Colors of Chaos

CXXIX

IN THE SHADOWS cast by the late-morning sun, Cerryl stood behind the higher earthworks on the top of the rise to the south of the slightly higher hill where the Spidlarian forces were dug into an entrenched circle. The west river road from Elparta to Kleth angled up the slope from southwest to the northeast. East of the hill that held the forces of Fairhaven were the bluffs overlooking the river, and to the west the hills sloped downward into the Devow Marsh, which stretched westward a good four kays. Farther west of the marsh were the Kylen Hills, rugged and filled with potholes and crumbling sandstone ledges.

Overhead, high, thin clouds gave a gray tinge to the morning. A light southerly breeze barely lifted the banners of the White forces but carried the odor of burned fields.

Pushing his senses outward, Cerryl had tried to find the smith. The glass had shown that Dorrin rested in an earthworks somewhere, and Cerryl had determined that the Black mage was somewhere on the opposite hillside, but he could not sense where. That bothered Cerryl. The last time the Black smith had been present had not been pleasant, either. Not pleasant? An ironic and self-mocking smile crossed Cerryl’s lips. Faltar would have said more than that…Except Faltar would have forgiven Cerryl. Will you be able to forgive yourself?

From midway down the hill sounded a wavering horn, the first signal of the assault to come.

Cerryl glanced sideways to where Jeslek stood, flanked by Anya and Fydel, all looking over the berm of the earthworks to the north. None of the three moved as the horn sounded a second time, even as gouts of chaos fire flared from the ramparts fifty cubits below the one where Cerryl stood.

Whhhsttt! Whhhssst! Whhstt! The globules of chaos splashed across the hillside and the Spidlarian earthworks.

Cerryl sensed little change and could hear no screams, but earthworks were a good shield against chaos fire, although several thin lines of greasy black smoke spiraled upward. A second line of fire followed the first.

The horn signaled once more, and silence followed-for a long moment before the purple banners of Gallos surged uphill toward the lower front line of timbered trenches where the outlines of Spidlarian pikes and halberds waited.

Cerryl frowned at the speed and the ease with which the Gallosian armsmen smashed over the first line and through the trenchworks.

“See!” snapped Jeslek. “They have the first line already.”

Fydel lifted his eyebrows but did not speak.

On the far hill, the purple banners pushed uphill, reaching halfway to the higher Spidlarian emplacements. Scattered arrows fell across the attackers, downing an armsman here and there but scarcely slowing the assault.

CRUUUMPPPPPP!!!! The hillside erupted, sending huge gouts of earth and chunks of timber skyward. And bodies…and part of bodies.

Cerryl smiled grimly. Yes, the smith had been there.

Jeslek turned toward Cerryl. “You did not sense that.”

“Again,” added Fydel.

“I could not get close enough to sense that. I warned you that the smith was there.” This failure is not yours. Others, yes, but not this. Cerryl tightened his lips.

“No matter. It will not change matters.”

Anya’s broad and false smile underscored Jeslek’s words. The High Wizard glanced back at the hill opposite.

Fydel held Cerryl’s glance for a moment longer, then gave a scornful smile. Cerryl forced a pleasant smile in return.

Abruptly Jeslek turned to Fydel. “Darkness with this measured approach!”

“It was your idea,” observed Anya.

“So? I can be wrong.” Jeslek looked across to the hillside that resembled an instantly churned and plowed field.

“You can? I never would have guessed it.” Anya’s voice was bitter.

“Fydel,” ordered Jeslek, “tell Eliasar to have all the levies march over the mined ground there. Bring up some more.”

“What?”

“The one thing we know is that they can’t have planted more of those devices where they already exploded. And we don’t want them to retreat and mine another section of hill or field.”

From where he stood Cerryl silently agreed. Even Fydel nodded at the logic.

“Everything that smith has done requires advance preparation. We can’t give him any more chances. Order the charge. Pour everything into that point. And keep the troops moving.”

“Yes, Jeslek.”

“I mean it. Keep them moving.”

As Jeslek turned to survey the battlefield, Anya and Fydel exchanged glances. They nodded. Then Fydel hurried out from behind the earthworks and downhill toward the small tent that held Eliasar and his glass. Cerryl had scarcely seen the older arms mage in the whole campaign, except from a distance.

Shortly another trumpet sounded, and the green banners of Certis flowed downhill through the already-trampled grass of the swale and upward through the explosion-plowed ground that had held earthworks. Before the Certan levies reached the second level of Spidlarian emplacements, another hail of arrows flew downward, cutting down as many as a third of the Certan forces.

Then a wave of blue armsmen swarmed from hidden trenches flanking the attack, slashing inward. Just as suddenly, the blue attackers retreated to their trenches, leaving the scattered remnants of both Gallosian and Certan forces.

