Colors of Chaos

CXIV

THE SOUND OF the gelding’s hoofs was muffled by the span or so of snow that coated the cobblestones of the avenue from the south gate. Cerryl glanced over his shoulder, barely able to see the four lancers acting as his guards through the snow that had begun to fall as he had left the sawmill-snow and cold that helped block off the lingering odors of decay and death and pillaging, snow that gave him a headache, if not one so sharp as from rain.

Good thing you don’t need too much more in the way of lumber…not until spring, and then there won’t be enough. He hoped he could put off worrying about lumber until spring. He had enough other problems to worry about-and far sooner.

Snow kept building up on the collar of his jacket, seemingly faster than he could brush it away, and then melting and oozing down his back. Because you didn’t think to wear a hat.

One of the next problems was rope. “How could anyone dock a boat or barge without rope?” Jidro had asked. Even the chandlery had none, or so little-fifty cubits’ worth of light line-as to be worthless. And then there was the lack of firewood. With no real woodlots within a kay of Elparta and the snow getting deeper, stocks of seasoned wood were nearly gone. Fydel, of course, had merely insisted that it was Cerryl’s job to supply firewood-and everything else.

One supply barge had arrived from Gallos-surprisingly-but it had carried mainly barrels of flour and some excessively salted pork, and a half-dozen large rounds of cheese. The lancers might not starve, but they would complain, more than usual.

Cerryl swallowed the exasperation he felt, and his eyes flicked toward the last of the quarters’ houses on his left. Before long-another four hundred cubits or so-they would reach the street that led uphill toward the dwelling serving as his office and headquarters.

The faintest hint of a taper glimmered through cracks in the shutters of the dwelling ahead on the left-the house used by one of Senglat’s subofficers to house his company. Cerryl frowned, trying to recall the man’s name. No, it was a woman, one of the few subofficers who was. Jrynn, that was it.

“Ser…?” The voice was soft, gentle…feminine.

Cerryl turned his head, hesitating momentarily. He sensed not only a figure in the alleyway to his right blurred by the white curtain of snow and the all-too-early gloom of a winter’s eve but also a muted sense of chaos-and another form behind the first.

Thwunnnggg.

He threw himself sideways in the saddle even before the sound of the crossbow echoed off the walls and uneven stones of the narrow alleyway, then turned the gelding toward the figure-or figures. One reached for something-another crossbow?

Cerryl grasped for chaos, fighting the deadening effect of the snow, fighting the twisting in his guts, as the gelding quick-trotted toward the narrow passage between the ruined structures on the eastern side of the avenue.

Whhssstt! The muted, dampened firebolt seemed to crawl through the white curtain, and Cerryl struggled to gather more chaos, gasping as he did, almost as though he were underwater and fighting his way to the surface of a raging river.

He summoned more chaos, flinging it as well, silently, through the whiteness that seemed to retard and muffle his efforts.

Behind him, other mounts followed. “Ser? What is it! Ser?”

Cerryl reined up, abruptly, as the second figure toppled sideways, feet skidding sideways. Cerryl’s breathing was ragged, and he felt drained. The kind of effort he had raised should have destroyed an entire dwelling. It had not, only burned away part of the shoulder and chest of the woman who had called and the side of the man’s face and left a charred hole in his chest.

Cerryl tried to catch his breath. He looked at the two figures, almost sadly.

Once the woman had been beautiful, the man probably well built. The remnants of a uniform were visible under the ragged brown cloak.

“Do you recognize him, Buetyr?” Cerryl asked the lancer who had drawn his own mount up beside the gelding.

“No, ser. Not much left of his face.” The swallow was audible, despite the muffling effect of the snow.

Cerryl waited, letting his strength rebuild. A friend of one of the troublemakers? The troublemaker who had deserted? A local who had stolen a uniform? What about the woman? Who. knows? The only thing certain is that whatever you do will disturb someone.

“Now what, ser?” asked Buetyr.

“A moment,” Cerryl said tiredly. “A moment.” The snow sifted down past his collar again, and he shivered. Then he slowly, and gently, channeled more chaos toward the bodies lying on the thin blanket of whiteness.

Whhhstttttt…The last firebolt drifted across the bodies.

After the momentary flash of light and heat, white ashes mixed with the falling snow, both drifting in the gentle and cold wind that gusted along the street, sweeping ashes and snowflakes, lifting them, shifting them.

Cerryl flicked the reins and turned the gelding back toward his quarters, knowing that once more there would be speculations about his harshness and questions about what he had done to merit such an attack. No one wants justice…or fairness…just their own comfort.

The snow swallowed his deep breath, as it had swallowed much of the chaos he had flung, and buried the ashes of the two he had killed.