L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“Could be more than that,” Cerryl admitted. “We have to keep them from getting to where they can attack Jeslek and the other lancers from behind.”

“Take some mighty good working to do that.” Ferek’s tone was bland.

Hiser just looked at Cerryl, his mouth expressionless but concern in his eyes.

“We’ll find a way.” Cerryl offered a smile he did not feel. “After you finish eating, get the men ready. We’ll need to start as soon as we can. I’d like them to have a chance to rest before we face the blues.”

The blonde Hiser nodded, then tugged at his short beard. “We leave anything here?”

Cerryl shook his head. If they beat back the Spidlarians, they’d need to stay closer to Jeslek’s force, and if they didn’t…

“One way or the other…no sense in that,” agreed Ferek, mumbling his words over another mouthful of the greasy mutton.

Cerryl took another mouthful of bread and a chunk of the hard white cheese, chewing carefully.

“They won’t ride away this time,” predicted Hiser.

“No, I don’t think so either.” Cerryl could feel some of the worst of the headache subsiding. You have to remember to eat …

“I’ll have them cook down the rest of the mutton.” Ferek turned toward the cook fires.

“I’ll pass the word,” Hiser answered. “Be a bit, still.”

“I know,” Cerryl mumbled through the last of the hard cheese. He turned and walked slowly back to the cot to pack his own gear, thinking about Hiser’s words. How could he deal with close to eightscore lancers who knew how to avoid firebolts?

He frowned as he paused inside the cot’s doorway, his eyes going to the glass he’d left on the table. What about rearranging order and chaos? Wouldn’t that be less tiring than extracting chaos and flinging it? How would that help you in a battle or skirmish?

Cerryl shrugged as he packed the glass and peered around the dusty room. You’d better find some way .

With a last glance at the empty trestle table, he turned and stepped back into the cool morning air, hoping that the day would remain pleasant, rather than turn sweltering.

THE HAZY CLOUDS of morning had thickened and turned into heavy gray masses that filled most of the sky, with but occasional patches of blue-tinged green. Despite the clouds, the day was warm and sultry, without even a hint of a breeze. The light rain of the morning had given way first to mist and then to the damp heat that permeated everything.

Cerryl felt that if he so much as lifted an arm or shifted his grip on the gelding’s reins, he would burst into sudden sweat.

“Damp,” murmured Hiser. “Makes it seem hotter.”

“Get hotter yet ’fore summer’s over,” answered Ferek.

“This is where they join.” Cerryl reined up and surveyed the road and the draw that held the narrower way that the Spidlarians traveled from the north. He shook his head, thinking about how the narrow strip of clay actually curved eastward for several kays, around the hills, before swinging west and south to join the Axalt-Elparta road.

Behind him, the column slowed and stopped. The scouts had already vanished behind the woods a kay or so ahead, around which the main road curved.

“They won’t be coming that way,” suggested Ferek, spitting onto the patchy grass of the main road’s shoulder. One hand gestured toward the wooded hills to the right of the road and toward the defile that held the narrower road from the northwest.

“How would you come?” asked Cerryl.

“Those fields back a ways…they be a trace steep, but they be open. They slope to the main road. I’d bring the mounts up that way. Specially after knowing what you done to ’em in narrow places.”

From his mount to Cerryl’s left Hiser nodded.

What Ferek said made sense, but would the Spidlarians see it that way? And if they did, what could Cerryl do with an open field? As Cerryl recalled the meadows, the slope from the narrow road was uphill. Would any lancers advance uphill?

Cerryl dismounted and handed the gelding’s reins to one of the lancers drawn up behind Hiser. Then he extracted the glass and set it on an even patch of ground on top of its leather case. With the heavy clouds overhead, there was no direct sunshine to worry about.

Cerryl concentrated on the glass, trying to bring up the image of the Spidlarians, ignoring the perspiration that intensified when he attempted screeing or employing either order or chaos. Slowly, the silver mists cleared, and an image of lancers appeared. From what he could tell, they remained on the same road as before, heading in a generally southward direction, but at least a day north of where Cerryl and his forces were positioned.

You hope . Then, Cerryl had been screeing and hoping a great deal over the past several eight-days. Finally, he repacked the glass, pausing to massage his forehead for a moment.

“Ser?” asked Hiser.

“They’re still riding this way.” Cerryl remounted and looked eastward. “We should ride back to those fields,” he decided. “Not everyone, just a half-score or so. The others can stand down here.”

“Now?” asked Hiser.

“The blues won’t be here for almost another day, not at the pace they’re making.”

“What if they go across the hills to cut off distance? They could do that,” suggested Hiser.

“Don’t think so,” offered Ferek. “From what the mage has shown in the glass, that north way be open. Till the last few kays, leastwise. Cross the hills, and too many places there for a mage to hide and throw fire.”

“Best we lay out the encampment,” suggested Ferek.

“And send out scouts and pickets,” added Hiser.

“Ferek,” Cerryl ordered, “you take care of setting up the encampment. Hiser will lead the half-score lancers from his company who will ride back to that meadow field with me.”

“Yes, ser.” Ferek nodded. “Men could use an early stop and some rest. We’ll have it all set up when you get back.”

Cerryl turned his mount back eastward, letting Hiser ride ahead of him and issue the commands to select the half-score of lancers that would accompany the two of them. He would have preferred to stop and rest himself.

How are you going to handle a force that could be five or six times yours? Especially when they know how to attack a White mage? Cerryl shifted his weight in the saddle. He didn’t have any answers, just hoped that there was something about the fields that would give him an idea.

Hiser eased his mount up beside Cerryl as the smaller group separated from the longer column of White Lancers. For a time the only sounds were the plodding of hoofs, the breathing of horses, and scattered murmurs of the lancers trailing the two.

“How are we going to face some tenscore lancers? Can you destroy them all with wizard fire, ser?” Hiser finally asked.

“Not if they spread out the way they usually do. That’s why we’re riding back there. I need to see what else I might do.”

When they reached their destination, Cerryl could sense that it was well past midafternoon, despite the still-thick gray clouds.

Once he reined up, a lone vulcrow cawed and flapped away from the higher grass downhill from the main road. Cerryl studied the slanting fields once more. He let his order-chaos senses slide under the long, sloping field, probing for concentrations of order or chaos, but the ground felt no different from any other patch of soil, except that some order seemed slightly more concentrated near the small stream to the west of the lower road that lay beyond the broad and slanting meadow.

Through a small gap in the clouds a thin line of sunlight arrowed across the afternoon, briefly lighting the edge of the hardwoods that defined the eastern edge of the meadow, a meadow nearly a kay wide. The light faded as swiftly as it had appeared, and the green leaves of the woods appeared gray-green once more.