Colors of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Crack! A line of lightning flashed to or from the hillside where he had incinerated the last of the Spidlarian lancers. The ground shivered, and a light and acrid mist drifted from the foglike clouds that had formed over the battle area.

  Cerryl’s eyes burned, and stars flashed across whatever he could see. He turned the gelding, hoping he could ride long enough so that they could rejoin Ferek and his company.

  “You be looking like darkness, ser.”

  “Probably.” Cerryl felt like darkness, if not worse, barely able to stay in his saddle. Yet he had neither lifted a blade nor repulsed one. He wanted to shake his head, wondering what Eliasar and the other arms mages might have thought. But he rejected the gesture, feeling that his head might roll off his shoulders if he moved it suddenly.

  He could have used a healer-especially a certain healer.

  As he followed the subofficer back toward Ferek’s company, back toward the camp and the bedroll he knew he needed, he could not help but overhear some of the lancer comments.

  “… blues were stupid.”

  “… see why the High Wizard left him.”

  “… patrollers said he was tough.”

  Cerryl didn’t feel tough, just exhausted-and stupid and lucky. He’d made too many mistakes in trying to execute his plan and had to use far too much chaos as a result. He wondered when the next attackers would arrive-and from where. And if he would ever learn the best way to handle situations where he was overmatched in forces.

  Why don’t they just pay their tariffs? We all lose this way. He shivered as he rode, his vision so blurred he was almost blind. Why? Why can’t they see?

  Neither the late-afternoon heat, nor the clouds that had begun to break up, nor the stench of death in his nostrils provided any answer.

  XVCIII

  Cerryl looked down at the glass on the trestle table, a table narrower than the table he had used in the last cot he had appropriated. Both table and cot were newer as well-but not much-and equally battered. The glass had turned up blank, as had every other attempt he had made for more than an eight-day.

  He massaged his forehead, then closed his eyes, becoming more aware of the mixed odors of manure and cook-fire smoke drifting in through the open cot doorway on the warm early-morning breeze. With the smoke came the odor of cooked mutton-always cooked mutton. Cerryl even missed the hard cheese, now that the last of that had been eaten.

  No sign of any more Spidlarians… why? After nearly a season of chasing the blue lancers, there were no more to be found. One battle-and that wiped out all that they could send to southeast Spidlar? Or were they mustering a far larger force? It couldn’t be Cerryl’s failure to scree, not when he could still call up Leyladin’s image or that of the red-haired smith Dorrin in Diev.

  Cerryl he opened his eyes, trying to ignore the faint headache that never seemed to fade completely anymore. Then he stood and stretched.

  A message to Jeslek, that was what he needed to write and send off, stating the apparent situation and asking if the High Wizard needed Cerryl and his lancers. He walked slowly to the cot doorway and then across the hoof-packed clay toward the cook fires. The hard biscuits he had eaten at dawn weren’t enough, and he needed more to eat. He would have to choke down the strong-tasting mutton, like it or not.

  “Some mutton, ser?” asked the lancer cook.

  “Yes, thank you.” Cerryl took the fat-dripping chunk, leaning forward as he chewed off a tough mouthful to keep the grease from his whites.

  “Any sign of more Spidlarians?” The broad-shouldered Hiser stepped toward the slender White mage.

  Ferek turned from where he stood on the far side of the cook-fire ring, gnawing on a chunk of the dark meat, waiting for Cerryl’s answer.

  “There aren’t any close. They’re all around Elparta, or downriver at Kleth.”

  “Don’t make sense,” mumbled Ferek. “We’re easier pickings than the High Wizard and all those Certan levies.”

  “There aren’t that many around Elparta,” Cerryl said.

  “Beats me, then, why it be that the High Wizard hasn’t taken the place.”

  “He’s trying not to level it, I’d guess,” Cerryl said.

  “Didn’t stop him none at Axalt,” pointed out Ferek, with a hoarse laugh that cracked.

  “Mayhap that be why,” answered Hiser. “Having the river and the piers’d make our task the easier.”

