The Death of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The outer breakwater held a dozen broken steel hulls. Jammed into the sandbars by the river mouth were also a pair of hulls-cracked and beached.

  The surf tossed dark splotches-corpses-up upon the southern sands of the bay, tossed them up and sucked them back, tossed and retrieved, tossed and retrieved.

  Beneath the whitecapped waters of the outer bay were dark hulks, dark hulks of dead order containing steel-cased chaos.

  Tamra and the sole remaining trooper struggled to lift Gunnar, to carry him to a healer, through the knee-deep swirls that washed over the inner breakwater, through the remnants of the storm.

  Farther out upon the Southern Ocean, six ships fought the waves, fought the foam, and slowly struggled eastward.

  CIV

  I DIDN’T KNOW what I expected, but the blue and white flowers waving in the sod roof of the waystation were still there, although they seemed mostly gray in the late twilight. The spring was unchanged, and the waystation itself looked no different with the holes in the roof and its doorless entry.

  Yet, solid as the old walls were, the waystation seemed fragile.

  I looked around the long valley, from the western rim, where orange from the vanished sun still glimmered, to the winding road we had traveled both east and west. Beyond the darkened eastern horizon, I could sense clouds and chaos.

  Slowly, I dismounted. Gairloch didn’t even whinny, and I hugged him for a moment, just for being there and being dependable.

  “He likes you, too,” said Dayala from the dimness beside me.

  I probably blushed, but answered, “He’s good and strong and dependable.”

  “You often put his care before your own,” she continued.

  “He’s in my care. He doesn’t have a choice.”

  “But he does. He could throw you, or bolt, or refuse to eat.”

  I hadn’t thought horses, or ponies, considered such choices, but Dayala was a druid. “Oh?”

  “He wouldn’t think that. Ponies don’t think the way we do. He would just do it,” she clarified.

  That made sense. I began to unsaddle him, not quickly, because I was tired.

  Dayala looked at me in the gloom, probably far more tired than I was. “Krystal’s not a pony.”

  “What?” I wasn’t thinking too clearly. What did Krystal have to do with being a pony?

  “You can’t protect her from everything. If you protect her too much, then you protect her from being close to you.” She nodded and led her mount over to where Justen was grooming Rosefoot.

  I groomed Gairloch mechanically, trying to understand what Dayala had said, but the words kept slipping through my mind, except I knew Krystal wasn’t a pony.

  CV

  Worrak, Hydlen [Candar]

  “MARSHAL,” SAYS THE white-haired officer, “no fleet could have withstood that kind of storm.” The fleet commander glances around the veranda, then out toward the hills to the west. He does not look at the half-dozen battered ships in the harbor below.

  “There are limits to their powers, Commander Gurtel. According to my sources, that storm was raised by the only truly powerful storm wizard Recluce has. That single small storm aged him decades.” Dyrsse smiles, though not with his eyes, and his fingers steeple.for a moment before he rests his arms on the table. “Ruzor will take years to rebuild. The storm caused as much damage to the city as to the fleets.”

  “But not to the autarch’s troops, ser.”

  “The autarch isn’t the real enemy. She never has been. The enemy is the black isle.” Dyrsse takes another sip of the wine. “I was commanded by the Emperor Stesten himself to bring an end to the black city, beginning by destroying the black meddlers’ power in Candar.”

  “That may be, ser. But what about the army, ser? Not a trace of it remains. Not a trace. Three thousand troops and a good force leader lost in the Lower Easthorns, and they’re all gone. So are the thousands that were on the ships. What can you say about that?” Gurtel’s voice rises slightly, but only slightly. His fingers stray toward the goblet he has not touched, but stop short of the crystal stem.

  “The same is true there. It took the only other strong wizards from Recluce. One was young, and he is now middle-aged. The other, like the storm wizard, has also aged decades.” Dyrsse lifts his goblet and sips again. “Not a bad wine, though not so good as the Delapran.”

