L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

“There’s one little problem,” he pointed out. “We still have to make our strategy work.”

“It’s not little.” Ayrlyn laughed harshly. “And you were calling me the mistress of understatement?”

“I’m following your example.”

“My example? When it’s a dubious virtue, it’s my example?”

Nylan, still holding Weryl at his shoulder, looked down at the brown grass sheepishly, then back at Ayrlyn.

After a moment, she grinned.

So did he.

“Riders ahead.” Nylan noted the dust on the road south from the bridge that guarded the east entrance to Rohrn.

“A scouting patrol. It’s not the Cyadorans, not under a purple banner.” Ayrlyn’s hand touched the hilt of the shortsword at her waist, then brushed back strands of hair off her still peeling forehead.

Nylan touched his own blade, but left it sheathed as the Lornians slowed their approach.

At the head of the column rode a redheaded subofficer, square-faced, impassive, backlighted by the low sun that hung barely above the bluffs on the far side of the river, the bluffs that held the roofs of Rohrn. The column halted. So did the angels.

“Greetings, Lewa,” offered Nylan. “We have returned. As we said.”

Lewa looked at both angels, then at Sylenia.

“It’s the angels!” called a voice from the rear of the squad-Fuera, Nylan suspected.

“When will you leave again?” Lewa’s voice was cold.

“Not until the Cyadorans are defeated,” Nylan said tiredly.

Lewa paused, then nodded slowly. “Your word, you always keep. For good, or worse.”

“We’re sorry it took so long, but,” Nylan admitted, “we needed to find a better way to fight the Cyadorans.”

“They are like locusts, stripping the ground, and like fire, laying waste to all before and behind them.”

Nylan almost swallowed, surprised at the unexpected verbosity.

“That is what ser Fornal says,” added the subofficer.

“He’s right about that,” noted Ayrlyn.

“We must patrol,” apologized Lewa, “else I would escort you. Fuera and Sias-they can be spared, and you should have some honor.”

“Thank you.”

“We did not see anyone within the last fifteen kays,” Ayrlyn said quietly.

“That would be good.” Lewa nodded politely, then called, “Fuera! Sias!”

At the subofficer’s order, the two former levies turned their mounts out of the column and rode forward.

“I ask you to escort the angels, and their companions, to the barracks and their quarters.”

“Ser.” Fuera nodded, but with a glimmer of a smile.

Nylan and the others drew their mounts to the side of the road. With a vague salute, Lewa nodded, and the patrol rode south.

“You have fought much sun,” offered Sias with a look at Nylan’s peeling and blistering forehead.

“You might say that.”

“We are glad you have returned,” added the former apprentice as the smaller group rode toward the bridge. “Could I still keep the tools? Some of them?”

“The ones I said were yours?” answered Nylan with a laugh. “Yes. I may need the others, but we’ll see.”

The bridge was empty and dark, and the dull clop of hoofs echoed through the streets of a deserted Rohrn, a town with shutters fastened tight, streets empty, doors barred.

“When did everyone leave?” Nylan asked Fuera.

“They have been going for almost an eight-day. Even the great holders here have sent their families to Lornth, some to Rulyarth.” Fuera spat toward the open guttered sewer-a dry sewer, Nylan noted.

“They are cowards,” added Sias. “Not like you.”

Thanks for the setup, Sias , Nylan thought, sensing Ayrlyn’s grin as they rode through the empty square and the closed chandlery. The white-plastered walls of the buildings looked gray and dingy in the fading light.

The burned-out inn remained burned out, but the charred sign had fallen from its brackets-or been knocked from them.

The far side of Rohrn was also shuttered and silent.

Several armsmen turned from a woodpile as the group rode past the perimeter guards and toward the barracks.

“The angels…”

“They have returned…”

The mutterings and the whispers seemed to go on and on, although Nylan and Ayrlyn had not even reached the stable when the dark-bearded Fornal appeared in the twilight, flanked by two armsmen with torches that flickered in the light breeze. In the wavering light, shadows chased each other across the regent’s face.

“I am so glad you have returned.” Fornal’s voice was lazily cold. “The white legions are less than three days’ march to the southwest, and they have seared the grasslands for kays around them. The holders ask what good was our victory at the mines, and you are not here to answer.”

“We have returned, as we promised.” Nylan’s voice sounded ragged to himself, and he hated sounding weak, especially in front of Fornal.

“That you did.”

The two armsmen glanced from the regent to the angels and back again.

In the whispering quiet, Gethen walked into the vague circle of torchlight, followed by Zeldyan, whose blond hair glinted in the dimness.

“You have returned.” Gethen’s voice was flat. “But you return alone.”

“You suspect the worst, but we have returned before we must fight,” Ayrlyn said quietly, her hand on her blade’s hilt. “And we are here to fight.”

Gethen looked askance momentarily before turning his eyes back to Nylan and quickly smoothing his face.

“Fairly spoken,” grudged Zeldyan, her eyes on Ayrlyn, ignoring Sylenia. “What aid or succor do you bring? Is there any hope?”

“Yes,” answered Nylan. For all the gratitude you have…

Ayrlyn suppressed a wince at his thoughts, and the smith felt ashamed. The Lornians were desperate, deservedly so.

“Where did you go?” asked Gethen.

“To the magic forest…to the enemy of Cyador,” replied Ayrlyn quickly.

Nylan added, “We went to the Accursed Forest. It is real, and it is accursed-at least for the Cyadorans. And it will help us defeat them.”

“What is the price?” asked Zeldyan. “Our submission to some green goddess?”

“It is not a god or goddess.” Nylan shook his head. “The forest-it thinks of itself as ‘Naclos’ or something like that-the one that is and always will be-only needs the lands that are now eastern Cyador. I doubt it will ever need or want more. That was its historic range, before the ancient whites destroyed and confined it.”

“That is all?”

“Look at Nylan,” Ayrlyn commanded. “Look closely.”

Silence fell. Gethen motioned to one of the armsmen with a torch, who stepped warily toward the angels.

“He is aged.”

“Ten years, maybe more.”

“So have you, lady,” Zeldyan acknowledged. “You did this for us?”

“No,” answered Nylan with a faint smile. “We did it because it needs to be done. If it did not…” he shrugged, “we’d probably be dead.”

“You seem to have risked much for a people to whom you owe little,” said Gethen.

“We hope…we hope…to find a place where we are welcome.” Nylan took a deep breath. “We’ve been riding from dawn to beyond sunset for more than an eight-day, except once,” he added. “We want to live in peace and in harmony.” Realizing he was so tired that he was repeating himself, Nylan snorted. “And we’ll spend the rest of our lives fighting to do so-that’s what being human is all about, anyway.” He paused, then added, “We would like some food and rest before the Cyadorans get here.”

“As you wish, mighty angels.” Fornal offered a deep bow. “As you wish.” He turned and marched into the darkness.