L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

“Yes,” he croaked.

Whufff…uffff . His mare tossed her head.

“Easy,” he muttered, squinting against the white knives that jabbed from his eyes into his skull. “Shit…can’t even defend…without friggin’ blindness….”

“Daa?”

“We’ll be all right.” He hoped so. At least, he could hear the chitter of insects, and the whine of something else. Mosquitoes seeking free blood?

“Waa-dah?”

“Have to wait.” He forced his eyes open, ignoring the pain. Was it less? Scattered images flicked at him, then vanished, then returned in an annoying pastiche of vision and blackness.

Nylan looked slowly around the former camp/way station, trying to make sense of each image.

Two mounts snorted by the stream, riderless. The bandit in tattered brown leathers lay sprawled facedown beside the ashes of the fire, a dark splotch around his shoulder.

The one in the gray shirt lay faceup, his head at an angle, nearly at the feet of Nylan’s mount.

Ayrlyn walked slowly past the fire site back toward the smith.

A third mount-a gelding, Nylan noted in a clear and somehow detached way-skittered sideways on the slope leading to the stream, his hoofs raising puffs of dust. The figure on the gelding’s back twitched, then slid ponderously from the saddle into a heap in the dry dirt scraped by the hoofs.

He turned his head, slowly, feeling the light stabbing in his right shoulder, and the dull aching throbs in his left. His right thigh hurt, and he looked down. The leathers were unbroken. A bruise from the flat of a blade?

“Daaaa…” whimpered Weryl. “Daaaa…”

“…all right…it’s all right,” mumbled the smith.

“Like flame…it is,” snapped Ayrlyn as she took the reins and started to lead his mount toward the shelter. “You’re bleeding…like a hounded…deer…look lower than…clam shit.”

“Had trouble…” Nylan turned his head, trying to see if any more brigands could be around. His neck twitched, and the muscular quiver sent more arrows of fire into his skull.

“We…got them all,” Ayrlyn affirmed, still speaking between heavy breaths. “Don’t…know…how…”

Beyond her, he saw another riderless mount, and a horse struggling-and failing-to rise.

“Friggin’…mess.”

The engineer had to agree.

“Can you get down? Hand me your blade.”

“Oh.” He looked stupidly at the shortsword, lowered it, and let her take it. Then he managed to swing his uninjured leg over the saddle and started to climb out, but his fingers lost their grip on the saddle rim he had used to steady himself, and he half-dismounted, half-fell against Ayrlyn.

“Oofff. You’re still heavy.”

“Daaa…” protested Weryl.

“Sorry…son.”

Still blinking against both the throbbing and aches from all over his body, and the white flashes that interrupted his vision, Nylan half-stood, half-leaned against the timbers of the shelter. Ayrlyn quickly unfastened and laid out his bedroll, then eased Weryl out of the carrypak.

“Sit down,” the healer said, holding the silver-haired boy.

Nylan sat. His thigh and shoulder protested, and his vision wavered as he did.

“Stay put!” Ayrlyn snapped at Weryl as she stripped the carrypak off Nylan and studied the wound in the smith’s shoulder. The boy blinked and stayed put on the foot of the bedroll.

“You really took a gash here,” she mumbled. “I’m glad I brought some dressings.”

He sat quietly as she lit a small candle and used its light to see as she began to clean and bind both shoulder wounds. Around them the darkness grew, and the whuffing of the bandits’ mounts breathing diminished as the insect chorus swelled, backed by the sound of the stream.

“I can tell we’re not going anywhere for a day or two.”

“I’ll ride tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Wah-dah?” asked Weryl.

“In a moment,” Nylan said, his night vision taking in again the carnage that surrounded the crude way station. Even in leaving Westwind, they didn’t seem to be able to get away from violence-from the fact that force determined destiny. He started to shake his head.

“Don’t move. I still have to clean out the rest of this mess. Let me see that arm.”

Nylan raised his right arm, and the redhead peeled back the sleeve slightly. Nylan could feel her reordering the fields around his wounds and using her skills and senses to push back the whitish chaos of infection.

“You’ve never gotten this beaten up before,” she said.

“You try fighting with a carrypak,” the smith offered wryly, “and with Weryl flailing around.” He took a deep breath. “I need to figure out some other way to carry him before long.”

“Always the engineer.”

Nylan wished he could be just an engineer, or even a smith. Instead, he found himself using blades. He did shake his head. Who was he deceiving? Even the U.F.F. had only wanted his destructive skills as a combat power engineer. Would it ever be different?

“There.” Ayrlyn rose. “Now I need to see about the horses and the purses of those brigands.”

“Are you all right?” he asked. “I can’t see very well.”

“Bruised-some little gashes. Nothing like you.” A ragged smile crossed her lips.

“I can help.”

“No, you can’t. You just watch Weryl. You’ve lost more blood than you think.”

Weryl looked toward Nylan. “Wah-dah?”

Ayrlyn fumbled with the harness on Nylan’s mare and handed him the bottle.

“Thank you,” he said, unstoppering it and offering it to his son, trying not to wince as he bent forward.

Ayrlyn started toward one of the bandit horses, her steps heavy in the gloom.

“I do not think your stratagem was terribly effective,” said Gethen, looking over at his daughter and his grandson. “This scroll-it promises to flay us for our discourtesy, with all the might of Cyador.”

“No one else had a better one.” Zeldyan laughed, a trace of bitterness creeping into her tone. Nesslek sat in a small chair and grabbed at pieces of biscuit as she offered them. “We would be flayed anyway, discourtesy or not. How come your efforts to gather levies and armsmen?”

“Those in Cerlyn and the south are willing. They will even offer more than the required levies.” Gethen snorted. “Their memories are long. They recall the old days when any woman could be bought as a concubine and any father who protested executed.”

“I think they remember the executions more than the dishonored daughters.” Zeldyan sliced a small corner of a pear-apple and offered it to her son. Nesslek rolled it around his mouth before finally swallowing.

“Sadly, daughter, I would have to agree, but we must take any way station possible in this storm.”

“Have you heard from Fornal?”

“No. I fear he will have difficulty in obtaining any armsmen from Dosai.”

“Could he not use the levies for the border patrol with Jerans?” Her eyes went to the window and the thunderstorm that had rolled out of the southeast.

“I suggested that to him, and that may free a few good armsmen, but we will have to leave some there for seasoning and expertise.”

“You still do not trust Ildyrom?” She took a few sections of pastry herself and ate slowly, then sipped cold greenjuice from the goblet.

“Ahhhh…” Nesslek reached for the goblet.

“This is your mother’s,” Zeldyan said firmly, looking toward her own father. “I will feed you more later.”

“Sillek did not, and I did not, and I see no reason to change my views.” Gethen coughed. “Ildyrom will show the sharp side of his blade again when it suits his needs.”

“As will most holders and lords,” Zeldyan said, more to herself than her sire.