Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The Kyphrans, backed now by Hydlenese levies and horse, continued uphill, cutting into and slowly pressing back the last thin line of Spidlarian defenders.

  “Chaos fire—on the right!”

  Cerryl obliged, trying to ignore the growing headache, the knives that cut through his skull with each new attempt at flinging chaos fire.

  The White horse, now a mixture of forces from Certis, Gallos, and Hydlen, charged up the left side of the hill toward the crest. A few scattered arrows flew toward the lancers, but only a handful of riders fell.

  Jeslek summoned another firecloud, searing the area of earthworks to the northeast from where some of the remaining blue archers had loosed shafts. No more arrows rose from blue bows.

  Just as the mixed White Lancers neared the crest of the hill on the southwest side, a squad—or less—of blue horse, led once more by the giant Brede, appeared from behind a berm and swept westward. For a time the White forces fell back.

  “Chaos fire! The leader!” ordered Jeslek.

  Cerryl, Fydel, and Anya obliged, but more than half the blue horse had retreated before chaos fire splashed across the ground short of the last line of Spidlarian defenders. Still, a handful of Spidlarian mounts and riders were torched, and more black smoke circled upward.

  The levies from Hydlen almost merged with those from Kyphros, and one wing had turned the right flank of the upper line of defense. The combined White cavalry regrouped and moved uphill, close to encircling the last of the blue forces.

  “Now! More chaos flame. In the center!”

  Whhsttt! Whhst!

  The order trumpet sounded; the horse of the combined Fairhaven forces began the charge, the charge Cerryl knew, somehow, would be the last.

  The White forces barely reached the top of the low hill when, again, the opposing blond commander appeared at the head of the smaller force of blue lancers, a force that split the White horse like a shimmering blue arrow.

  A small pocket of Spidlarian archers appeared below and behind the White horse and began to cut down White Lancers from the rear.

  “There!” snapped Jeslek.

  Three quick firebolts silenced the last blue archers.

  With few blue lancers and no archers to blunt their advance, the Kyphran and Hydlenese foot cut through the last of the trenches, then continued upward toward the crest of the hill.

  Only a handful of blue lancers remained, then but one, and yet none of the Gallosians seemed able to bring down the tall blond figure.

  “Enough!” Jeslek hurled a last firebolt.

  Cerryl held his breath as the huge firebolt seemed to arc ever so slowly over the hundreds of cubits that separated High Wizard and Black commander. Fire splayed everywhere, rolling out from the flame-splashed figure of Brede and enveloping the nearer Gallosian lancers as well. Even as the Black commander flared toward ash, his blade spun end over end…and buried itself in a Gallosian lancer.

  Cerryl blinked…and swallowed, knowing he should be relieved. But are you? Do you know that Jeslek is a better person? He shook his head. No matter how gallant and skilled the Black commander had been, he had been defending the wrong side.

  “It’s over,” said Jeslek.

  Cerryl massaged his neck and forehead, not certain that such was the case. Stars flashed intermittently before his eyes, and his head throbbed and throbbed.

  “We need to see what remains,” Jeslek declared. “Find your mounts, and we will follow Eliasar.”

  “Little enough remains,” said Anya. “Little enough.”

  Cerryl walked down the back side of the hill to look for the tie-line that held the gelding, ignoring Fydel walking beside him.

  “He was too good to be an exile,” Fydel stated, “the Black warleader.”

  Cerryl did not reply, realizing that he could not sense the Black mage, Dorrin the smith. Yet he knew that he would have known had the other died in the battle. So where is he, and what will he next do?

  “How could he have been an exile?” asked Fydel once more. “They wouldn’t have exiled anyone that good in battle.”

  “Maybe that’s why,” Cerryl answered. “He had to be an exile. Why else would he have fought as though he had nowhere else to go?”

  Fydel had no answer.

  Cerryl had questions, though, all too many, questions that swirled inside him even after he mounted and rode behind the other three. Why would the blues order a suicide defense so far from Spidlaria? Why were the blue traders so opposed to Fairhaven when the White City meddled so rarely in how other lands governed themselves? Why would Recluce force out people like the Black warleader—or the smith?

