L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

The dark-bearded Fydel nodded.

“You and Cerryl will hold that town while Anya and I will lead the advance on Elparta, once the first levies arrive.”

“Why don’t we just take the northern route and be done with it?” asked Fydel.

“Because the northern road is even worse than this track, and because we’ll need the river to move the levies down to Kleth and Spidlaria,” Anya answered for Jeslek.

Cerryl wanted to hold his breath, so strong was the odor of trilia and sandalwood despite the breeze from the open door.

“Which levies? Aren’t the Certans coming through what’s left of Axalt? Can’t they hold the town? That’s what levies are best at, anyway.” Fydel shrugged.

“Rystryr’s levies are coming through Axalt, but we don’t want that Black arms commander coming out of the north and hitting them before they even get to the river.”

“Honored High Wizard…” Fydel paused, then added, “I fail to understand. If we took the northern route-”

“Then this Black would hold Elparta,” interrupted Jeslek, “and he would control the river and be able to attack either our forces or the Gallosian levies. As I have told you, Fydel, he is an excellent field commander.”

Anya smiled her blindingly false smile. “We also wouldn’t have any Gallosian levies because they wouldn’t march downriver into Spidlar. We wouldn’t be there to lead them, and the agreement for levies requires the White Lancers to provide horse support. Or do you propose that we abandon half the ground armsmen that we have already called in?”

“As for the Certan levies, you and Cerryl have to provide the escort and horse support, and that means you will be quartered at the town at the road fork, whatever its name might be.” Jeslek raised his snow-white eyebrows. “As Anya has pointed out, we also have to have a way for the Gallosian levies to enter Spidlar, and that has to be by the river or the river roads. That means we have to reach the river, and that’s where Elparta is.”

“So we do the dirty work-”

Jeslek’s eyes flashed.

“Whatever you wish, High Wizard,” Fydel said quickly.

“I am High Wizard, Fydel, and it would behoove you to recall that.” Jeslek’s voice moderated. “Have you a better way of ensuring that all the levies are joined?” After a moment of silence, Jeslek nodded, almost to himself. “I thought not. Now…we are to expect the first Certan levies in an eight-day. Until they arrive, Anya and I will advance as far as we can without engaging any large Spidlarian forces. You will scree the north road and run patrols to ensure that we are not flanked…”

Cerryl continued to listen, still wondering precisely why Jeslek had insisted on Cerryl’s own presence. The breeze died, and, again, he found himself overwhelmed with the scents of sandalwood and trilia.

CERRYL WALKED SLOWLY toward the cook fire behind the squarish house, looking toward the south. Although the fields and meadows were green, the color that faded with the sun as he studied the land had been the lighter green of early spring, and the evening was getting chill, like every evening since they had left Jellico.

Cerryl eased up closer to the cook fire, stopping to the right of Fydel and Anya. He sniffed the scent of a mutton stew of some sort.

“How did it go today?” asked Anya, tendering a mug of something to the square-bearded mage.

“The same as yesterday, and the day before.” Fydel shook his head, his eyes going to the west, where the purple of the sky deepened. “I wish the darkness-damned Certans would get here. If they don’t…”

“If they don’t…what?” asked Jeslek as he strode up to the fire. “Do you want to go back and fetch them?”

“It might be better than trying to fend off the raids from that Black renegade,” suggested Fydel dourly.

“We won’t have to wait that long. The first detachment has reached the ruins of Axalt.” Jeslek glanced at the lancer cook. “How long?”

“A bit longer for the stew, ser.” The cook looked down at the boot-packed ground around the stones of the cook-fire ring. “I’m sorry.”

Everything took longer , reflected Cerryl silently. Everywhere .

“Did you lose anyone today?” asked Anya, glancing back to the square-bearded mage.

“Not today. One lancer took an arrow in the thigh, but it wasn’t deep. We never saw the archer.”

Cerryl frowned but said nothing. How could Fydel not see an archer?

“You think it’s easy?” snapped Fydel as he turned to the younger mage. “You try one of the road patrols. The blue bastards don’t stay in one place. You go down one road, and some archers are firing at your squad from the woods to your rear. If you try to clear out the woods, you lose more men because they can’t make any speed on horseback there. If you avoid the woods, you can’t get anywhere. The fields are still muddy.” Fydel looked at Cerryl. “Tomorrow…you should come with us. You’ll see. Darkness, you’ll see.”

“Perhaps you should, Cerryl,” Jeslek said. “It will give you an idea of just how you will handle peacekeeping once we take Elparta. There’s not much else you can do until the levies get here.”

“Yes, ser.” The last thing Cerryl wanted to do was ride along roads that weren’t even lanes trying to keep raiding parties away from the camp.

“And you can flame any archer you see,” Jeslek said with a smile, “since you seem to find it so easy.”

Fydel laughed. Even Anya smiled.

Cerryl took a long, slow breath, then looked toward the cauldron, hoping it wouldn’t be that long before the mutton stew was ready. He had to wonder how he could get in trouble without even speaking. Were his expressions that obvious, or were Fydel and Jeslek once more out to put him in situations where he was more likely to fail? As he waited for the stew to finish, he forced a pleasant smile onto his face.

JUST BECAUSE HE’D given Fydel a questioning look the night before, now Cerryl found himself back on the gelding, his muscles no longer aching but only moderately sore. Fydel’s score of lancers rode northward on a road that was more trail than road, a track of dusty gray clay that rose in powdery clouds with each hoof that struck it, a track barely able to take two riders abreast. Despite the full morning sunlight, the day was pleasant, although Cerryl suspected that the afternoon would be hotter and far less pleasant.

On the east side of the road was a piled stone wall, no more than two cubits high. Behind the stone was a higher meadow, where fresh green shoots twined up between the frayed and brown stalks of the previous year. To the downhill and left side of the road was a field that had been plowed, but which showed no regular growth, just scattered splotches of green against the dry tan soil.

Cerryl wondered if the arrival of the White Lancers had driven off the peasants before they could plant.

“See? There’s no one there. Or you think there isn’t. Except they’re there…waiting with some dark angel trap.” From where he rode to the left of Cerryl, Fydel snorted.

Glancing across the open terrain, Cerryl had to wonder where the Spidlarian forces would even hide. He couldn’t detect any chaos or order that could have been used to conceal riders or armsmen on foot.

“They don’t use magery,” Fydel answered the unspoken question. “You’ll see.”

As they continued northwest on the narrow road, the cultivated fields gave way to more woodlots or woods and meadows-and peasant cots even more widely scattered.

A fly buzzed past Cerryl’s face, and the gelding’s tail swished to brush the offending insect away, sending it back to plague Cerryl. He swatted at it several times before it flew elsewhere; then he blotted his forehead.