Colors of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “We need to make sure they get fed.” Cerryl took a deep breath and a last look at Leyladin. The healer in green looked frail, somehow. Cerryl swallowed, then forced himself away.

  Once the men were settled, the mounts on a tie-line, and Cerryl had set his lancers up to be fed at the end cook fire, he walked toward the more central fire where he saw Faltar and Buar standing.

  “What happened today?” Cerryl glanced up the gentle slope to where the wounded had been gathered. He could see a flash of green, but little more. “All those wounded…”

  “We lost almost a whole boat of levies and some archers today,” Faltar said tiredly, turning and pointing down at the river.

  “Said it was bad,” murmured the dark-haired Buar.

  Cerryl looked at the boats. The forward craft bore scars, as though it had been slashed with a blade, and most of the stain and varnish had been ripped off the upper deck. The right side of the upper deck railing and the pilothouse were both gone.

  “How?”

  “You know those slicer things they use on the trails…” Faltar glanced at Cerryl. “Stupid of me. I’m tired. Of course, you do…”

  Cerryl nodded.

  “The black iron ones that smith made…”

  “Dorrin,” Cerryl said, lowering his voice. “I told Fydel and Jeslek that he was making more black iron devices.”

  “Well… he did. They put something like those horse slicers along the river. Fydel and Jeslek are down there now-looking at it.”

  “So where were you?” snapped Anya, marching from the silk tent on the flat ground above the river. “They were set up on your side of the river, great Cerryl, and you were nowhere around.”

  “We were on the road,” Cerryl answered. “Taking arrows.”

  “They slipped up along the river, and you didn’t even see them?” Scorn dripped from the redhead’s voice.

  Cerryl sighed. “I have only so many lancers. The road splits from the river. I told you that this morning. Jeslek told me to follow the road because Eliasar has to send most of the Gallosians that way. I did.”

  “You were wrong. Eliasar was wrong. Follow the river.”

  “How?” asked Cerryl. “If I take a force through that underbrush without a road, the blues will take out most of my lancers before I can even see or sense them.”

  “You have an answer for everything.”

  You wish you did… at least for her. After a moment of silence, Cerryl said, “I don’t pretend to have answers I don’t know. There weren’t any blues on that part of the river when we passed where the road turns west.”

  “Of course not. They waited until you passed.”

  “If you know so much, Anya,” said Faltar tiredly, “why weren’t you there? Jeslek said you were in charge of reserves and supposed to take care of things like that.”

  Cerryl’s eyes almost popped out with Faltar’s words, words he’d never thought he’d hear. Maybe young Viedra was good for Faltar.

  Anya’s pale eyes turned icy gray. “You’d best concentrate on the east river road, Faltar.”

  “I will, Anya.” Faltar smiled tiredly. “It’s my task, and I do my best at my tasks. I don’t have time to do others.”

  Buar’s eyes had traveled back and forth between Anya and Faltar, getting wider as the conversation went on.

  Anya turned full toward Faltar, and Cerryl couldn’t help but smile as he watched Jeslek approach from behind the redheaded mage.

  “Both of you will learn-”

  “I’m certain we have all learned a great deal, Anya,” said Jeslek smoothly. “Tomorrow, you will patrol the riverbank ahead of the boats in those areas where the road swings away from the water.” The High Wizard paused. “Unless you would rather take over Cerryl’s duties and have him patrol the banks?”

  Anya’s face was blank for a moment before the broad and false smile reappeared. “I would be most happy to patrol the banks. Now… if you would excuse me.” She turned and walked uphill, more to the north and away from the horses and the wounded men.

  “We should have watched the river area more closely,” Jeslek said mildly. “Try to think of anything else unusual, and let me know, if you would.” The High Wizard turned toward the white silk tent.

  That’s as much of an admission that he should have heeded your warnings as you’ll ever get. Cerryl’s mouth slipped into a crooked and cynical smile that immediately faded as Leyladin slipped out of the growing dusk to stand beside Cerryl.