  The smith was order in himself, a force so black as to be untouched by the slightest hint of chaos. And he was exiled from the isle of order?

  Wearily Cerryl rode around the hill and after the High Wizard and Eliasar. He felt even more exhausted when they reached what remained of the battlefield. No Spidlarians emerged from earthworks, nor moaned, nor offered surrender—only bodies, everywhere, some splattered with blood, some not obviously touched, and others merely heaps of charred meat.

  Anya’s head turned at one point, and Cerryl wondered why as her gaze lingered on a seared patch of ground just short of the crest. The Black leader? But why? She had never met him.

  The sun was touching the western horizon as Jeslek reined up at the crest of the hill held that morning by the Spidlarians. Beyond lay a small city—Kleth.

  Eliasar turned in the saddle and looked at Jeslek. “Honored High Wizard, we cannot afford another battle such as this.” The squat arms mage wiped his forehead as sweat oozed from hair plastered against his skull with dampness. “We have lost more than half our force.”

  “Two-thirds,” suggested a voice from somewhere in the officers behind Eliasar.

  “You won’t have any more battles at all,” Jeslek said. “Only a few skirmishes on the way to Spidlaria. They have no troops to speak of left.”

  “I hope to the light you are correct.”

  “I am,” snapped Jeslek. “We move to take the whole river valley first. Leave a small force here to guard the road to Diev. Once we secure Spidlaria, we’ll take Diev. We saved most of the best White Lancers.”

  “As you wish.”

  Anya and Fydel exchanged glances.

  Although Cerryl’s face was politely impassive, he doubted that the battle for Spidlar was truly over. Not with the redheaded smith still somewhere beyond Jeslek’s control—and Anya’s.

  CXXX

  UNDER A SKY that held both dark clouds and bright stars, Cerryl looked down at the pallet where Leyladin lay, either sleeping or insensible. The dark order that had flamed so strongly within her was but a faint shadow. Her breathing was shallow and ragged at times.

  Three thousand Spidlarians had died, at least, and twice that many from the combined forces of Fairhaven under Eliasar. Unable to help or heal any more than the too many she had already saved, Leyladin had collapsed long before Cerryl had made his way back from the carnage, leaving Eliasar and Jeslek their triumph in entering the near-deserted streets of Kleth.

  Cerryl sat by the end of the pallet and, with his eyes closed, massaged his forehead. Exhausted as he was, he found he could not sleep, unlike his poor healer. He could sense that sleep was beginning to restore her, but it might be days or weeks before she dared heal again.

  Cerryl opened his eyes and stared into the darkness, ignoring the moans from the healer’s tent more than a hundred cubits away, hoping that he had moved Leyladin far enough that she would not be disturbed. He reached out and touched the covered pitcher of chaos-heated and purified water, just to make sure that he had it nearby should Leyladin wake.

  Faltar…what have we done?

  Sounds suffused the camp—the murmur of a sentry, the coughing of an armsman, the whuffing of a restless horse on the tie-lines to the west, the muted rush of the River Gallos as it flowed over the broken rocks above Kleth. Yet to Cerryl the sounds were as silence, compared to th
e clangor of the day—a clangor fueled by both chaos and order.

  Chaos had held. The smith had fled back to Diev, and Jeslek’s mighty army would pour down the River Gallos to Spidlaria—and the presumed treasures it held—and Spidlar would fall under the shadow of the White City.

  “Ohhh…”

  Cerryl jerked upright, then patted Leyladin’s shoulder. “You’re all right.”

  “Thirsty…”

  He offered her some of the water.

  She swallowed, several times, then murmured, “Thank you,” before dropping back into sleep.

  His eyes went toward the star of the south, bright, green-tinged, and unblinking, watching as the fast-moving clouds covered it, then passed, leaving its light unchanged.

  Is that life, being a star, no matter what clouds your light? Cerryl chuckled, bitterly but softly so as not to wake Leyladin. A light like a star? Hardly. He was but a mage with ideas that were less than popular, a mage with power and reluctant to use it after seeing how all who employed power seemed more and more to misuse such.

  And yet…without power…nothing will change.

  He closed his eyes and massaged his neck with his left hand, ears alert should Leyladin wake again.

