L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

After a year, after saying he would not destroy any cities after Axalt, Jeslek had done just that. He had raised another wave of chaos and brought down another city-or part of it, since the glass showed some structures untouched.

Why? Because the Black warleader was good enough to hold off an entire White force with a fraction of the men and equipment?

Rubbing his forehead and standing with his back to the growing warmth of the hearth, Cerryl let the image slip from the glass.

What had really happened in the campaign for Elparta? Cerryl was convinced there were too many details he didn’t know. And things you really won’t want to know?

“That, too,” he murmured to the empty glass. “That, too.”

Then he took out ink and quill and parchment. Regardless of what had happened in Elparta, he still needed to inform Jeslek about the provisions needs of his lancers.

His eyes flicked westward as he reseated himself at the table.

THE AROMA OF roasting pork mixed with the dampness of the mist that had hugged the hamlet area for more than an eight-day. Cerryl half-smiled as he walked from the cot toward the cook fires, his eyes going to the low clouds that continued to roll westward out of the Easthorns. The morning patrol had been cold and damp, but every patrol lately had been that way.

He rubbed his forehead, trying to hasten the departure of the headache that followed every prolonged effort with the glass, efforts that continued to show no signs of either more supplies and levies or of Spidlarian forces near the Axalt-Elparta road.

Would the rest of the fall be filled with damp and rain? Darkness hard on the harvest…if there even is one . Or early snows? Cerryl shivered at that thought, and his fingers went to the buttons on his jacket, a jacket that looked more splotched tan than white after two seasons in the field.

“We found three of ’em, a sow, an old boar, and a younger one,” said Ferek with a wide grin as Cerryl approached.

“I can smell that.”

“We left the young sow for now. Be a while yet, but the men can wait.” The older subofficer gestured toward the clouds. “You want a road patrol this afternoon?”

“Just to those cots to the east. Some of the folk have returned.”

“After the men eat?” asked Ferek. “Pork’ll do ’em good.” He grinned. “Kieral found near on a stone of potatoes in the side field there, at the back. Missed them earlier.”

“That’s only good for a few meals,” mused Hiser, from beside Ferek.

“Take ’em where we can get ’em.” Ferek nodded emphatically.

“The message should reach the High Wizard tomorrow.” You hope . “Late this afternoon is fine for the patrol.”

The three looked up at the sound of hoofs. Three lancers rode toward the corral and the cook fires. The lead rider wore the sash of a messenger.

“A message for Mage Cerryl from the High Wizard,” gasped the lean young lancer, extending a scroll.

As he took the rolled and sealed scroll, Cerryl noted absently that one of the lancers who rode with the messenger was a woman, older and hard-faced. “I have it. Why don’t you three dismount? We’ll be having a hearty midday meal, and I imagine it will be welcome after a cold ride.”

“Thank you,” the messenger answered.

The other two lancers nodded…and dismounted.

Cerryl stepped away from the cook fire that held two cauldrons filled with potatoes. The two boars were being turned on makeshift spits at the other two fires. After breaking the seal, he began to read.

Greetings, Cerryl,

As you may surmise from this, your presence is needed in Elparta, your presence and your particular skills. Now that Fairhaven controls Elparta and the River Gallos, as I trust you have discovered through your glass, protection of the road from Axalt is less important and provided as much by our control of both Elparta and the upper reaches of the river…

We expect that you will decamp immediately and make your way with prudent haste to rejoin us here in Elparta…

Jeslek had signed the scroll, but the signature was almost a scrawl, unlike the more precise lettering of earlier messages. The impact of using so much chaos, or because he’s hurried?

That also brought up the question of who had written the scroll itself. Anya? There hadn’t been any scriveners coming along the main road, nor any apprentice mages, and Cerryl doubted that Jeslek would have trusted Fydel to write anything. Then, he trusted Anya less than either Fydel or the High Wizard.

Cerryl rerolled the scroll and thrust it inside his jacket, then stepped forward.

Both Ferek and Hiser were waiting, but neither said a word, though their eyes were filled with questions.

“The High Wizard has summoned us to Elparta. We will depart at dawn.” Cerryl smiled. “There’s time enough to enjoy the boar.”

“Good,” said Ferek.

Hiser nodded politely.

“…about time,” came from one of the lancers loitering by the adjoining cook fire.

“…that blue commander…wonder if they got him…”

“…never happen…say he’s a giant…”

“…won’t have to freeze here anyway…”

After what his glass had shown of Elparta, Cerryl had the feeling that wintering over in Elparta-for that was surely what Jeslek had in mind-would scarcely be that warm. It would require at least some labor to repair enough of the city to house those lancers and levies stationed there through the cold seasons. And the following spring and summer would only bring more difficulty with the blues and their near-mythical commander.

AS HE RODE downhill and westward, Cerryl saw the flattened trees and shrubs before he glimpsed the River Gallos. Despite the weak midday sun and the cold wind from the east, a sickly smell rose from the mud that covered the floodplain.

Once below the eroded bluff that years before had slumped into a gentle incline, the road turned and ran along the ancient levee north toward Elparta, wide enough to allow four horses abreast-or two wagons wheel-to-wheel.

“Two abreast, Hiser,” Cerryl ordered, not wanting any of the mounts walking through the stinking mud bordering the road, already repacked into a solid clay surface from heavy traffic. Here and there on the slope above the river were heaps of thatch and planks or water-smoothed mud bricks that had once been cots or outbuildings. Cerryl tried not to breathe deeply.

“Demon-darkness stench,” Ferek commented. “Worse inside the walls, I’d wager.”

“Surrender couldn’t have been this bad,” said Hiser.

Of that Cerryl wasn’t certain. He glanced ahead toward the slumped outline of what had been city walls. A full company of lancers, dismounted, was gathered just outside the rubble.

One of the city gates lay broken against the rubble of one guard Tower. Only the iron straps of the other remained, blackened and thrown across the shattered planks of the first gate. Cerryl nodded. Jeslek-or Fydel or Anya-had taken out some wrath on the gate.

On a makeshift platform beside the opening into the city stood a lancer officer. “The High Wizard is in the high house on the hill.” Captain Teras inclined his head to Cerryl, then gestured over his shoulder. “He expects you. I will see your men are quartered…with what we have.”

“Thank you.”

“Dester and Huyl will guide you. The ways are not what they once were.” Only the faintest tinge of irony colored the voice of the hulking lancer officer.

Cerryl turned in the saddle. “Don’t let the men run loose, no matter what anyone says. If they’re allowed the freedom of the place, make sure they go in threes.”