L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

Almost instinctively, the two angels struggled to close off the rupture Nylan had created, pushing, pressing order lines back toward a smooth flow.

Balanced-they were balanced…all the way… Those were Nylan’s last thoughts as one hand grasped Ayrlyn’s and the other tried to keep himself from toppling forward onto ground heaving so much that dust rose everywhere.

Then he did pitch forward as the order/chaos rupture sealed, the barrier collapsed, and the backlash of both balanced forces swept over them.

The mage under the white awning staggered, then steadied himself on the portable white wood table.

“Something…terrible…terrible…” murmured Themphi, looking down at the shards of shattered glass on the white surface. Blood dripped from the gashes in his forehead, leaving watery reddish stains on some of the mirror shards and darker splotches on the chaos-bleached wood.

“What was it?” Fissar stood at his shoulder, proffering a dampened white towel. “The glass shattered. I could feel it.”

“It felt like another, a powerful one, yet it had the feel of the Accursed Forest, and it was closer, far closer-no more than a half-day’s ride to the east.” The white mage blotted away the blood gently, then stopped and extracted another sliver of glass from his hair above his right ear. “Go tell Triendar…”

“Ah…” stammered Fissar as he glanced from Themphi to the wiry white-haired mage who stepped in from the sunlight and under the shade of the awning. “Ah…ser…”

“Tell me what, Themphi? Why is your tent set up? And with what new magery were you toying? I could sense the order-chaos pulses from the marshal’s wagon.”

“None. No new magery. I sensed something…strange, and I set up the tent, just the roof part, you see, so I could concentrate. I was screeing the flank guard. They had encircled someone-no more than four riders. There was a flare of chaos, and my glass exploded.”

Fissar opened his mouth and then closed it.

The balding white-haired mage pursed his lips. “Perhaps Marshal Queras should know this. What happened to the flank guard?”

“I do not know.” Themphi felt sweat mixing with blood, and he carefully resumed blotting away both. “Except I do not think they survived. Neither did the young mage with them.”

Fissar’s mouth opened again.

“With that much of a chaos-order mix, I would think not. Do you have any idea what caused it?” asked Triendar.

“It acted like a mage, but it felt like the Accursed Forest…in a way.” Themphi handed the bloodied towel to Fissar so that he could work a tiny sliver of glass from his left hand.

“You felt that the Accursed Forest has destroyed those lancers?” Triendar frowned. “Even in the ancient times, the forest used animals, not the white forces directly.”

“It was a mage, but not exactly. It was like the forest, but it was not the forest.” Themphi took the towel again, then paused once more to ease out another chunk of bloody glass.

“Are you certain?”

Themphi nodded.

“That could be most worrisome. Have you a spare glass?”

“Yes,” answered the younger mage warily.

“Then try to seek out the cause of this…this problem. Once you know, we will tell the marshal that we think there may be a problem.” Triendar worried at his chin. “You had best hurry. The lancers have finished with the hamlet beyond the rise, and the marshal is having his tent struck.” He paused. “Then, it may be best to wait until morning. We could do little anyway…but do your best to discover the source of this…problem.” Triendar coughed, pursed his lips. “One of our mages?”

“Pirophi, I think.”

“He was always a little oversure, but…still. Do what you can.”

Themphi nodded, then turned to Fissar. The younger man had already opened the small chest beside the portable table.

The candelabra held lit stubs, barely a finger in length. Wax drippings wound around the silver base and seeped across the purple cloth. Three empty bottles stood on the table. So did two goblets, one full, the other empty. Against the glass of the center bottle rested a half-curled scroll.

Zeldyan reached for the scroll again, then stopped, and looked across the table toward Gethen. “Reading it once more will change nothing. There is nothing left of Syskar, Kula, and dozens of smaller hamlets. Clynya is a charred ruin, and the field crops have all been fired, those that could not be harvested quickly before the white demons destroyed them.” She glanced toward the half-ajar door to the adjoining room that served as Nesslek’s bedchamber. “A poor beginning, my sleeping son.”

“Poor indeed,” rumbled Gethen. “I have found less than tenscore in armsmen to bring here to Rohrn for Fornal. Tenscore! Two small companies of the white demons’ lancers would overwhelm them in a morning-or sooner. Tenscore, and the holders begrudge that, even while they demand we hold back the demons.” His eyes fixed Zeldyan. “And you, daughter, letting me go, and then bringing Nesslek to this rundown place.”

“You would have me wait helpless in Lornth? This way I could bring all the armsmen from the keep. You need every blade that can be found.” Zeldyan brushed back a strand of blond hair, and her fingers dropped to the table, then curled around the base of the crystal goblet that bore the etched seal of Lornth, a goblet mostly full of the amber white of Carpa.

“I do not know that all the cold iron in Candar would stop them.” Gethen touched his beard.

“Fornal would claim so.”

“That we know.”

“My brother claims much.” Zeldyan glanced toward the bedchamber door yet again. “My brother…”

“You question…?”

“I do not like the way in which he regards Nesslek,” admitted Zeldyan. “Was it not Sylenia who brought them to heal my son? Was it not Fornal who insisted he was not ill? Yet I feel much discomfort in saying such.”

“You say it, my daughter.”

“I feel it. As I felt it when Fornal suggested to Relyn that he could claim the ironwoods.”

“Fornal said that?”

Zeldyan nodded. “Did you not know?”

Gethen cleared his throat, lifted his goblet, sipped, set it down. Finally, he spoke. “Where are your angels now?”

“I do not know. I will not yet give up hope, not while Lornth stands.” Zeldyan sipped from the goblet she had refilled but once.

“You have greater faith than I, my daughter.”

“Faith? I know little of faith these days. I know people. Lady Ellindyja will die prating of empty honor. Fornal will use a blade at the slightest pretext. You will use arms, but only if all else fails. And the angels, they will keep their word, or die. If they can, the angels will return.” The candles flickered in the momentary breeze that flitted through the open window, bringing the sour smell of Rohrn, a town that had seen better days.

“If they can…” Gethen said.

“We have not lost that from which we would not recover.”

“Not yet, but the white demons are like locusts, or like a grass fire, charring everything before them.” The gray of Gethen’s hair glinted in the dim and flickering light that shifted as the candle flames wavered in the gentle and cool breeze from the open window. “If your angels do not return…we will fight as we can…as we can…”

“They will return.” Zeldyan’s fingers tightened on the goblet, and her eyes went to the partly open door. “They will return….”

A cool wind brushed his face, and Nylan shivered. Shivered? In the middle of southern Lornth? He shivered again.