L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“They’ve been stirring all night, no doubt.” Fydel snorted. “Let us see if there’s something to eat.”

They joined Hiser and Teras by the cook fire, where Cerryl took a joint that was hot and dripping. He stood by the cook fire, alternating mouthfuls of hard bread and tough mutton, leaning forward enough that the juice didn’t drip on his whites. Fydel chewed more noisily, but neither spoke while they ate. Ears alert, Cerryl listened to the scattered comments of the officers and subofficers around the nearby fire.

“…move so slow…nothing here.”

“There wasn’t much there, either, when the blues used that order fire to wipe out a couple-dozen-score levies and some mages…what’s your hurry?”

“Just want to get it over.”

“…so you can get killed sooner in another war, say with the Hydlenese?”

Cerryl found himself smiling crookedly at the last words.

“You think we’ll have to take Hydlen, too?” asked Fydel.

“We’ll have to do something. I’d wager soon rather than later, but that rests with the Council and the High Wizard.”

“The Council will follow Jeslek.”

“As it should be,” interjected Anya.

“Good morning.” Cerryl turned and inclined his head.

“Morning,” Fydel grunted.

“Cerryl…Fydel, Jeslek would like to meet with you now.” Anya’s voice was cool, preemptory, and she turned with the last of her words and walked back toward the white silk tent.

“Full of herself,” mumbled Fydel through a last morsel of bread.

She always has been, even when she first beguiled you . “Perhaps, but Jeslek is not patient these days.”

The two followed Anya back to the tent.

Inside, Jeslek sat on a stool before the small table, sipping wine from the single goblet. “Come in. We have much to do today.”

Standing at his shoulder, Anya nodded.

Cerryl and Fydel stepped forward and stood across the table from the High Wizard.

“Cerryl, you have found no traces of the Black one’s works along the road, is that not so?”

“So far,” Cerryl replied cautiously.

Jeslek frowned. “A moment, and I will return.” He stood. “Anya, you may proceed. You know my wishes.”

Cerryl repressed the frown he felt. Jeslek had left hurriedly. A touch of the flux? Shouldn’t the High Wizard have been able to control that?

“The harbor and center of Diev lie less than ten kays ahead,” Anya said. “Cerryl, have you screed the town this morning?”

“I did. Before I ate. The smith had left his forge and was at the shipwright’s on the harbor. I could see no bodies of armsmen, but those around him did bear arms.”

“Not enough to trouble us,” Fydel said. “A mere handful, and against our force…”

Cerryl frowned. Had he heard the sound of boots on the hard-packed mud and gravel?

Anya smiled, broadly and falsely. “Cerryl, I know you have so many important things to consider, but the High Wizard will need your sage advice when he returns.”

Cerryl wanted to wince at the sickly-sweet tone and cover the redhead with chaos. She seemed to be acting more and more as if she were the High Wizard.

“Now…when we get ready to head out. Fydel, remember it’s not too far until we reach that homestead. Don’t fire it. The High Wizard wants to study it first-the one with the brush barricade around it and the charred cottage in front.”

Cerryl nodded at the reference to the smith’s place, although his screeing had shown it appeared to be empty and the smith was at the shipwright’s-or he had been earlier.

“That is your precious smith’s place, is it not?” asked Jeslek, returning to the tent, chaos swirling around him.

“This Dorrin is not my smith,” Cerryl replied evenly. “He’s left there for the shipwright’s.”

“It matters not. He can’t escape our ships.” Jeslek dismissed the smith with an offhand gesture.

Cerryl frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He could sense a change around him-a concentration of something-order? He turned to the side of the tent where the silk billowed ever so slightly. The air wavered. “Look! Over there!” As he spoke, he lifted his shields, wondering what good they would do against an order master even as he did.

“Concealment!” blurted Anya.

Fydel’s mouth merely dropped at the appearance of the red-haired smith almost right before them, carrying something that looked like a short and heavy crossbow without the bow. The device was pointed at Jeslek.

The High Wizard gestured at the smith, and chaos swirled, beginning to build. WHHHsssttt! The firebolt flared past the smith and burned through the tent silk.

Crack…thump…whummmmmmPPPPTTTTTTT …Another kind of order-cased flame flashed from the smith’s device toward the High Wizard.

Simultaneously Jeslek hurled a wall of chaos toward the slight figure who had invaded the tent. EEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIiiii …

As the order-forged flame of the smith and the High Wizard’s chaos met, incandescence seared through the tent, rending the silk walls. Despite his shields, Cerryl felt himself being hurled backward through a vortex of order and chaos that shivered the air and ground.

Darkness blanketed him.

He found himself lying on charred silk looking upward at a sky that seemed far darker and more cloud-filled than when he had entered the tent. Slowly, wondering how long he had lain there unconscious, he staggered upright in the cold rain that pelted down around him. He fingered his whites-definitely wet, and that meant he’d been down for a time, at least.

Thurrrrrummmmmmmmmm…thuruummmmm …Winds buffeted the few sections of the tent still in place, and thunderclaps shook air and ground alike, but both seemed to be lessening.

“Jeslek! Jeslek!” Anya’s voice was shrill, perhaps the first time Cerryl had heard it so.

Heavy droplets of rain continued to lash from the near-instant clouds, so heavily that Cerryl had to blink as he lurched toward the center of what remained of the High Wizard’s tent. Then ice pellets rattled down in a quick flurry before vanishing.

Cerryl took a deep breath and sent forth his senses, trying to see if any traces of the smith and his dark order remained. Nothing…What did he do, that he could strike so quickly and be gone? The light cloak was similar to what Cerryl had used himself, but had he failed to recognize it because it felt different when used by an order wielder? Does it matter now?

He stopped, looking over where Jeslek had been. Jeslek was gone. Jeslek gone? The greatest…or most powerful White mage…perhaps ever? Gone?

Cerryl took a step, then another, still searching for the High Wizard.

Anya stood by the shattered remnants of the small table, binding her arm. Fydel rose from one knee behind her.

Cerryl tried his order-chaos senses again, but there was no trace that Jeslek had ever been there, except for the gold amulet that lay amid the disintegrating pieces of a white tunic. Nor was there any sense of the order that bespoke the Black smith. The only body was that of a White guard. Cerryl shook his head. Jeslek dead…like that? He glanced at Fydel.

“He’s dead…gone,” Fydel affirmed.

Cerryl rubbed his forehead, and his fingers came away slightly streaked with blood.

“It happens.” Anya stooped and lifted the gold amulet from the pile of dust and clothes on the trampled and burned grass. Stepping around the dead guard’s body without even looking down, she dangled it toward the bearded White wizard with the gash across his forehead. “Would you like it, Fydel?”

“Darkness, no! Give it to Sterol.”

She turned to Cerryl. “Would you-”