  CXXXI

  GREAT AND MIGHTY Spidlaria,” snorted Fydel from the mount to Cerryl’s right as they neared the southern edge of the city. The city gates to Spidlaria were scarcely that—two featureless red-stone pillars less than five cubits high, without even brackets, set apart and not connected to any sort of walls. Unlike the river road from Elparta to Kleth, the road from Kleth to Spidlaria had been paved the entire way.

  “They were great enough to cost us thousands.” Yet for all that, reflected Cerryl, perhaps Jeslek had been right. Nowhere on the ride northward to Spidlaria and the Northern Ocean had they seen another Spidlarian armsman or lancer. Cerryl’s efforts with his screeing glass had shown some scattered figures, but none gathered into a body, and the scouts had found none at all.

  “Most were levies,” murmured Fydel. “No great loss. A gain, even, if we must fight those who supplied them.”

  Faltar and Myredin weren’t just levies…and the levies were men as well. So was Bealtur, even if he hadn’t exactly been a friend. Cerryl looked up several ranks to the head of the column, where, behind the vanguard, rode Jeslek, his whites gleaming in the full summer sun, seemingly cool. Anya and Eliasar flanked the High Wizard, Anya as cool-looking as Jeslek, while Eliasar’s whites were damp with sweat.

  Cerryl blotted his brow with his sleeve. He wanted to look backward to see if he could find Leyladin, even though he knew she was probably a kay behind him at the end of the column with the wounded who could ride, and far out of sight.

  Once through the gates, Cerryl glanced from one side of the avenue to the other. More than half the buildings were of plastered planks and thick timbers, structures with heavy shutters and narrow windows—windows narrow to keep out the cold winter winds that blew off the Northern Ocean. Despite the growing warmth of the day, the shutters were closed, as were the doors.

  “No one to welcome us,” said Fydel with a laugh.

  The shadow from a white and puffy cloud passed across the column, offering Cerryl but momentary relief from the early-summer sun. “They probably don’t feel welcoming.”

  “No, but some of their women will be, one way or another.”

  Cerryl nodded sadly, recognizing the truth of Fydel’s statement, another inevitable result of war. All because the traders wanted to make more profit at the Guild’s expense. But was it? Even thinking about the complexities of trade and Recluce and the roads, he wanted to shake his head. No wonder everyone wants simple answers. But simple answers, he’d learned, were usually wrong, incomplete at best.

  “They deserve it,” Fydel said, more loudly. “Don’t think they don’t.”

  “Fydel! Cerryl!” Anya’s voice cut over the clatter of hoofs on the stone pavement of Spidlaria. “The High Wizard bids you join us.” Without overtly acknowledging the summons, Cerryl urged his mount past the two lines of lancers, the leather of his stirrups almost rubbing those of the lancers.

  “The conies cower in their burrows, as if to ignore us.” A tight smile appeared on Jeslek’s pale face, and his eyes glittered. “Fairhaven will not be mocked.” The sun-gold eyes focused on Fydel. “Send forth the lancers to bid all the traders to gather in the square before the wharves. Say that any who do not answer the High Wizard will forfeit their lives.”

  “Yes, ser.” Fydel inclined his head.

  “They might feel their lives are forfeit already,” suggested Cerryl from where he rode behind Anya, wondering how Jeslek knew there was a square by the wharves. Then he realized that the High Wizard had doubtless viewed Spidlaria in his glass, perhaps many times.

  “They might indeed. They thought they could flee if Kleth fell, but I knew that.” Jeslek laughed. “I had all the ships of the north sent to stop them. And now we will collect the golds that will repay the Guild for its trouble.”

  Except golds won’t bring back Faltar and Myredin or the lancers or the thousands of levies who died. Cerryl said nothing, just letting his mount follow the column past silent and shuttered shops and dwellings until they reached the lower square above the wharves.

  Jeslek reined up at the edge of the square, then turned in the saddle toward Anya. “Find a chair and an awning, whatever, to make it more comfortable.” His eyes went to the blocky Eliasar. “You make it safe for me to receive the merchants here.”

  Eliasar nodded once, brusquely, then turned his mount away, riding to the harbor side of the square. “Captains—to me!”

