Colors of Chaos

CXXVI

A LIGHT MIST drifted from the low and gray clouds, cool but not cold, as Cerryl rode slowly down the west river road. A hundred cubits to his right was the line of trees marking the river. Ahead on the left side of the road was the hamlet where Jeslek had told Cerryl to round up whatever peasants he could find. Do you really want to do this?

He wanted to shake his head, knowing that Jeslek would march the people ahead of the levies toward Kleth. The idea of using innocent people as shields turned his stomach. But so do Black traps using unseen wires to gut and kill young lancers.

Cerryl glanced at the cots as the two companies of lancers rode up. The door to the first cot-a one-room thatched dwelling with a mud-brick chimney that rose a good two cubits above the topmost part of the thatch-was closed, and the single set of shutters was fastened shut.

“Voyst! Check the doors,” ordered Ferek.

Cerryl could feel the ironic smile creep across his face as the lancers checked cot after cot, only to find no one present.

Ferek eased his mount up beside Cerryl. “We can’t be rounding up village folk or herders or anyone, ser,” complained Ferek, “not if there be none to round up.”

Cerryl glanced around the hamlet. “Every building is empty?”

“Yes, ser. Not a soul around. Not even a cat or a pig.”

“Then we won’t find anyone in the next hamlet, either.” Cerryl’s ironic smile faded. “We’d better check one more, though. So we can tell the High Wizard that they’ve all fled.”

“You think so, ser?”

“I’m sure of it.”

The second hamlet, five kays farther north along the west river road, was as vacant as the first had been.

“Let’s head back,” Cerryl told Ferek and Hiser. “There won’t be people in any hamlet or village from here to Kleth.”

“That ’cause they knew what the High Wizard did to Elparta?”

“I’d guess so.” Cerryl turned the gelding, and they rode back through a day that had turned warmer and damper, under clouds that were beginning to lift. He could feel the sweat building under his shirt, even though it was early in the spring yet.

The road remained empty, with a deserted feeling, all the way back to the latest camp by the river, slightly less than fifteen kays south of Kleth. One of the barges was missing, being pulled upstream to Elparta to return wounded and bring back more supplies.

As Cerryl dismounted by the tie-lines for the light cavalry, he saw Faltar walking toward the area where the cook fires were being set up. “Faltar?”

The thin blonde mage turned. He had a bruise across his cheek and a short, scratchlike slash on his forehead. “Oh…Cerryl.”

“What happened to you?” Cerryl tightened his lips as he saw the ugly purpling blotch. Is that because you worry that Faltar doesn’t have enough chaos strength for what he’s been tasked with?

“Caltrops-hidden in shallow water where a little creek crossed the road.” Faltar started to shake his head, then winced, as if the movement hurt. “Can’t sense order under running water, and who would have thought…?”

“Your mount?”

“Went down, broke a leg. I went with her, most of the way.”

“Caltrops-dirty nasty things,” murmured the dark-skinned Buar, riding up and dismounting. “Lost three mounts and a lancer. No arrows, though.”

“Everything in war is dirty and nasty.” Especially if it happens to you. “Do you need Leyladin to look at that?”

“No. I brushed the cut with a touch of chaos, and there’s nothing she could do about the bruises.” Faltar offered a crooked smile. “I do need to find another mount, though. I’m supposed to ride in the middle group of mages. You know, with Myredin, Ryadd, and the others? And Bealtur, of course. We get to fry the countryside.”

Cerryl winced.

“Someone told me that everything in war is nasty.” Faltar grinned at Cerryl.

“You’re right,” Cerryl conceded. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t last another year.” The midday sun had finally burned away most of the mist and was beating down as if it were almost summer when he turned toward the river to find the High Wizard.

Before seeking out Jeslek to report his inability to gather locals to serve as targets, Cerryl stopped by the awning tent, which held but two lancers. One held his arm while Leyladin checked the leg of the other-white-faced and stretched out on a pallet. All those previously wounded had already been sent back to Elparta the day before.

Cerryl eased toward the healer.

“Oooohh!”

“There,” said Leyladin. “Just don’t move until I can bind it.” She turned to the second lancer.

“The bone…I can see it.”

Leyladin turned, her eyes lighting on Cerryl. “Cerryl…could you give me a hand here? I need you to help me straighten his arm and hold it in place while I set the bones in place and bind them.”

“Just show me what you want.”

Leyladin raised her eyebrows. “Here. Hold like this…”

Cerryl followed her instructions, trying to keep the arm in place as Leyladin used her senses, a fair amount of force, and her ordering to reset the bones where she wanted them. In the end, the lancer lay unconscious on a pallet, his breathing hoarse, while sweat streamed down the mage’s face and neck.

“Thank you.” Leyladin was pale. “I couldn’t do that if I had many who were wounded.”

“I can see why.” He guided her to the one stool, under the shade of the awning. “You need to sit down.”

“Why are you back so early?”

“The peasants fled.” He shrugged. “So I couldn’t round them up to act as our advance guard.”

“That doesn’t seem to bother you.” Leyladin took a swallow from her water bottle and offered it to him.

“Thank you.” He took a small swallow. “I’m bothered, and I’m not. I don’t think peasants or croppers should take attacks meant for armsmen, but I don’t like seeing our armsmen and lancers killed by nasty Black tricks because the Spidlarian traders won’t pay tariffs to support the roads that help their trade.”

“People are people,” she said tiredly. “The traders want more coins. The Guild needs to survive. The viscount and the prefect and the dukes want to stay in power and live well, and there’s not enough coin for everyone to do what they want. So they fight.”

Is it that simple? There’s not enough, and they fight? Except that leaves even less when the fighting’s done.

“You’re right,” she answered his thought. “But the winner has more, and the losers can’t do much about it. I’ll be all right. You need to find Jeslek. We can talk after that. I’ll find something for us to eat.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled, and he had to smile back, although his smile faded once he turned. As he walked toward where Jeslek’s tent was being set up, Cerryl could still sense the pain that Leyladin had felt as she had straightened and bound the lancer’s arm. Is that what it feels like? No wonder she’s exhausted all the time.

Anya stepped from under the small tree where she and Jeslek had been sitting on stools. “You were supposed to round up the peasants and hold them at the hamlet.”

“I can’t round up what isn’t there.”

“You didn’t turn up any peasants? Did you warn them off?” asked Anya.

Jeslek stood, blinking as he stepped forward into the sun. “I doubt Cerryl would do something that foolish, Anya. Would you, Cerryl?”

Cerryl ignored the High Wizard’s sarcastic tone. “Someone else warned them. Spidlarian lancers, I’d guess, from the tracks.”

“And you just turned around?” asked Anya.

“No, we checked the next hamlet and some of the cots beyond that. They were all empty.” The younger mage gave an apologetic smile he didn’t feel. “All of the hamlets and villages from here to Kleth are empty, I suspect.”

“Cerryl has a feeling for such, Anya. I am quite sure that he is correct. We will have to adjust our attack accordingly, and I am most certain Cerryl will be of great assistance.” Jeslek turned his eyes on Cerryl. “You may go. I will summon you later.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl turned, ignoring the coldness in Anya’s eyes and the set to her jaw.

Jeslek had always been devious and self-centered, but he appeared to be developing a streak of almost wanton cruelty. Did being High Wizard do that? Sterol had been far more direct…and trustworthy. And Cerryl hadn’t cared much for Sterol, but he cared far less for what Jeslek seemed to have become. That would get worse, too, long before they reached Spidlaria or even Kleth.