  “You weren’t in that storm, ser.” Gurtel looks at the wine, and his nose twitches, and he shudders ever so slightly.

  “No, I wasn’t. But that storm was within one bay, not in the open sea, and even so, that wizard almost destroyed himself in sinking perhaps fifteen vessels.”

  “A score and a half is more like it, unless some come limping back.”

  “The grand fleet has thirtyscore warships, and will put an end to this foolishness.” Dyrsse’s voice remains calm, almost flat.

  “There’s a whole isle of wizards, ser.”

  “No. Recluce has never had more than a handful of real wizards, and now they have less than that. Had they as many wizards as you say, then they would not have required their concealed warships-which we sank, you may recall.”

  “We sank one, ser. Maybe two, but we couldn’t find any traces of the second.”

  “They only had three, and that leaves them with one ship. No matter how mighty, one invisible ship and five exhausted wizards will not stop the Empire.” Dyrsse takes another sip of wine. “They have not even felt the real might of the Empire. The mighty Stesten has given us a charge, and our duty is to fulfill it.” .

  Gurtel exhales slowly, and his eyes again look to the west.

  “Now is the time to destroy these vipers. This is the weakest that Recluce has ever been.”

  Gurtel shudders.

  “It is true, and now we have the opportunity to rid the world of this scourge, and we will. It is the Emperor’s command.” Dyrsse smiles once more. “We leave for Dellash in the morning. That is where the grand fleet will marshal.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  CVI

  Nylan, Recluce

  “HIS MIGHTINESS STESTEN, Emperor of Hamor and Regent of the Gates of the Ocean, was not pleased with the destruction of more than thirty of his ships.” Heldra fingers the edge of the map on the ancient black oak table. “Nor the total loss of more than six thousand troops.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” Maris coughs. “He was so pleased that he’s assembling a mere four hundred steel-hulled warships and over fifteen thousand troops. That doesn’t count the cannon.”

  “That’s all an excuse,” snorts Maris. “Those ships were ready to sail long before he found out.”

  “How will he feed them?” asks Maris.

  “Always the trader,” sighs Heldra.

  “It’s important,” counters Maris.

  “Sammel took care of that,” answers Talryn. “He told them about order-preservation, how to use chaos-steam to preserve food.”

  “That traitor…” says Heldra.

  “So…it’s not as though he gave them a way to create wizards, thank darkness,” counters Maris. “It’s a good thing they don’t have many wizards.”

  “How could they?” asks Heldra. “None of the ancients ever went to Hamor.”

  “The food-preservation thing is bad enough. That’s how they can get all those troops on their ships, just because Sammel told them how to do it with boiling water and metal or glass containers. He gave the method to Colaris…” Talryn rolls up the map and crosses the room to the cabinet, which he opens. He slides the map into its slot and closes the cabinet.

  “And Colaris gave it to Hamor in return for troops and weapons, especially those cannon?”

  Talryn nods slowly.

  “You know, Justen already proved that too much order results in chaos.” Maris looks nervously at the depressions in the smooth stones of the floor.

  “What do you mean?” asks Heldra.

  “Maybe… maybe the Council put too much order into Candar… with Lerris, and Tamra,
and Sammel…”

  “I notice you’re not saying ‘we,’ Maris.”

  “I wasn’t a member of the Council then. Hundril represented the traders then.”

  “Well, he’s dead of old age, and you’re the traders’ representative now. What should we do?”

  Maris looks back at the floor.

  “Complaining won’t solve our problems.”

  “Do we want a solution?”

  “Stop asking questions and provide some constructive thoughts,” snaps Heldra.

  “My point,” returns Maris, his voice edged, “is that solutions are sometimes worse than the problem. We forget this because big problems don’t happen often. Nearly two centuries ago, Justen solved the problem of Fairhaven, all right. And back at the beginning, Creslin solved the problem of Recluce. We all know how the great Dorrin solved the problem of how to make Recluce independent and powerful. But because those were a long time ago, we forget that solutions have high prices.”

