L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

So, facing Weryl, he lay on his stomach, wearing his shirt and a tunic, but no jacket. Down the needle-strewn slope, the stream rushed and gurgled. The faint hum of insects rose as the light dimmed. A faint and chill breeze swept across their campsite from the higher and ice-covered peaks to the east.

Ayrlyn sat sideways on the blanket behind the silver-haired infant. She wore her jacket, but had not fastened it.

“You know, it took just moments when I brought the lander across what it’s taken us three days to cover by horse.”

“…ooo…” Pudgy fingers grasping for the wood, Weryl crawled across the blanket toward the smooth stick Nylan had shaved clean and rounded with his dagger.

Ayrlyn pulled off her boots and massaged her calves. “I’d forgotten how many muscles riding affects. The skiing helped, though. It isn’t as bad this year as it was last.”

“Hmmm…” said Nylan as he held the stick.

“We’re lucky it’s early in the year. The mosquitoes aren’t out yet. None of the big flies, either. That will change when we get lower.”

“Wonderful.”

“Gaaaa!” Weryl’s fingers grasped the stick.

“He’s strong.”

Nylan nodded. “He’ll be walking before summer’s end-sooner, perhaps. If we travel too far, I’ll have to make some sort of seat for him. He already gets heavy.”

“I’ve noticed when I’ve carried him. He also squirms.”

The engineer rolled on his side, containing a wince as various muscles protested. Weryl began to climb over his shoulder.

“Not so fast, young man.” Nylan set the boy back in the middle of the blanket, and Weryl charged across it on hands and knees, again climbing across Nylan.

“Like his father, he doesn’t give up.”

“I’m tired, and he’s just getting started.”

“Well…he sleeps most of the day,” the healer pointed out.

“The motion of riding and the carrypak must be soothing.” Nylan let the silver-haired boy climb almost all the way over him before he picked his son up and set him back in the middle of the blanket again.

Weryl laughed.

“He thinks it’s a game,” Ayrlyn said with a chuckle.

“I’ll really be worn out by the time he’s tired.”

“You, the untiring iron smith? The tower builder who never stopped? Tired by a child?” Ayrlyn’s smile got broader. “You could just go to sleep.”

“Just sleep? Not a chance.” Nylan grinned back, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder as he set Weryl back on the center of the blanket once more.

Weryl charged toward Nylan’s knees, instead of his chest.

“It sounds like a triumph of lust over common sense. Do you think I’m interested? You didn’t ask.”

“Are you interested?”

“I’ll have to see. You only asked when I forced you to.” The healer tossed her head, and the flame-red hair glinted with a light of its own in the gloom.

“I’ll try to do better in the future.” Nylan lifted Weryl overhead. “Your powerpaks are still fully charged, aren’t they?”

“Oooo…” Suspended over Nylan, Weryl immediately drooled, and the liquid dropped on the smith’s chin. Nylan set his son on the blanket and wiped his face.

“Serves you right,” Ayrlyn said.

“Thanks. I’ll remember that when we’re…whatever.” The smith absently reclaimed Weryl once more. “Doing what we can where we can. You know, in some ways, it was idiotic to just leave. No destination, no plans.”

“It would have been better to wait until Ryba found a way to dispose of me or turn you into an armless stud, the way she threatened Gerlich? Sometimes, O rational smith, you have to go with your feelings. By the time you can rationally figure it out, it’s too late.”

“Maybe…I don’t know as I’m a very good smith, though.”

“The locals thought you were, and that’s one test.”

“Maybe,” Nylan repeated.

“Don’t you think you could be a smith somewhere?” Ayrlyn asked.

“I don’t know. I’d guess it would have to be a small town, somewhere they don’t have one. The locals have to be better than I am.”

“I wonder about that. You can feel the metals, and most people here don’t seem to have that ability. Both Nerliat and Relyn were clear on that. Lord Sillek managed to survive because he had three white wizards-three in an entire kingdom. That tells me that the talent for wizardry-or the ability to use it-isn’t common.”

Nylan scooped up Weryl and just held him for a moment, hoping the involuntary stasis would break the try-to-escape pattern the boy had adopted.

“Waaaa-daa-daaaa!”

“All right.” Nylan set Weryl back on the blanket, and the silverhead dropped on his knees and crawled toward Ayrlyn.

“It’s my turn?” Ayrlyn scooped Weryl up and set him back on the blanket.

Weryl laughed.

“I think it’s luck and chance. We’ve all ridden the angel powernets, and sensing the order flows, the chaos flows, whatever it is that passes for magic here, is a lot easier if you have.” Nylan intercepted Weryl’s attempt to crawl over his boots. “Look at Westwind. Only three of the original marines had any talent, but all of the officers who had to ride the fluxes showed up with it.”

Ayrlyn shrugged. “Could be. My point stands. There can’t be that many smiths who have your talents.”

“That may be, but I don’t have any tools either.”

“You’re too guilt-ridden to take any.”

They both laughed, before Ayrlyn had to grab Weryl again.

The van of the Mirror Lancers rode four abreast, heading east on the great North Highway, and yet there was room for a steamwagon beside them. The white stones of the roadbed, which shimmered at a distance, would have displayed slight pits and hairline cracks if examined too closely.

Behind the van came the full Second of the lancers, then the Fourth, and then the Sixth. Even four abreast, the column of horse stretched almost a full kay.

Then came the steamwagons, only half a score, for all their individual bulk and power, their iron-tired wheels rumbling, engines puffing, brass rods and pistons moving and glittering under the white-gold sun. Each wagon pulled two long trailers laden with supplies and covered with white tarpaulins.

Behind the wagons rode the Eighth Mirror Lancers, and then the Tenth, and behind them streamed the Shield Foot, followed, a half kay farther back, by the Shining Foot. All in all, the assemblage of horses, wagons, and foot extended more than three kays along the North Highway.

In the first third of the column, immediately before the steam wagons, rode Majer Piataphi, with two captains flanking him. All wore the white and green of the lancers, and their saddles were of hard-finished white leather.

“The Shining Foot cannot walk as fast as the lancers or the wagons,” observed the balding captain to Piataphi’s right. “We are slowed to their pace.”

“I doubt the barbarians will note, Captain,” responded the majer. “They are convinced it will be seasons before we act.”

“It will take more than an eight-day to reach Syadtar, even with the steamwagons, and another eight-day through the Grass Hills to the mines,” pointed out the other captain.

“From the screeing mirrors, we can tell that the barbarians have few armsmen left from their petty wars, and fewer coins. There are no horse moving, no foot being gathered, not even their ragtag levies. We will be at the mines before they can gather forces.” Piataphi coughed as the wind swirled ashes and cinders from the steamwagons around him. “Taking the mines will be harder than holding them. These barbarians will sneak through the trees and the hills, and loose their jagged-edged arrows and be gone before you know they are there. Screeing glasses are not much good for small bodies of fighters.”