Whhsstt! Whssst! The belated firebolts caught but a few of the laggard blue armsmen.

Another trumpet sounded, echoing from the south to the north, wavering but insistent. Cerryl glanced upward, half-surprised that the sun had dropped past midday.

“Another charge!” snapped Jeslek. “They can’t hold forever.”

Fydel had hurried back toward the High Wizard, then frozen as he heard the order. His eyes flicked back to the lower berm. Yet even before the trumpet died away, as though Eliasar below had heard the High Wizard’s words, a set of golden banners rose, and yet another wave of armsmen began the charge uphill toward the next set of Spidlarian earthworks.

Fydel shrugged and slipped back beside the High Wizard.

More shafts arched from the top of the Spidlarian emplacements, falling in among the remaining Gallosians and Certans and touching the advancing ranks of the Kyphran levies. The Kyphran armsmen surged upward, before the gold banners slowed at the second line of trenches, stalled by a redoubled volley of arrows.

Cerryl watched as the Gallosian heavy lancers appeared and charged the southwestern side of the hill, sweeping up the Spidlarian flank.

WWhhsstt! Whhhstt! More firebolts flared across the higher trenches, the trenches that sheltered the blue archers, and the volleys of arrows faltered and died away. With fewer arrows striking them down, both Kyphran levies and Gallosian horse moved uphill steadily, the levies taking the second line of trenches and the horse nearing the sides of the upper emplacements.

The Gallosian cavalry turned the end of the upper Spidlarian earthworks, sabres beginning to cut down the blue foot from behind.

“Good! Good!” Jeslek beamed as he saw the second line of blue defenders being swarmed under from above and below.

Yet, seemingly from nowhere, two companies of Spidlarian heavy horse charged downhill and struck the Gallosian horse from behind, bringing down perhaps a third of the purple lancers on the initial sweep. Even from across the field, Cerryl could see and sense the blond giant who led the force-Brede.

Because of the chaos of confused and mingling forces, the White chaos fire died away, and as it did, blue archers reappeared, and more of the deadly shafts poured into the Kyphran foot.

“There! There’s that Black wastrel!” Jeslek pointed, gesturing to Anya, then to Cerryl. “The middle of the upper works there, by that little pine. Chaos fire!”

Cerryl mustered chaos and flung it across the small depression that was too small to be a true valley, his bolt splattering along the back side of the earthworks just before Anya’s.

“More!” ordered Jeslek. “More!”

Cerryl threw another firebolt, as did Anya, and a smaller bolt followed from Fydel.

Had they caught the Black armsleader? Cerryl doubted it.

The Kyphran levies continued to slash upward and through the second line of Spidlarian emplacements, more slowly because the Gallosian horse had turned and fought back the blue cavalry.

Only scattered blue horse remained between the Gallosian lancers and the uppermost line of blue defenders when another company of blue riders appeared, charging down at an angle toward the purple lancers.

Cerryl moistened his lips, seeing the large blond-haired figure leading the blue charge, a figure who once again stood out somehow even from where the mage watched from hundreds of cubits south. The blues knifed through the remaining Gallosian horse, and sunlight glittered on their blades, blades that rose and fell with swiftness.

Another volley of arrows cut through the Kyphran levies still assaulting the middle earthworks.

“More chaos fire! On those darkness-damned archers!” demanded Jeslek.

Cerryl took a deep breath and loosed another firebolt. His was followed by ones from Anya and Fydel and an enormous firecloud from the High Wizard.

The fire seared the space between the second and third blue earthworks, turning most of the blue horse-and a few remaining Gallosians-into torches. Oily black smoke circled skyward, clouding the afternoon sun.

“Now! Attack!” Jeslek’s commands were more screams than orders, but the trumpet picked up his intent, and the thin, piercing notes signaled another assault.

The Kyphrans, backed now by Hydlenese levies and horse, continued uphill, cutting into and slowly pressing back the last thin line of Spidlarian defenders.

“Chaos fire-on the right!”

Cerryl obliged, trying to ignore the growing headache, the knives that cut through his skull with each new attempt at flinging chaos fire.

The White horse, now a mixture of forces from Certis, Gallos, and Hydlen, charged up the left side of the hill toward the crest. A few scattered arrows flew toward the lancers, but only a handful of riders fell.

Jeslek summoned another firecloud, searing the area of earthworks to the northeast from where some of the remaining blue archers had loosed shafts. No more arrows rose from blue bows.

Just as the mixed White Lancers neared the crest of the hill on the southwest side, a squad-or less-of blue horse, led once more by the giant Brede, appeared from behind a berm and swept westward. For a time the White forces fell back.

“Chaos fire! The leader!” ordered Jeslek.

