from an underground spring that dried up as it flowed south had been the only water they had found. He licked his dry lips with a tongue almost as dry.

  “If we keep on this trail, I think there’s a small lake ahead.”

  “And probably a town, with a garrison of white lancers or the local equivalent.”

  “I didn’t sense that. There might be some holdings.”

  “How far?”

  “A good half day, maybe longer.”

  “We’ll need water before that.”

  “We do need water,” said Sylenia. “You are mages.”

  “Waada…” added Weryl from his seat behind the nursemaid’s saddle.

  “I’m not a mage,” protested Nylan. Even as he spoke the words, his head throbbed. Was his internal lie detector insisting he was? “Anyway, just being a mage doesn’t mean we can find water.”

  The sun continued to beat on their backs as they rode to the southeast, along the trail where the dust had gradually shifted from the yellow of Syskar to a grayed brown, mixed with sand.

  Still, underneath the browned grass, Nylan could sense the boulders and stones that were too close to the surface, separated from the sun and light by that same thin line of chaotic order.