L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

“Have you heard what has occurred in your absence?” asked Gethen. “Ildyrom lies dead, and even his bitch consort fell. Their mounts are cinders or scattered hundreds of leagues across the grasslands. Clynya, on both sides of the river, is in ashes and ruins, and the white demons march toward Rohrn.”

“We rode through Clynya. We know.” Nylan dismounted slowly. “All except about Ildyrom. He was the lord of Jerans, wasn’t he?”

Zeldyan nodded.

“They know of the demons and their fires. They have already destroyed fivescore of the white demons,” added Sylenia. “Just to return to Rohrn.”

“Is that true?” asked Zeldyan.

“Yes.” Nylan coughed. His legs ached, as they did after every day’s ride, and his neck and shoulders were stiff again. “We’re still learning. It’s costly.” He led the mare toward the stable doors.

“That aged them,” interjected Sylenia.

“You have a champion,” said Gethen with a half-laugh.

“You have changed, Sylenia,” said Zeldyan. “Best you remain with the angels.”

“If I must.” Sylenia nodded toward the regent. “If I must, Lady.”

“You are dangerous, angels,” said Zeldyan. “You will change all of Lornth before you are done. In that, Fornal was correct.”

“Hardly dangerous,” suggested Ayrlyn as she dismounted. “Just tired and sore.”

Zeldyan offered a faint smile. “I said you would return, and your quarters are ready.” She inclined her head. “Nesslek is waiting for me.”

“How is he?” asked Nylan.

“Well, and hungry.” Another nod, and the blond was gone.

“I needs must attend to…certain matters.” Gethen nodded and disappeared into the darkness.

“Once again, we’ve made ourselves so welcome.” Nylan’s laugh was low and bitter.

“You are too powerful for them,” said Sylenia.

Was that true? They were tired and all too human. Nylan shook his head. Too powerful? When they were outcasts wherever they went? Powerful? Hardly. Just tired and grasping at less than straws in a world where the only constant was the need for force.

The engineer began to lead his mare toward her stall.

“They have returned…as they promised,” pointed out Gethen.

“Yes, my sire. They keep their word. Always do they keep their word, and each time, Lornth changes.” Fornal’s words were slow, measured. One hand dropped to his waist, where his fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger at his belt. “What can I say? They have killed more of the white demons than any of us, yet still the white demons threaten to destroy all we hold dear. If whatever magic they have brought does destroy the Cyadorans, will it also not destroy Lornth?”

“Can we afford to lose their aid now?” asked Gethen, sitting upright in the old wooden chair, a chair pushed away from the table on which still rested a half a loaf of dark bread, a partly cut wedge of cheese, and an earthenware mug. The older regent’s blade, still in its sheath, lay half across Gethen’s knees. One hand was circled loosely around the hilt.

“Yet, in little ways, they will destroy Lornth. A nursemaid looks at me as though I were the serf. My armsmen question me silently. What will come next?” Fornal eased his fingers from the dagger’s hilt.

“If we win, we can work out something. We still hold Rulyarth, and Ildyrom is dead.”

“That may be true. Yet I say that should they bring down the Cyadorans, that success will bring down the Lornth I have known and given my life to serve. This I cannot prove, nor have they been other than honorable in their own way. But our Lornth will be no more.”

“If they cannot defeat the white ones, our Lornth will cease tomorrow.” Gethen touched his gray beard with his left hand.

Fornal shook his head. “For all that, my Lornth is perilously close to perishing.”

“The Lornth we grew up cherishing, Fornal, perished the day the angels landed. Whatever may come, it is better than having all Lornth burned and dying under the white hordes.”

“You will regret ever having listened to the silver tongues of these angels. For all their honor, they are as dark and evil as the white demons.”

“Do we have a choice of demons?” Gethen rose from the chair, right hand holding the hilt of the blade fully as long and heavy as the one Fornal bore. His eyes did not leave his son’s as he inclined his head but slightly. His lips crooked. “For that matter, in this life, have we ever had any choices, except to do what we have thought best?”

The majer stepped out of the direct sunlight and under the tent awning, past the two Mirror Foot guards. Neither guard moved as Piataphi approached the carved and lacquered green chair where the marshal waited, fanned by yet another guard.

The majer bowed.

“You have news, Majer?”

“The barbarians have stopped retreating, ser,” announced Piataphi. “The van scouts report that they have gathered on the west bank of the river to defend the town called Rohrn.”

“The name matters not.” Queras raised his right hand, then dropped it. “Like all the others, it will stink. They all stink. Once it is razed, once we have the land in hand, then we will build a proper town, houses with tile floors, and baths, and covered sewers. A town worthy of Cyad and His Mightiness.”

“When will the attack begin, Fist of His Mightiness?” asked Piataphi.

“Tomorrow.”

“The only access from the east bank is a stone bridge, and they have removed the center span,” said Piataphi carefully.

Queras frowned, then said coldly, “The engineers are constructing the bridges upstream of the town now. There should be no problems. The water is low. By tomorrow, all will be on the west bank.”

Piataphi bowed. “You have foreseen all.”

Queras offered a faint smile. “The river bluffs that protect them from any attack from the east will leave them nowhere to go. That will be more…expeditious than chasing the smelly wretches all over the plains.” Queras smiled. “You see, Majer, there is no problem that cannot be solved with the application of adequate force.”

“Yes, ser.” Piataphi bowed once more, deeply, deeply enough that the marshal did not see his eyes.

In the darkness that held but a glimmer of gray, the chimes clanged, off-tone, off-key, once, then again.

Nylan looked across the darkness of the quarters with eyes that had been open for what seemed most of the night to the cots where Sylenia lay, and where Weryl snored softly. Despite the open shutters, the room was close, hot, and the sounds of men moving across the packed clay of the barracks yard grew louder. A horse whinnied, then another answered. A set of wagon harnesses jangled.

He turned to face Ayrlyn’s also open eyes. “Not much for sleeping, was it?” he whispered.

She shook her head, then leaned forward and touched his cheek with her lips. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

“I hope I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

“Pessimist.” Ayrlyn stretched, then rolled into a sitting position, her knees tucked up almost to her chin.

“Realist. We’ll either be dead or the agents of a huge change, and no one likes agents of change, especially our friend Fornal.” Nylan yawned and sat on the edge of the bed that was a cross between a cot and plank platform. His back was stiff, and he stood slowly, stretching. “Ohhhh…”

“It’s not that bad,” hissed Ayrlyn.

Outside, the off-key triangle chimes clanged again.

“Da? Ahwen?” Silver-haired Weryl sat up, his green eyes wide, arms extended.

“In a moment, son. Let your old dad get his boots on.”