  She touched his arm gently, and her eyes were rimmed with blackness. “I did… what I could. He… I think… if he’s still here in the morning.”

  The gray-eyed mage put an arm around her. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m all right.” She took a slow and deep breath before the deep green eyes fixed on him. “I can’t… heal all of them… just try to keep the chaos out of their wounds.” She sighed.

  “All of those I saw?”

  A slight sob escaped her. “So many…”

  “You need to eat. You need the strength.”

  “We’ve got rations over there,” suggested Faltar. “We had some earlier. Mostly bread and cheese, some mutton, could be cold by now.”

  “Cold or not…” Cerryl guided Leyladin toward the cook fire and the lancer standing there.

  “Lady healer… here.” The lancer extended a slab of mutton on a half-loaf of dark bread. “There’s cheese here, too. Whatever you need.” After a moment, he seemed to see Cerryl. “Ah… you, too, ser.”

  “Thank you,” Cerryl said.

  The two accepted the fare and stepped away to sit on a fallen log that had been dragged to one side of the cook fire.

  “I can see who the lancers value,” Cerryl added with a laugh, brushing away a large mosquito, once, and then again.

  “They value you,” Leyladin mumbled, “in a different way.”

  Maybe. Cerryl ate slowly, and Leyladin finished her meat and bread before he was half through his fare. He looked up. “Go get some of the cheese. There were some dried apples, I think.”

  “I didn’t know I was that hungry.”

  “Healing is hard work,” he pointed out. “Any use of order or chaos is.”

  Leyladin slowly stood and walked toward the makeshift serving table, a plank between two forked posts, where she sliced off a chunk of white cheese and took a handful of dried apples.

  “Anything else you’d like?” asked the lancer cook. “More mutton?”

  “No… thank you. I’m feeling better.” She offered a smile. “Thank you.”

  Cerryl stood and joined her, cutting himself some cheese. “A little more than an eight-day and still more than thirty kays before we see Kleth.”

  “Then another hundred-fifty kays or more to Spidlaria?”

  “More or less.” Cerryl brushed away another hungry mosquito, circling through the growing darkness toward him. “You worry about the killing? Going on and on?” How could anyone not worry about it?

  “I do.” Leyladin waved at another mosquito. “The old books talk about Black being ordered and healing.” She shook her head. “How is order any different from chaos when it’s used to kill? They killed more of us today than… I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  Cerryl finished his chunk of cheese and put his arm around her. “The goals matter. They have to.” Because power can be abused, by either Black or White? How do you ever know that you’re not deceiving yourself and abusing power? Are we doing the right thing?

  “We think so. I suppose they do as well.” Leyladin took another deep breath. “I need to lie down. I don’t know if I’ll sleep, but I can’t stand up much longer.”

  “I left my bedroll by the mages’ fire.”

  “I can offer to share my quilted ground cloth with you, ser.”

  Even through the darkness, Cerryl could sense the smile. “Those are the best words I’ve heard today. I would be most grateful to accept.”

  They walked slowly uphill.

  CXXIV


  With the growing warmth of the day and the white-orange sun pouring down through the clear green-blue sky, Cerryl unfastened his jacket, shifting his weight in the saddle as he did. He rode slowly, letting the gelding walk another hundred cubits or so before he reined up. The lancers before him reined up as well, their eyes searching the spring green of the bushes beside the road and the damp clay of the road itself for fresh tracks.

  Cerryl tried to extend his senses, searching for any trace of black iron or chaos of some sort, wishing in some ways that Leyladin were alongside him. Her senses of order would have been useful. Then, she was safer with the reserves, especially with the scattered arrows that arched over trees-or from across gullies-anywhere there was no possibility of quick pursuit.

  The light breeze out of the north still bore a trace of chill along with the smell of damp soil and new growth. The higher parts of the ruts in the road had turned a lighter brown where they had begun to dry, but much of the road was the darker brown of damp soil and clay.