  Cerryl took another bite of the mutton, wondering whether that were the entire reason. Or had the Black armsleader been more difficult to find and subdue than Jeslek had initially calculated?

  “He don’t take Elparta soon, and we’ll be here like all winter and then a fair piece.” Ferek’s voice was dry. “We be not getting many of the lancers and levies from Hydlen, either.”

  “Those in Hydolar care only for their own lands and coins,” Hiser said, adding after a laugh, “and everyone else’s women.”

  “Sons of clipped-coined cutpurses, every one,” Ferek declared, “‘cept those who like their sows better than their women.”

  Cerryl shook his head, if minutely. A long and hot summer going nowhere was leading to a long fall and winter, with short supplies and shorter tempers among the lancers.

  XCIX

  Cerryl stood in the doorway to the one-room cot that served as meeting place, bedchamber, and rain shelter. In the dim light of the late-summer twilight he reread the scroll that had arrived earlier in the afternoon with the messenger from Jeslek.

  While there may appear to be no Spidlarian forces near the road and lands you hold for Fairhaven… when the Black Isle is involved, appearances may be indeed deceiving… We should never be so deceived…

  Your skills and presence are not required for the taking of Elparta, and it would be foolish for the Guild to hazard all of its brethren in Spidlar near Elparta unless such is required by events…

  I remain convinced that events do not yet require the massive use of chaos against Elparta… Until summoned, you are to remain near the midpoint of that portion of the main road lying between the Easthorns and the present position of our forces… to secure it for safe usage by all those who answer to Fairhaven, and to ensure that all who use the road do answer to the White City…

  An inquiry, and you get assigned another twenty kays or more of road to patrol? Cerryl glanced up from the scroll and massaged his forehead with his left hand. From what he gleaned from the lancers who had brought Jeslek’s scroll, the White Lancers and the Certan levies had advanced to within thirty kays of Elparta and the river-or closer. But they had been there for nearly three eight-days, and nothing had happened. Jeslek had not pressed an attack, nor had the arms commander of the Spidlarians.

  Why not? Jeslek had never hesitated to employ force against others when it served its purpose, or his. Did he lack the levies he had been promised by the prefect of Gallos and the Duke of Hydlen?

  Cerryl’s fingers went to his chin. Groups of Certan levies-and supply wagons-had passed every few eight-days, but not a single armsman from Hydlen. Gallosian levies would have come to Jeslek directly from the south-if any had.

  Cerryl began to reroll the scroll as Hiser walked toward the cot. “Good evening, Hiser.”

  “Evening, ser. Not trying to be too nosy, ser, but you got a scroll a bit ago.”

  “From the High Wizard,” Cerryl admitted. “He wants us to keep guarding the road, even farther west now.”

  “We haven’t seen a blue in two eight-days, could be longer.”

  “That doesn’t mean we couldn’t. Or won’t.”

  “So we’re still staying here, ser?” asked Hiser.

  “For now.” Cerryl gestured vaguely with the loosely rolled scroll. “The High Wizard remains concerned that the Black Isle has some secret way to attack from his rear or to destroy all the White mages if they are in one place. So we will remain here.”

  The young blond subofficer shrugged. “It could be worse. We’re taking fewer losses than those with the High Wizard.”<
br />
  “Is that what the messengers are saying?”

  “The blues-or that Black warleader, they say his name is Brede or some such-are using knives you can’t see to cut lancers out of their saddles. They pose as peasants or merchants and then shoot unsuspecting lancers in the back. The men are angry.” A sad smile crossed Hiser’s face. “Ours but grumble.”

  “Better grumbling than dead.” Brede… he’s causing enough trouble that even the men know his name?

  “Most think that way.” Hiser nodded, then looked to the north and the lingering red in the western part of the northern sky. “Might be getting some rain.”

  “The air feels damp,” Cerryl agreed. What else can you say? Besides that you don’t know what the High Wizard is doing-or why?

  C

  Slightly past midafternoon, well after the morning patrol, Cerryl was grooming the gelding, something he did less well than he would have liked, when one of the lancer scouts rode up to the crude corral.

