Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “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. Likewise, 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.

  The horn signaled once more, and silence followed—for a long moment before the purple banners of Gallos surged uphill toward the lower front line of timbered trenches where the outlines of Spidlarian pikes and halberds waited.

  Cerryl frowned at the speed and the ease with which the Gallosian armsmen smashed over the first line and through the trenchworks.

  “See!” snapped Jeslek. “They have the first line already.”

  Fydel lifted his eyebrows but did not speak.

  On the far hill, the purple banners pushed uphill, reaching halfway to the higher Spidlarian emplacements. Scattered arrows fell across the attackers, downing an armsman here and there but scarcely slowing the assault.

  CRUUUMPPPPPP!!!! The hillside erupted, sending huge gouts of earth and chunks of timber skyward. And bodies…and part of bodies.

  Cerryl smiled grimly. Yes, the smith had been there.

  Jeslek turned toward Cerryl. “You did not sense that.”

  “Again,” added Fydel.

  “I could not get close enough to sense that. I warned you that the smith was there.” This failure is not yours. Others, yes, but not this. Cerryl tightened his lips.

  “No matter. It will not change matters.”

  Anya’s broad and false smile underscored Jeslek’s words. The High Wizard glanced back at the hill opposite.

  Fydel held Cerryl’s glance for a moment longer, then gave a scornful smile. Cerryl forced a pleasant smile in return.

  Abruptly Jeslek turned to Fydel. “Darkness with this measured approach!”

  “It was your idea,” observed Anya.

  “So? I can be wrong.” Jeslek looked across to the hillside that resembled an instantly churned and plowed field.

  “You can? I never would have guessed it.” Anya’s voice was bitter.

  “Fydel,” ordered Jeslek, “tell Eliasar to have all the levies march over the mined ground there. Bring up some more.”

  “What?”

  “The one thing we know is that they can’t have planted more of those devices where they already exploded. And we don’t want them to retreat and mine another section of hill or field.”

  From where he stood Cerryl silently agreed. Even Fydel nodded at the logic.

  “Everything that smith has done requires advance preparation. We can’t give him any more chances. Order the charge. Pour everything into that point. And keep the troops moving.”

  “Yes, Jeslek.”

  “I mean it. Keep them moving.”

  As Jeslek turned to survey the battlefield, Anya and Fydel exchanged glances. They nodded. Then Fydel hurried out from behind the earthworks and downhill toward the small tent that held Eliasar and his glass. Cerryl had scarcely seen the older arms mage in the whole campaign, except from a distance.

  Shortly another trumpet sounded, and the green banners of Certis flowed downhill through the already-trampled grass of the swale and upward through the explosion-plowed ground that had held earthworks. Before the Certan levies reached the second level of Spidlarian emplacements, another hail of arrows flew downward, cutting down as many as a third of the Certan forces.

  Then a wave of blue armsmen swarmed from hidden trenches flanking the attack, slashing inward. Just as suddenly, the blue attackers retreated to their trenches, leaving the scattered remnants of both Gallosian and Certan forces.

  Whhsstt! Whssst! The belated firebolts caught but a few of the laggard blue armsmen.

  Another trumpet sounded, echoing from the south to the north, wavering but insistent. Cerryl glanced upward, half-surprised that the sun had dropped past midday.

  “Another charge!” snapped Jeslek. “They can’t hold forever.”

  Fydel had hurried back toward the High Wizard, then frozen as he heard the order. His eyes flicked back to the lower berm. Yet even before the trumpet died away, as though Eliasar below had heard the High Wizard’s words, a set of golden banners rose, and yet another wave of armsmen began the charge uphill toward the next set of Spidlarian earthworks.

  Fydel shrugged and slipped back beside the High Wizard.

  More shafts arched from the top of the Spidlarian emplacements, falling in among the remaining Gallosians and Certans and touching the advancing ranks of the Kyphran levies. The Kyphran armsmen surged upward, before the gold banners slowed at the second line of trenches, stalled by a redoubled volley of arrows.

  Cerryl watched as the Gallosian heavy lancers appeared and charged the southwestern side of the hill, sweeping up the Spidlarian flank.

  WWhhsstt! Whhhstt! More firebolts flared across the higher trenches, the trenches that sheltered the blue archers, and the volleys of arrows faltered and died away. With fewer arrows striking them down, both Kyphran levies and Gallosian horse moved uphill steadily, the levies taking the second line of trenches and the horse nearing the sides of the upper emplacements.

  The Gallosian cavalry turned the end of the upper Spidlarian earthworks, sabres beginning to cut down the blue foot from behind.

  “Good! Good!” Jeslek beamed as he saw the second line of blue defenders being swarmed under from above and below.

  Yet, seemingly from nowhere, two companies of Spidlarian heavy horse charged downhill and struck the Gallosian horse from behind, bringing down perhaps a third of the purple lancers on the initial sweep. Even from across the field, Cerryl could see and sense the blond giant who led the force—Brede.


  Because of the chaos of confused and mingling forces, the White chaos fire died away, and as it did, blue archers reappeared, and more of the deadly shafts poured into the Kyphran foot.

  “There! There’s that Black wastrel!” Jeslek pointed, gesturing to Anya, then to Cerryl. “The middle of the upper works there, by that little pine. Chaos fire!”

  Cerryl mustered chaos and flung it across the small depression that was too small to be a true valley, his bolt splattering along the back side of the earthworks just before Anya’s.

  “More!” ordered Jeslek. “More!”

  Cerryl threw another firebolt, as did Anya, and a smaller bolt followed from Fydel.

  Had they caught the Black armsleader? Cerryl doubted it.

  The Kyphran levies continued to slash upward and through the second line of Spidlarian emplacements, more slowly because the Gallosian horse had turned and fought back the blue cavalry.

  Only scattered blue horse remained between the Gallosian lancers and the uppermost line of blue defenders when another company of blue riders appeared, charging down at an angle toward the purple lancers.

  Cerryl moistened his lips, seeing the large blond-haired figure leading the blue charge, a figure who once again stood out somehow even from where the mage watched from hundreds of cubits south. The blues knifed through the remaining Gallosian horse, and sunlight glittered on their blades, blades that rose and fell with swiftness.

  Another volley of arrows cut through the Kyphran levies still assaulting the middle earthworks.

  “More chaos fire! On those darkness-damned archers!” demanded Jeslek.

  Cerryl took a deep breath and loosed another firebolt. His was followed by ones from Anya and Fydel and an enormous firecloud from the High Wizard.

  The fire seared the space between the second and third blue earthworks, turning most of the blue horse—and a few remaining Gallosians—into torches. Oily black smoke circled skyward, clouding the afternoon sun.

  “Now! Attack!” Jeslek’s commands were more screams than orders, but the trumpet picked up his intent, and the thin, piercing notes signaled another assault.