L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

He didn’t feel that they could, though he couldn’t-again-say why. But if they could…

Once again, balance was the key, somehow. Instinctively he understood that. He shivered as he thought of chaos, like a fever…like a fever…chaos as a fever, Nesslek…the chaos fever that had killed Ellysia. But he hadn’t tried to drive out the chaos, just contain it…twist it within order.

Had they still kept order and chaos too separate the day before…kept them too isolated, too pure?

“Could be,” offered Ayrlyn, as she stepped up beside him.

“How could we keep them less separate?”

“Use more order insulation? Smaller and separate chaos tubes?” She shrugged and took a sip of the water bottle she carried. “We could experiment with very small tubes and compare how they felt.”

Nylan nodded. Empirical research-that might work.

“It will,” offered Ayrlyn.

He glanced back to where Sylenia offered Weryl another chunk of the heavy bread, then nodded. “We’d better get started.”

“Not until you eat and drink more.”

“Yes, healer.”

Ayrlyn smiled and handed him the nearly empty water bottle. “Don’t forget it, master of the chaos balance.”

He had to grin back at her.

A young mage killed? An entire company of lancers wiped out, and you would tell the marshal not to worry?” Piataphi raised both straggly eyebrows, but one hand remained on the hilt of his saber. His bloodshot eyes were hollowed with dark circles, and his white uniform hung loosely on his frame.

“What good will worry do?” asked Themphi, almost under his breath. “Queras must continue. He has no choice.”

“Choice or no, I must inform him.” Piataphi turned and walked toward the second tent less than thirty cubits away.

“As you see fit.” Triendar nodded slightly at Themphi once the lancer majer had turned and walked across the hilltop toward the Marshal of Cyador, Fist of His Mightiness. “Remember. Do not mention the forest. Or the three angels and their visit there,” he added in a low tone to Themphi. “We do not know , for certain, that they destroyed the lancers. Admitting that uncertainty would not be wise. Not in the present circumstances.”

“No,” admitted Themphi. “But how long can we keep it from His Mightiness?”

“Long enough for it not to matter one way or another.”

Themphi smothered a frown.

In the early morning light, Queras stood by the chair under the awning, facing northward, his eyes on the autumn-browned grass and the scattered and abandoned holdings to the west of the river. Around him, men in white rolled up the side panels of the tent. His eyes went to the majer. “Yes? What other disturbing tidings do you bring?”

“The left-flank company has failed to return, and no trace can be found of the armsmen or their mounts. Or of the mage that accompanied them.”

“Majer, have you not learned from your failures? Did your sojourn at the mines teach you nothing? How many were in the flank guard?”

“A full company-four and a half score.”

“Replace them with two companies, and add another company to the right flank as well. You, above all…you certainly should know that we can never allow any group of armsmen to be outnumbered.” Queras’s eyes flashed.

“Yes, ser.” Piataphi bowed.

“You worry, Majer, yet you refuse to learn from your experiences. But is it not the same as what we have already faced?” asked the marshal. “When our forces are small, they are vulnerable, as yours were when you held the mines. But the barbarians have not been able to stand against all forces, and we have reduced all before us.” He gestured at the hills flanking the river. “And we will take everything from those hills to the Northern Ocean.”

Piataphi and Themphi looked at the dusty brown grass that surrounded the green carpet on which rested the marshal’s carved and green-lacquered chair.

Triendar stepped forward.

“No, sage one. I need no cautions. I know the enemy is treacherous, and we have prepared as best we can. Cautions are best when preparing for the campaign. Cautions only reduce the boldness we need. Now we must reduce the enemy and carry forth the will of His Mightiness.”

All understood the unspoken sentiment-“lest we be reduced with the barbarians.”

A reddish glow covered the sky above the western hills as Nylan set Weryl on his small bedroll and then sank onto his own, sitting and catching his breath, barely able to move. His back and shoulders were stiff. His thighs and legs burned from the long days in the saddle racing to get ahead of the white horde. And his head ached.

Whuuuu…uuufff… Downhill from where the engineer sat, the chestnut lifted her head, then tossed it, before going back to grazing, trying to seek out the green clumps of grass buried among the brown. Nylan’s mare grazed silently, if more intently.

After a moment, Nylan rose, wearily, and stepped toward the provisions bag he had set by the saddles and blankets. The four mounts grazed on the longer grass in the protected hollow below the scrub oaks, the tieline anchored to sturdy roots.

“Da!” called Weryl, lurching up from his own bedroll, trundling forward and throwing his arms around Nylan’s left leg. “Da!”

His own aches forgotten, the engineer bent and lifted the boy, hugging him tightly for a moment, their heads close together. “Weryl. Sometimes…sometimes…” Sometimes, it’s so hard to appreciate that while you’re little now, before I know it…you’ll be grown…already changing so much…

“Da…wadah?”

Nylan loosened his hug and grinned. “I’ll get you water, you little imp.”

“Wadah?”

“Yes, you can have some, even if you aren’t thirsty.”

“Da!”

“You understand more than you ever say, you sentimental man.” Ayrlyn looked up from the provisions bag Nylan hadn’t managed to reach.

“That’s dangerous.”

Not with me…

Nylan could sense both the thought and the warmth behind it. “Old habits die hard. I’m trying.”

“I know.” I know…

After a silence, he asked, “How are we doing? In getting ahead of the Cyadorans, I mean.”

“Tomorrow we should see Rohrn,” Sylenia interjected, stepping toward the angels. “If it has not been burned already.”

“The Cyadorans are three days behind us, at the rate they’re traveling,” explained the redheaded angel.

“You angels…you know what you should not and cannot see. Me, I trust what you say, but I would see Rohrn first.” Sylenia picked up the two water bottles. “There is a stream, and we need water.” She swept her hair, just loosened from the bands that held it when she rode, over her shoulder and marched downhill through the swaying and dry knee-high grass.

“You think they’re that far behind us?” Nylan shifted Weryl to his other arm. “They’ve only traveled one day in four?”

“They’re really not traveling fast. They seem more interested in destroying everything than in making a quick assault.” The corners of her mouth turned up sardonically. “What else would you expect of the descendants of the Rationalists? Nothing is human except them. No other ways or beliefs can be tolerated.”

“With just a little force to ensure the true and rational way.”

“Cynical, but accurate.”

“Force again.” Nylan sighed. “Will we ever escape it?”

“We can, but not by converting an existing system. We’ll have to begin from scratch. You know that.”

And he did. The forest of Naclos represented a different approach-the approach of balance, where the use of force became a last resort-only to balance order and chaos, rather than the first option or order of business. But even the forest had fallen before the Old Rats.