  “Ser? That supply wagon? It’s for us.” The thin redhead’s words burst forth.

  Cerryl looked up.

  “That’s what the lead guard said. He asked if I was one of your’n. He did, and then he said he had stuff, but you had to claim it.”

  “I guess I’d better get there. How far out are they?” The mage set aside the brush and began to saddle the gelding.

  “Three kays east or so.”

  “I’ll be ready in a few moments.” A supply wagon for them? Coming all the way from Fairhaven? When he had first seen the wagon in the screeing glass, he had assumed that it held some form of supplies and luxuries for the High Wizard.

  Once he had the gelding saddled, Cerryl and the lancer scout rode not quite directly into a cool wind out of the northeast. The grasses beside the road bent in the steady wind, and the air held that indefinable scent that promised fall before summer had ended-a mixture of heavy grass, leaves ready to winter-turn gray, late-blooming flowers, and the touch of mold from the first grasses and fallen leaves already decaying.

  The mounted guard before the wagon consisted of five White Lancers and five guards in green. All slowed, as did the wagon, when Cerryl rode up, accompanied by the red-haired scout and followed by Ferek and a half-score lancers.

  “Ser mage? I be Ersad, senior trade guard for Ser Layel,” said the white-bearded guard in green, riding at the front of the column beside a lancer subofficer. “You are Cerryl?”

  “I’m Cerryl.”

  “He’s Cerryl,” blurted the scout.

  Behind the scout, Ferek laughed, once, but gently. “He is Cerryl, White mage and commander of the two companies that hold the road for Fairhaven and its friends.”

  Both the subofficer and the older guard looked coldly at the scout, who flushed and clamped his lips together.

  The older green-vested guard leader inclined his head, studied Cerryl for a moment, then extended a scroll. “We have supplies for you and your lancers from ser Layal and Lady Leyladin.”

  “We are most grateful.” Cerryl inclined his head and took the scroll but did not break the green wax of the seal as he slipped the scroll into his tunic. “And we appreciate your effort in bringing them all this long way to us.”

  “Our task, ser mage.”

  Cerryl turned his mount and rode alongside the older guard.

  Ferek brought his escort around behind the high-sided and canvas-covered wagon, past the circular emblem of Layel, painted in gold over the green of the wagon body.

  “How was the journey?” Cerryl addressed the trader’s lead guard, then nodded toward the lancer subofficer.

  “Better than it will be after season turn,” replied the guard in green, a far darker green than that Leyladin affected. “We trust we will be able to deliver the other supplies to the High Wizard and be back through the Easthorns by then.”

  “The High Wizard is but three, perhaps four days to the west-on this road.”

  “Hmmmm… close riming for the Easthorns, but may chaos favor us.”

  “Chaos and prosperity be with you,” Cerryl answered. “You are most welcome to camp here tonight. What we have is simple, but the lancers would hear of what happens in Fairhaven.”

  “We shall do so.” The lead merchant guard nodded, as did the lancer subofficer who rode beside him.

  When they reached the encampment, Cerryl watched from his sad-die as the barrels were rolled into the small structure that had once been a barn and now served as a storehouse-barrels of flour, of salted pork, of maize meal, even a small barrel of dried fruit and one of roasted and salted nuts.

  “There are also two baskets for you, ser,” the green-vested guard said as one of the armsmen in green approached with two circular wicker baskets tied in rope. Each cylindrical basket was not quite two cubits high and a cubit across.

  “Ah… could you set them by the door of that cot there?” asked Cerryl, gesturing toward the cot that served as his conference room, bedchamber, and screeing place.

  “Yes, ser.”

  Once the wagon had been unloaded and the merchant guards and the lancers were establishing their camp, Cerryl rode to the corral and dismounted.

  “The men are pleased already.” Ferek had already dismounted, and he turned to the mage. “How did… ah… Merchants are not known to favor the White Tower…”

  “Ser Layel is one who does.” Cerryl smiled.

  “We need watch the dried fruit. Too much will turn their bowels to water.” Ferek frowned.