  Cerryl glanced toward the shoots in the fields to the west of the road, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and nodded to Hiser. “Another two hundred cubits-or three if it seems clear.” He glanced toward the woods that began somewhere short of a kay ahead on the left side of the road, then toward the thin line of trees perhaps 150 cubits downhill on the eastern side of the road. The trees stood a dozen cubits above the River Gallos.

  “Yes, ser.” Hiser flicked his mount’s reins.

  Cerryl did the same, and the two rode slowly northward.

  Patrolling the roads, again, and after almost two eight-days of plodding down the road to the west of the River Gallos, Cerryl had discovered nothing, not a single black iron trap.

  Of course, the moment you don’t, there will be something.

  All the traps had been on the river itself, as if the smith Dorrin had belatedly recognized where the true danger lay.

  Cerryl tried to use his eyes and his senses as they rode closer to the woods that began ahead on the west side of the road, the sort of place that would be ideal for another attack by the Spidlarians, for all that, they had not even seen a hoofprint in kays.

  Thwing! Thwing! A series of arrows flew past-except one that slammed into the lancer riding beside Hiser.

  Cerryl jerked his head around. Concentrating as he had been on seeking order foci, he really hadn’t sense the approach of the blue archers.

  “There they are!” Hiser stood in the stirrups, gesturing toward the side trail that wound toward a gap in the woods ahead on the west side of the road.

  The narrow side trail… Cerryl’s eyes flashed toward the trail, his senses following.

  A half-score of riders started forward at a fast trot that threatened to become a gallop.

  “LANCERS, HALT!” Cerryl yelled.

  The riders continued, though Hiser reined up in confusion, glancing at Cerryl as if he could not believe his ears.

  Whsstt! Cerryl lofted a firebolt over the heads of the riders, far enough that it sprayed harmlessly across the damp clay. “HALT! You worthless dark shadows!”

  The lancers milled to a halt, and Cerryl took a deep breath and rode forward. “Back!”

  “… why’s he want to go first?”

  “… let him… be target…”

  One step at a time, Cerryl took the gelding onto the narrow trail, trying to keep eyes and ears and senses all searching.

  Thwinng! This time Cerryl ducked even before he heard the arrow, and he could feel where the archer might be.

  Whhhstt! The firebolt arced over the vegetation in the direction from which the shaft had come.

  “Aeüi…”

  Was there a line of greasy black smoke? Cerryl wasn’t certain, but there was no doubt about the sound of departing hoofs that followed the firebolt and the short scream.

  He kept the gelding to a walk, but there were no more arrows. As he had suspected, around the curve was something-something metallic and very ordered. He reined up and beckoned for Hiser to join him.

  The subofficer wiped the dampness from his forehead as he halted his mount beside the gelding.

  “There’s a trap about two hundred cubits ahead,” Cerryl said quietly. “I don’t feel anyone around, but we’ll have to go slowly.”

  Finding the trap was anticlimactic. Two thin wires so black as to be invisible, especially with dust raised by mounts in the air, ran across the trail. On one side, wedged behind a fallen tree trunk, was a black iron bar to which the wires were secured. At the other end of the wires was a second bar, nearly two cubits long, set in the fork of a tree.

  Once they had loosened the bars, two lancers slowly wound the wire around them while Cerryl studied the area with both his senses and his sight.

  Nothing. Nothing except a black-smeared section of ground on the trail fifty cubits beyond the trap, an area three cubits across where nothing remained but ashes.

  “Frigging blues…”

  The blue raiders had left nothing, except the first casualty they had taken in two eight-days. Cerryl eased the gelding back toward the main road until he found Hiser. The subofficer was strapping a body over a saddle-the lancer who’d been riding beside him.

  “What do we do, ser? If we could ride after them…”

  “We would have lost more lancers.”

  “But we’re not getting to them.”

  Cerryl had no real answers. If they proceeded slowly, they’d lose some lancers to arrows. If they hurried, so as to keep the blues from having time to set things up, they wouldn’t lose as many to shafts, but every so often they’d lose a lot to traps. “We’re taking their land. Before long, they won’t have any place to run.”