  “You’d rather that we didn’t exist?” muses Talryn. “If any of those ‘solutions’ had failed… we wouldn’t be here.”

  “We wouldn’t, but the solutions were hard on the people of those times. Justen destroyed half of Nylan and over two thousand people there alone to bring down Frven, and the rest of the deaths were never totaled. The deaths caused by Creslin’s meddling with the weather have never been summed, and Dorrin changed everything-we’re still paying for his discoveries. That Hamorian fleet wouldn’t be possible without his discoveries.”

  “That doesn’t exactly help, Maris. Probably all of Nylan would have died if Justen hadn’t stopped Fairhaven.”

  “Fine.” Maris smiles. “Make sure Gunnar and Lerris and Justen and Tamra and Krystal know about the Hamorian fleet.”

  “How will that help?”

  “I don’t know, exactly.” Maris shrugs. “But I’d bet they won’t stand aside and let Recluce fall. I also bet there will be times you’ll wish they had.”

  “Stop being so damned cryptic! Why?”

  “I don’t know. But if you put Lerris’s youth and audacity together with Justen’s and Gunnar’s knowledge, and the judgments of those two women, I wouldn’t want to be in the Hamorians’ boots. But, then, I wouldn’t want to be in ours, either.”

  Heldra and Talryn exchange glances.

  “Do we have any choice?”

  “Probably not. Not this late.”

  “How do we let them know?”

  “Write Gunnar in Ruzor, and send it by the last of the trio. That will convey some urgency. And charter a ship to get them back here.”

  Heldra and Talryn exchange glances.

  “Unless you want them on the Dylyss.” Maris raises his eyebrows. “If you have any better ideas…”

  Heldra looks up. “There’s more than one use for the black squads.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Heldra,” says Talryn slowly. “If you try to double-cross them, there won’t be enough of you to feed to the minnows. And if they don’t do it to you, I will.”

  “Strong words…” But Heldra looks down as Talryn’s eyes catch hers.

  Maris swallows, then says, “Should I write the letter?”

  Talryn nods, not taking his eyes off Heldra.

  CVII

  WHEN WE RODE around the last corner of the High Desert mountain road, and Ruzor spread out below us, no one spoke.

  The harbor fort lay in ruins-a rocky heap on the north end of the breakwater with but a single tower standing out of the rocks. Only the single stone pier remained standing, and even from where we rode, the sounds of saws and axes tearing apart the wreckage of buildings and piers cast down or into other buildings echoed out to us. Dozens of homes appeared destroyed, just piles of rubble, and nothing within two hundred cubits of the water appeared to be intact.

  A chunk had been gouged out of the bluff to the south of the Phroan River, and even several gaps leered from the wall of the autarch’s residence.

  The autarch’s flag continued to fly, and with a bit more concentration, I could see at least several wrecked hulls apparently smashed across the breakwater, and others driven into the sands on the far south end of the bay. They must have been huge ships to be visible from so far, and yet they were strewn across the shores and breakwater as though they had been toys.

  “I see Gunnar got over his reticence in employing force,” commented Justen wryly.

  I just looked, seeing for the first time the enormous damage wrought by the Hamorian guns, and, in return, by the storm or whatever that my father had called. I had to shiver, although the road was hot, and I was sweating, thinking about the power he had wielded. In some ways, because of all his logic and reliance on words, I had considered him the last man to resort to force.

  In a strange way, I supposed, that made sense. How could he resort to force, knowing what he could do? How could Justen use force if he thought any alternative were possible?

  “You look thoughtful,” offered Weldein, riding up beside me.

  “I am.” I gestured toward the ruined city that had been Ruzor. “Look at that.” After a moment I added,“I hope everyone is all right.” Then I had to laugh. How could everyone be all right with such destruction?

  He was silent for several moments, then asked, “Do you think that such destruction shows what happens when machines and magic clash?”

  I hadn’t even thought of it in quite that way, but as the conflict of different peoples who were all too alike in wanting things their own ways. “I think magic and machines are only the tools people use to express their will. It is the willingness to use such tools that bothers me.”