Cerryl, Fydel, and Anya obliged, but more than half the blue horse had retreated before chaos fire splashed across the ground short of the last line of Spidlarian defenders. Still, a handful of Spidlarian mounts and riders were torched, and more black smoke circled upward.

The levies from Hydlen almost merged with those from Kyphros, and one wing had turned the right flank of the upper line of defense. The combined White cavalry regrouped and moved uphill, close to encircling the last of the blue forces.

“Now! More chaos flame. In the center!”

Whhsttt! Whhst!

The order trumpet sounded; the horse of the combined Fairhaven forces began the charge, the charge Cerryl knew, somehow, would be the last.

The White forces barely reached the top of the low hill when, again, the opposing blond commander appeared at the head of the smaller force of blue lancers, a force that split the White horse like a shimmering blue arrow.

A small pocket of Spidlarian archers appeared below and behind the White horse and began to cut down White Lancers from the rear.

“There!” snapped Jeslek.

Three quick firebolts silenced the last blue archers.

With few blue lancers and no archers to blunt their advance, the Kyphran and Hydlenese foot cut through the last of the trenches, then continued upward toward the crest of the hill.

Only a handful of blue lancers remained, then but one, and yet none of the Gallosians seemed able to bring down the tall blond figure.

“Enough!” Jeslek hurled a last firebolt.

Cerryl held his breath as the huge firebolt seemed to arc ever so slowly over the hundreds of cubits that separated High Wizard and Black commander. Fire splayed everywhere, rolling out from the flame-splashed figure of Brede and enveloping the nearer Gallosian lancers as well. Even as the Black commander flared toward ash, his blade spun end over end…and buried itself in a Gallosian lancer.

Cerryl blinked…and swallowed, knowing he should be relieved. But are you? Do you know that Jeslek is a better person? He shook his head. No matter how gallant and skilled the Black commander had been, he had been defending the wrong side.

“It’s over,” said Jeslek.

Cerryl massaged his neck and forehead, not certain that such was the case. Stars flashed intermittently before his eyes, and his head throbbed and throbbed.

“We need to see what remains,” Jeslek declared. “Find your mounts, and we will follow Eliasar.”

“Little enough remains,” said Anya. “Little enough.”

Cerryl walked down the back side of the hill to look for the tie-line that held the gelding, ignoring Fydel walking beside him.

“He was too good to be an exile,” Fydel stated, “the Black warleader.”

Cerryl did not reply, realizing that he could not sense the Black mage, Dorrin the smith. Yet he knew that he would have known had the other died in the battle. So where is he, and what will he next do?

“How could he have been an exile?” asked Fydel once more. “They wouldn’t have exiled anyone that good in battle.”

“Maybe that’s why,” Cerryl answered. “He had to be an exile. Why else would he have fought as though he had nowhere else to go?”

Fydel had no answer.

Cerryl had questions, though, all too many, questions that swirled inside him even after he mounted and rode behind the other three. Why would the blues order a suicide defense so far from Spidlaria? Why were the blue traders so opposed to Fairhaven when the White City meddled so rarely in how other lands governed themselves? Why would Recluce force out people like the Black warleader-or the smith?

The smith was order in himself, a force so black as to be untouched by the slightest hint of chaos. And he was exiled from the isle of order?

Wearily Cerryl rode around the hill and after the High Wizard and Eliasar. He felt even more exhausted when they reached what remained of the battlefield. No Spidlarians emerged from earthworks, nor moaned, nor offered surrender-only bodies, everywhere, some splattered with blood, some not obviously touched, and others merely heaps of charred meat.

Anya’s head turned at one point, and Cerryl wondered why as her gaze lingered on a seared patch of ground just short of the crest. The Black leader? But why? She had never met him.

The sun was touching the western horizon as Jeslek reined up at the crest of the hill held that morning by the Spidlarians. Beyond lay a small city-Kleth.

Eliasar turned in the saddle and looked at Jeslek. “Honored High Wizard, we cannot afford another battle such as this.” The squat arms mage wiped his forehead as sweat oozed from hair plastered against his skull with dampness. “We have lost more than half our force.”

“Two-thirds,” suggested a voice from somewhere in the officers behind Eliasar.

“You won’t have any more battles at all,” Jeslek said. “Only a few skirmishes on the way to Spidlaria. They have no troops to speak of left.”

“I hope to the light you are correct.”

“I am,” snapped Jeslek. “We move to take the whole river valley first. Leave a small force here to guard the road to Diev. Once we secure Spidlaria, we’ll take Diev. We saved most of the best White Lancers.”

“As you wish.”

Anya and Fydel exchanged glances.

Although Cerryl’s face was politely impassive, he doubted that the battle for Spidlar was truly over. Not with the redheaded smith still somewhere beyond Jeslek’s control-and Anya’s.