Colors of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “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 emplacement, 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 to 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.

  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-or 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 en-circling 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 ov
er 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,” Ceryl 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 the clangor of the day-a clangor fueled by both chaos and order.

  Chaos had held. The smith had fled back to Diev, and Jesleks 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 back-ward 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 w
ith 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.”