  “Hope it’s not that long. Begging your pardon/ser.” Hiser gave the rope a last knot and swung into his saddle and gestured to the lancer with one arm bound from an arrow taken earlier in the day. “Muntor, you hang back and take care of the mount here.”

  “Yes, ser.” The sandy-haired lancer look the rope lead from Hiser.

  “Back to the main road, ser?” asked the subofficer.

  “Back to the main road,” Cerryl confirmed. Back to patrolling and being targets, and all because… because why?

  He shrugged. The answers that had seemed simple in Fairhaven seemed almost irrelevant along a booby-trapped river road in a war no one really wanted and yet one that no one seemed able to avoid, a war that seemingly sucked in more and more from Fairhaven-Leyladin, Faltar, and a half-dozen young mages without, Cerryl suspected, the real talents to see order traps or avoid the iron crossbow bolts that could prove fatal.

  Then… can you keep avoiding them?

  CXXV

  After rubbing down the gelding, Cerryl walked slowly to the canvas awning-not really a full tent-under which the wounded lay. Leyladin was bending over another lancer he did not recognize. Even from where Cerryl stood a dozen cubits away, the light of the low afternoon sun on his back, he could sense the order she mustered.

  He wanted to tell her that she couldn’t heal them all. No healer could. Instead, he waited until she straightened.

  She walked toward him as if she had sensed him, a gentle smile in place. “I felt you riding in.”

  “You felt me?”

  “If you can find me in a glass, can’t I sense you when you’re near?”

  He reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m supposed to meet with Jeslek and the others…”

  “The other Whites?” Her eyebrows lifted in a query.

  “That’s not my choice.”

  “I know. Sometimes, it’s hard.” Her eyes swept the area under the awning.

  “Because we create death and you attempt to heal?”

  “No.” The blonde cocked her head slightly to the side. “The Blacks are killing more than we are right now. The Guild needs order as much as chaos, and the old parts of Colors of White-they don’t say it in quite that way, but it’s there. These days, with Recluce the enemy…”

  “No one seems to understand that
order also belongs in Fairhaven…” Cerryl’s eyes flicked toward the white silk tent set on a level grassy bench farther down the slope toward the gray water of the River Gallos.

  “You have to go. I know.”

  “I’m sorry. I wanted to see you.”

  A trace of a smile reappeared. “I’ll see you later.”

  He squeezed her fingers a last time before he turned and headed downhill, taking a deep breath.

  The smell of burning wood was everywhere-faint but omnipresent. He rubbed his eyes gently as he neared the tent-guarded by a pair of lancers.

  One nodded slightly. “Mage Cerryl?”

  Cerryl returned the nod and eased under the flap held up by poles as an awning. Anya looked up as Cerryl stepped into the tent. Fydel, Anya, and Jeslek sat around the camp table on stools. Cerryl took the last stool, across from Jeslek and between Anya and Fydel.

  “Good that you could join us,” said Jeslek.

  “It was a long day, ser. I just got back.”

  “How many more did you lose?” asked Anya.

  “None today.” After a moment, he added, “That worries me. I wonder what else they plan.”

  “They will indeed plan something else. The traders have told their field commander, Brede, the young giant from Recluce, to hold Kleth,” Jeslek announced quietly. The tent billowed overhead.

  Fydel nodded. Anya smiled brightly, and Cerryl smiled politely, with a deferential inclination of his head to the High Wizard.

  “Where is Sterol?” Anya’s smile suggested to Cerryl that she well knew the answer but raised the former High Wizard’s name for some scheming point.

  “In Fairhaven, I presume, which is fine with me. We really don’t need another set of schemers.” The High Wizard paused. “Your refusal of terms from the Council was brilliant, Fydel, even if you didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I’m so glad you found it so.” Fydel smiled.

  “It forced them to decide on an early defense, in order to plan their escape if it failed. Traders would always rather run than fight. This Brede of theirs is better than they deserve, young as he is, and they’ll squander his talent-and him. It’s a pity.”