  “As you see fit, Ferek. Ration it out so that there is some in the eight-days ahead.”

  Hiser marched toward them. “Those… are they truly for us?”

  Cerryl nodded.

  “The trader Layel sent them to Mage Cerryl and his men.” Ferek grinned. “Even more so, I am glad to be termed such.”

  “He sent supplies to the High Wizard as well,” Cerryl pointed out.

  “Only to keep the High Wizard from feeling slighted, I wager,” said Hiser.

  Cerryl wasn’t about to take that wager. “Layel would like to be thought supportive of the White Tower.”

  “I’ll make sure the men know he sent the food-and the fruit and nuts.” Hiser grinned.

  “That would be good.” Cerryl unsaddled the gelding, then led the horse into the corral, where he took off the bridle. He patted his mount’s shoulder, and the horse snorted, then tossed his head, before trotting away and toward the water trough.

  Cerryl walked back to his cot. There he extracted the scroll and broke the seal. He unrolled the short length of parchment, looking at the flowing characters set so precisely in green ink-green ink for a green-eyed healer.

  Dearest…

  Dearest? Cerryl swallowed. You didn’t expect that.

  Sending you provisions is doubtless breaking some Guild or lancer rule, but few will complain if your men benefit. Most is for them, and you, as their commander, except for the two baskets for you…

  I have also sensed your presence, gently, over the seasons, and that presence has come to mean much to me, in spite of the differences between us. Kinowin has told me of your duties pa-trolling the road, and we both feel that is for the best in these days, though you will be in Elparta before winter, we feel…

  In Elparta before winter? Did that mean Jeslek was about to take the city at last? How would she and Kinowin know that for certain? Even glasses did not show what might be.

  Ersad can be trusted to return any scroll to me…

  Cerryl grinned. That was definitely a suggestion.

  I miss you and look forward to your return, no matter the seasons that may pass or the distances that separate our bodies…

  Cerryl swallowed, and his eyes burned.

  After a time, he brought the two baskets into the cot. He untied the hemp rope on the first basket carefully, coiling it and setting it on the bench beside the trestle table for what uses it might serve in the season ahead.

  The first basket contained personal items-several bars of oil soap, wrapp
ed in waxed parchment, two sets of new smallclothes, a set of new whites, and a pair of sturdy white boots, made by his own boot maker.

  In the second basket were waxed packets of things-several of hard white cheese, what looked to be travel bread, and packages of dried fruit wrapped in waxed linen.

  None of it meant as much as the single word at the top of the scroll.

  After he closed the baskets, he took out the portable inkwell and a quill and one of his remaining sheets of parchment, then sat at the trestle table.

  How will you reduce all you want to say into a single scroll?

  He shrugged, then grinned, looking at the off-white parchment lying on the wood before him. Dearest… The single word ran through him, and his grin broadened into a wide smile.

  CI

  Cerryl stood and walked around the cot, his jacket fastened almost to his neck. His breath had been steaming in the cold morning air just after dawn, but the small fire he had built and the fall sun had warmed the unseasonably cool day enough that he no longer resembled a chimney with each breath as midmorning approached.

  Although the cold rain had passed, Cerryl had called off road patrols for the next few days, relying instead on his screeing and upon the mud and pooled water on the roads and trails to delay or halt any possible Spidlarian force. What force? The blues shouldn’t have enough lancers to hold even Elparta.

  At the hearth, still warm with coals from the small morning fire, Cerryl paused. Despite the closed plank door, the wind still seeped through the cracking and badly chinked mud bricks of the wall, around the warped and the mis-hung door, and up under the roof sills, leaching away the slight heat of the hearth fire.

  His first attempts had shown only muddy and empty roads around their hamlet and encampment, although the images of the western side seemed to display less water and mud. Still, nothing remotely resembling the opposing Spidlarians appeared anywhere. Nor was there any trace of the concentrated order that accompanied Black mages - not any closer than Dorrin, the smith in Diev, and he was about as far from Cerryl as one could get and still remain within the boundaries of Spidlar.