  Jeslek turned his eyes on Cerryl. “You assist Anya.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl eased his mount toward Anya’s.

  Anya flashed the smile Cerryl detested. “You know shopkeepers, Cerryl. Perhaps you should find an appropriate chair and awning.” She turned away, as if there were no question that Cerryl would find both.

  A cabinet maker and a chandlery—where would he find those? After a long deep breath, he turned the gelding and rode back to his lancers. “Hiser, Ferek, we’re searching for a cabinet maker’s shop.”

  Hiser shook his head, and Ferek shrugged.

  “We’ll just look for a sign—or a local.” A sign will be easier to find with everyone cowering behind barred doors. “Let’s head back south. I thought it looked like an artisans’ area back a half-kay or so.”

  The subofficers flanked him, and the lancers fell in behind him as he turned the gelding. They rode on the left side of the main avenue, almost single file past the rest of the White Lancers still riding toward the harbor square.

  Cerryl raised his hand to Leyladin as he and his lancers passed the last of the Fairhaven column headed toward the square.

  “What now?” The healer flashed a sardonic smile.

  “Searching for some things for the High Wizard,” he answered. “We’re setting up in the area around the harbor square. I’ll try to see you later.”

  She nodded, and Cerryl continued.

  After more than a half-kay of riding down the side streets, he reined up outside a shuttered building that displayed a small sign depicting a chest above a plane and a chisel.

  “Hope his work is better than the sign,” said Ferek.

  So did Cerryl. “Knock on the door.”

  No one answered.

  “Tell them that either they open the door or I’ll burn it open,” Cerryl said loudly.

  A rasping from behind the door drew a smile from Ferek and a headshake from Hiser. The door slipped open, and a man peered out.

  “Are you the cabinet maker?” asked Cerryl.

  “Please, ser wizard…spare my consort…” The cabinet maker had short gray and ginger hair that clung to his scalp in tight curls and a short, curly beard more gray than ginger. He stared up at Cerryl.

  “Are you the cabinet maker?” the mage asked again.

  “Spare us…my consort,” stammered the ma
n.

  What have they been told? “I’m not interested in your consort,” Cerryl said tiredly. “I’m trying to find the best armchair I can—one for the High Wizard.”

  “I cannot afford to keep what I make…”

  “I know.” Cerryl turned to Hiser. “Guard his place. I don’t want his family or his consort touched.”

  “Yes, ser.” Hiser nodded.

  “Have one of your men lend a mount to the cabinet maker.” Cerryl focused on the artisan. “Who has your best chair, the one most suitable for the High Wizard of Fairhaven?”

  “Reylerk, the trader, ser wizard.”

  “Fine. Get on that mount and lead us there.”

  “Ser?” The artisan’s eyes went from the closed door of the shop to the mount from which a lancer Cerryl did not know dismounted.

  “Get onto that mount,” ordered Hiser.

  Cerryl wiped his damp forehead and waited for the man to mount. “Now…where does this Reylerk live? Show us.”

  “Ah…to the north, ser.”

  “Fine. Lead the way.”

  As they rode along the narrow lane and then back out along the wider avenue, Cerryl studied the shuttered dwellings and shops. Clearly, the folk of Spidlaria—those who remained—feared the worst.

  Reylerk’s dwelling was on the hilly section of Spidlaria north of the wharves, up a winding but paved lane. The gates were closed.

  “Behind the gates…” stammered the cabinet maker.

  Cerryl nodded at Ferek.

  “Open the gates!” demanded the subofficer.

  No words answered the order.

  Cerryl shrugged and mustered chaos, focusing it into a tight beam at the point where the two gates joined.

  Eeeeee-wwhsssst! When the flash cleared, the gates slowly shivered apart, a half-cubit missing from each edge, and sagged to the stones.

  After a moment two lancers used their mounts’ shoulders to edge the timbered gates open, and Cerryl and Ferek rode into the courtyard, a courtyard paved with large red oblong stones, smooth as a table. Opposite the gates rose a dwelling, the lower floor of the same red stone, the upper of plaster and timber. As in every other dwelling in Spidlaria, the shutters were closed—except for one on the upper level that appeared to be cracked.