L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

You’ll never live to be an old arms mage if you don’t . “That could be,” Cerryl said.

After a time, the creaking and groaning of wagons filled the wider space in the canyon that was becoming a lake.

Finally, Fydel drew Teras aside. “As soon as the wagon beasts are watered, we need to move on,” Fydel ordered Teras. “The water is almost up to the road.”

“It will take a little time, but we’ll hurry best we can, Mage Fydel,” Teras answered deliberately.

The sun had risen well above the canyon walls before the wagons and their teams had been watered, fed, and rested, and the water from the new lake was lapping at the side of the road as Fydel and Cerryl rode westward through the stream canyon. The road still rose, if more gently than before, and the murmurings from the lancers were louder as the day progressed.

While they had seen signs of the passage of Jeslek’s force-hoofprints and droppings-no messengers had reached them, and outside of the sound of the stream and the intermittent calls of vulcrows and the infrequent squawk of a traitor bird the only sounds came from the force of lancers that Fydel and Cerryl led deeper and deeper into the Easthorns.

Then, after a narrow defile, the road curved and widened into what appeared to be a small valley. There, under a single crimson and white banner, a squad of White Lancers waited.

Cerryl nodded to himself as he saw the tumbled walls beyond and the trails of smoke that curled into the clear green-blue of the sky above. The rock slides that had obstructed the road had not been caused just by thawing and meltwater, and Axalt had definitely paid Jeslek’s tariffs.

“The High Wizard has made his point,” Fydel observed. “Others will heed what has befallen Axalt.”

“I wonder,” murmured Cerryl. “I wonder.” It had taken the disappearance and death of one duke and the destruction of two Towers before the Dukes of Hydlen had understood the power of Fairhaven, and then only reluctantly. Would the devastation of one small mountain city really change the minds of the Traders’ Council of Spidlar?

“Mages Fydel and Cerryl?” asked the lancer subofficer who rode forward toward the white and crimson banners that followed the two mages.

“The same,” answered Fydel.

“The High Wizard has continued toward Elparta. He would have you meet his forces just beyond the Easthorns. He also requests that you make prudent haste.”

“Prudent haste? That we can do.” Fydel nodded and cleared his throat, turning in the saddle to Teras.

While the two talked, Cerryl’s eyes took in the jumbled heaps of rocks that had once been walls, dwellings, warehouses…who knew what. The stench of death, while faint, was present and would grow, even in the cool under the clear skies. The scattering smoke trails whispered upward.

Cerryl thought he saw a crouched figure scuttle from one pile of rubble to another, but long as he looked again, he could see no other movement. Then, he wouldn’t have moved either, not after what Jeslek had done to Axalt. He turned back toward Fydel.

“There’s no reason to tarry here,” observed the square-bearded mage.

Cerryl glanced over the devastation. “No. I would guess not.”

Somewhat later, as the lancer column wound upward toward the end of the valley, picking its way through and around the rubble, Cerryl could hear the murmurings from the lancers who rode behind them.

“…didn’t leave much for us.”

“…didn’t leave much for anyone.”

Will Jeslek leave much for anyone? Cerryl eased himself into another position in the too-hard saddle and kept riding.

FROM WHERE HE rode beside Fydel, leading the White Lancers and halfway down the hillside, Cerryl could see a hamlet ahead, little more than a gathering of huts in a depression between the rolling hills. From around the huts rose the smoke of cook fires, and farther out Cerryl could discern scores of mounts confined, either in rough corrals or on tie-lines. The hamlet itself lay perhaps ten kays westward from the end of the canyon that had led them from fallen Axalt into Spidlar.

Cerryl glanced back over the line of lancers, in the direction of the supply wagons still out of sight behind the hill he and Fydel were descending on the winding clay track that barely resembled a road. Behind them, the snow and ice of the Easthorns’ higher reaches almost merged with the puffy white clouds that had begun to drift in from the north.

Cerryl hoped the clouds didn’t bring rain-or not too much. He turned and studied the road ahead and the hillside that seemed to alternate between rocks, scrub bushes, and patches of grass-a land suited mostly to grazing, if that. He squinted, trying to see farther westward where several of the more distant hills appeared to be wooded, but the hills faded as the gelding carried him downhill.

A half-kay or so outside the unnamed hamlet, the road flattened and widened somewhat. With the more level ground came the scents of horses and smoke and other less savory evidences of human habitation.

In the hamlet itself, Jeslek and Anya stood outside a rough-timbered dwelling slightly larger than the handful of others, perhaps twenty cubits in breadth and ten deep and boasting a clay-chinked stone chimney. Cerryl could sense the residual of the chaos used to clean the dwelling.

“So…you have arrived.” Jeslek’s sun-eyes glittered. “At last. We have been here near on two days.”

“We made prudent haste,” answered Fydel. “It took longer because of the rock slides and the rising waters. And the supply wagons you left for us to escort.”

“You passed through Axalt?” The High Wizard’s eyes traveled from Fydel to Cerryl and then back to the dark-bearded mage.

How else could we have gone? Then Cerryl realized, belatedly, that Jeslek wanted an acknowledgment of some sort. “We saw the destruction you wrought, High Wizard. Nothing remains of Axalt.”

Jeslek snorted. “I have sent a message to the Traders’ Council of Spidlar, suggesting that they heed what befell Axalt.”

“They will not,” said Anya, standing beside Jeslek, her flame-red hair fluttering in the light and chill wind that blew out of the Easthorns and across the rolling hills of southeastern Spidlar. “They scarce will have learned that we have arrived here. Nor will they credit all the levies to follow until they have seen them in battle.”

Jeslek gestured toward the cots and small barns behind him. “Battle? It will be eight-days before we see any battle. By then, we will have advanced half the distance to Elparta.”

“What would you have us do?” asked Fydel.

“Best you quarter with us,” offered the High Wizard, “though we will be here for but a few days, while we refresh mounts and make repairs.” Jeslek glanced at Teras. “You had best consult with Senglat as to where you should camp your force and rest their mounts.”

From where he had drawn his mount up next to Cerryl, Teras nodded acknowledgment. “As you suggest, High Wizard.”

“Shortly, we will discuss how we will proceed to bring Spidlar into the fold.”

Cerryl dismounted wearily. Any respite would be more than welcome, but he doubted that Spidlar-or any land-would come into the fold all that willingly.

CERRYL SAT ON the hard bench beside Anya, across the rough-cut trestle table from Jeslek and Fydel. A light rain fell outside the small house, and occasional gusts of damp and cool morning air filtered through the open door.

The High Wizard was half-turned on the other bench, his eyes fixed on Fydel. “There are only two roads from Axalt into Spidlar. The northern road goes to Kleth and the southern one to Elparta. They both split from the one leading out of this pigsty. The fork is about ten kays to the west of where we are now. There’s a town there, if you can term it such.”