  “Both can be horrible tools,” he answered.

  “Yes.” Horrible tools, indeed, but I didn’t see many alternatives when someone was out to enslave or kill you and those you loved. What seemed so futile was that it seemed to go on and on. If we were successful, then that would just make Hamor madder and more determined, and as the tools got better, the destruction would get worse. We were already seeing that. But how did we stop it, short of destroying Hamor?

  For all the ruin, there were smiles on the faces of the Kyphrans in the streets, as they lifted stones hurled hundreds of cubits. Smiles on many faces, at least.

  I did not smile. There were some houses where black and white bows graced the doors, and where the feel of tears persisted. And there were those houses that just were no more, only piles of stone and masonry that had crushed all beneath their crumpled walls.

  We rode down the winding streets from the upper gates and finally reached the barracks, detouring around a pile of rubble just outside the barracks walls.

  My father was waiting in the barracks courtyard. So were Krystal and Tamra, and so was the autarch.

  I looked at Krystal, and she looked back at me, with a brief and faint smile that vanished too quickly. I took a deep breath and waited, patting Gairloch on the neck.

  Kasee looked at Justen, and then at me. Justen glanced to me.

  “There is no Hamorian army. Nothing remains.”

  “Those who would have brought destruction to us have suffered it themselves,” said the autarch slowly, her eyes resting for a time upon Justen and then Dayala.

  “As it should and must be,” added the druid.

  “I could feel it,” said my father. He looked older, his face wrinkled, his hair mostly silver, just like Justen and Dayala. “And your losses, Lerris?” asked Kasee. Tamra just nodded, and her eyes flicked to Weldein and then to me.

  “We lost two. They got separated in the chaos, and I think they ran the wrong way. We couldn’t find any trace of them or their tracks.”

  “They were swallowed by chaos.” Dayala shivered. “Once again, you, and we, have paid a heavy price.” The autarch’s voice was almost flat. “We thank you.”

  I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and slowly dismounted. My legs were sore. The Finest might be used to riding days on end, but I wasn’t, and my body was older, unfortunately. I smelled, and I
wanted to wash up and get into clean clothes.

  I still had to unsaddle and groom Gairloch. Justen, Gunnar, Krystal, and Kasee gathered together, but no one asked me to join them. So I walked him into the stables and curried him and watered and fed him. Then I patted him on the neck. “Thanks again, fellow.” Sometimes, I felt he was the only creature who really cared. Probably stupid, but that was what I felt.

  When I went back to the courtyard, Krystal was waiting. The autarch and Tamra had disappeared, and my father, Justen, and Dayala slowly walked from the courtyard and into the shade, and, if they did not quite shuffle, neither was there spring in their steps, nor joy in their bearing-not exactly a joyous victory celebration.

  Krystal followed me as I carried my gear to the washroom. “How did things go here… for you ?” I asked as I stripped off my filthy shirt and began to wash off layers of road grime and sweat.

  “Not too badly. Your father insisted that we abandon the harbor fort, except for him and Tamra and a few troopers. He was right. The guns pounded most of it to rubble. They almost drowned, I think, when they left, and she had to drag him clear because he was so tired.”

  “It looks as though he raised quite a storm.”

  “No one who lived here has ever seen anything like it. We can salvage all that metal and some of the equipment from the hulls. It will take a while, though.” She laughed a short laugh. “A Spidlarian metal merchant already showed up with a bid on one of the wrecked ships. Bodies are still washing up on the beaches.”

  I kept washing. “What about the Finest?”

  “We lost maybe twoscore, but when they started shelling the bluff, we lost nearly a thousand outliers.”

  I winced, thinking of even more Pendrils and Shervans. “Then the waves came, and the storm, and the rain, and probably scores more will die of the flux. If we’re lucky.”

  I dumped my shirt into the tub and quickly scrubbed it. The water turned black, and I had to rinse it with water from the pump spout.

  “How does the autarch feel?”