L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“Set up…what’s to set up?” Ferek mumbled to Hiser as the two walked back in the direction of the corral and the lancers, some of whom were still eating.

Hiser murmured something, but Cerryl didn’t catch his words. The mage turned back to the cot, where he again called up the image of the Spidlarian lancers, now clearly riding southward. He let the image go, slipped the glass into its case, then stepped out of the cot. He walked down to the pole and post corral, stopping by the cook fire to grab a biscuit and some hard yellow cheese, which he wolfed down and chased with water. When he reached the corral, the gelding was already saddled and tied, waiting.

Hiser was mounted, as were five lancers.

“We’re ready, ser.”

Cerryl strapped the glass into a saddlebag and then mounted. The sun had climbed clear of the low hills to the east and blazed out of the clear green-blue morning sky, indicating a day that would be long and hot.

“Do you know how hard they’re riding?” Hiser asked.

“They’re walking their mounts.”

As they rode westward past the untended fields and meadows, Cerryl could hear Ferek’s voice behind them as he addressed the majority of the lancers.

“No more raids. These be armsmen, and lots of ’em. A good wizard helps, but he’ll not do everything.”

Not do everything? Let’s hope I don’t have to . Cerryl still recalled the battles in Gallos, when he’d been an apprentice. It had taken three wizards and three apprentices to defeat the Gallosian lancers. There were a few more Gallosian lancers there than here . But that battle still pointed out the limits of using chaos fire. The bigger the battle, the less use it was, because drawing chaos from the land and air exhausted the White wizard before all the armsmen on the other side were turned to ash.

The early-morning wind had died, and the morning was still and damp, although there had been no rain in several days. Cerryl shifted his weight in the saddle, his eyes on where the road forked ahead.

Cerryl, Hiser, and the quarter-score lancers took the north fork, the one that wound its way toward Kleth-eventually. After they had ridden up and down three of the long and gentle rises that barely qualified as hills, the day had gotten warm enough that Cerryl was sweating, and what little breeze there had been had long since died away. The road was empty, and the only tracks were those of Cerryl’s patrols.

In time, the seven reined up on the hillside that Hiser had thought might be suitable for what he had envisioned. The young mage glanced at the subofficer.

“See…this is the right place,” Hiser said. “We could form up on the right in that meadow…make them ride up-or charge down.”

Without speaking, Cerryl surveyed the ground to the northwest. Was Hiser right? Could they use the terrain to their advantage? How? Height wasn’t enough by itself. The road went through a narrower space between the two rolling hills. On the north side was an open meadow and on the south a woods or woodlot, thick enough to slow and split riders. Any decent officer would see that and go another way, and Cerryl couldn’t count on stupidity on the part of the Spidlarians.

“Let’s ride along the road to the next rise,” the mage suggested.

A brief frown crossed Hiser’s face.

“You were right about the place,” Cerryl said, “but if we wait here, it will be obvious to them. I’m wondering if the next rise looks like high ground but would show that we could be flanked.”

Hiser nodded. “So we’d form up and then give a little attack and fall back.”

“We might just fall back,” Cerryl said. “I’d rather avoid losing men we don’t have to lose. It would also give them the idea I don’t know what I’m doing.” You don’t, anyway . He concealed the wince at his own self-doubt.

“Make them hasty…you think?”

“Something like that, just so they don’t think too much.”

Cerryl rode down through the long and gentle slope of the meadow for nearly half a kay, noting that despite the lush grass, the ground appeared flat and firm.

“They could ride up this easy,” said Hiser. “Course…we could ride down easier.”

“Let’s hope they think so.” Cerryl turned his mount back uphill.

After dismounting near the single oak near the road-he thought it was an oak-Cerryl took out the glass and laid it on its case in the shadow of the tree, then motioned for Hiser to join him.

As the image swam into the glass, Cerryl could hear the lancer subofficer swallow. The Spidlarian lancers were still on the road headed toward Cerryl. They were not straining their mounts but moving at a good walking pace.

“Watching their mounts, they are,” observed Hiser.

“A cautious leader.” And that’s trouble . Cerryl released the image. “We might as well relax until Ferek and the others get here.”

“Stand down,” Hiser ordered the five lancers.

Cerryl sat down in the shade, leaning against a crooked oak root that had risen aboveground. He had the feeling he’d best rest while he could.

Well before midmorning, Ferek and the balance of Cerryl’s lancers arrived.

“The hill the last back is a better place,” Ferek offered brusquely as he reined up beside the oak, looking down at Cerryl, who had not remounted the gelding.

“You’re right,” Cerryl agreed amiably. “We won’t fight here. I don’t want them to see that, though. If they do, they might try something else.” That I wouldn’t be able to puzzle out quickly enough .

Ferek scratched his beard. “Tire the mounts some to ride back there if they’re chasing us.”

“They’ve ridden farther, much farther,” Cerryl pointed out, “and it will be a time before they arrive-at least midday.” He paused. “If you rest and water the mounts in the stream there, will they be ready?”

Ferek looked toward the stream that crossed the southeastern side of the long meadow. “Easy. Do it in squads, I would.”

“Then why don’t you start now?” Cerryl smiled.

Hiser covered his mouth and coughed to hide a smile.

Ferek swung his bay around and ordered, “Water time. Stand down in squads! Water. Be quick now.”

Cerryl rode the gelding back to the sole oak tree near the road on the crest of the rise and dismounted. He took out the glass and called up the image of the Spidlarians-who appeared nearer. Overhead, the leaves rustled briefly, then stilled again.

It was almost noon before the Spidlarian force appeared on the more distant hill-and reined up as the riders saw the short line of Cerryl’s lancers, all mounted and apparently ready to repulse any attack or to attack themselves.

“Mayhap they won’t come forward,” said Ferek, from Cerryl’s right. “Or they’ll let their mounts get their wind.”

“It could be. We’ll have to see.” Cerryl blotted more of the dampness from his forehead and the back of his neck and stood slightly in the stirrups, trying to loosen trousers that clung too tightly, welded to his body by heat and sweat.

As Ferek’s lancers had done, the Spidlarians cautiously watered their mounts in small groups, clearly not letting any horse drink much, before re-forming on the rise across the meadow from Cerryl’s forces.

Slightly before midafternoon, the larger Spidlarian force slowly began to move, taking the slightly lower sections of the long meadow, then moving up. A group of archers rode halfway up the meadow and started to dismount and string their bows.

“Don’t like that, ser,” Ferek said.

Cerryl concentrated.

Whhhssttt . A firebolt arched and fell on one side of the archers.

One man flared into flame, and the others fell back a good hundred cubits.