Colors of Chaos

CII

STANDING BETWEEN FEREK and Hiser, Cerryl studied the provisions remaining in the shed-one half-barrel of wheat flour, in which he’d had to use chaos to kill off the weevils twice already, and less than a quarter of a barrel of maize meal. The last of the dried fruit and nuts had gone nearly two eight-days previous.

The shed, whose gap-boarded walls had been rough-caulked with moss and mud, smelled of moss, mud, and mold, despite the efforts of various lancers to keep it swept and dry. A spiderweb glistened in the corner above the remaining barrels, trembling ever so slightly in the light breeze that swirled through the shed itself.

The roll of distant thunder rumbled across the valley, and for reasons he couldn’t place Cerryl thought about chaos and the people Jeslek had been herding down the road. Three days had passed, and there had been no scrolls or orders from the High Wizard-and nothing in the glass, except images of White forces circled around the walls and closed gates of Elparta.

Cerryl blinked and tried to catch what the subofficers said.

“…not enough for even half an eight-day, not with proper-like rations,” finished Ferek.

“We’ll be needing more coin, ser Cerryl,” offered Hiser, “or we’ll be having to forage off the local folk again. Be having to do that sooner, excepting for the provisions your friends sent us.”

Cerryl should have looked into the supplies more closely, but all the screeing and waiting and worrying had distracted him, tired as he was from all the effort required to use the glass so much and so often.

A wave of unseen white, a fading echo of some distant and massive use of chaos, swept across Cerryl as he stood in the small provisions shed. He fought off the shudder. What has Jeslek done? Raised more mountains?

Hiser looked at Cerryl. “You all right, ser? Matters…stuff, it be not that bad yet.”

The mage shook his head. “It wasn’t…isn’t that. Someone is using chaos-too much.”

Not quite rolling his eyes, Ferek glanced at the younger subofficer.

“My being able to sense those sorts of things has kept most of your company alive, Ferek.” Cerryl’s voice was mild, even though he wanted to yell at the man. Then, was that because he worried about what Jeslek-or someone-might have done?

Hiser glared at Ferek.

“Ah…begging your pardon, ser…didn’t mean…” Ferek stammered out the words.

“That’s all right, Ferek,” Cerryl said quietly. “Even most lancer officers don’t understand.” He paused. “I’ll send a scroll to the High Wizard stating our situation and asking for coins so that we don’t have to take from the locals. If he doesn’t respond, then we do what we have to.” But you hope it doesn’t come to that.

“Some of the fellows said there’s a boar rooting in the woods over and down by the creek feeding the bigger stream.” Ferek offered. “Wild-like, I mean.”

“Well…if they can bring it in, that’s better than taking from the nearby hamlets.”

“They can, and it’s enough to stretch things, the cooks say.”

“Fine. I’ll send off another message to the High Wizard.” Cerryl half-turned. “I’ll be in my cot. Need to see why all that chaos…”

“Yes, ser.”

The White mage who’d never wanted to be an arms mage walked through the fine, cool mist that promised to turn into a full cold rain before twilight, back toward the cot he had grown to know too well over more than two seasons.

After closing the door, he set several sticks and a log in the hearth and tweaked them into flame with the smallest touch of chaos. Then he uncased the screeing glass and set it on the table.

As the faint heat from the hearth tried to beat back the chill seeping in around the door and the closed shutters, Cerryl concentrated on the glass and upon the chaos he had felt so strongly earlier.

The silver mists swirled into place, then lifted to reveal another kind of chaos-a city on a river, with gray stone walls toppled as if swept down by a giant’s hand and water puddling in the streets, a raging torrent running down the River Gallos, except the Spidlarians called it the River Spidlar, or most of them did, from what Cerryl recalled.

After a year, after saying he would not destroy any cities after Axalt, Jeslek had done just that. He had raised another wave of chaos and brought down another city-or part of it, since the glass showed some structures untouched.

Why? Because the Black warleader was good enough to hold off an entire White force with a fraction of the men and equipment?

Rubbing his forehead and standing with his back to the growing warmth of the hearth, Cerryl let the image slip from the glass.

What had really happened in the campaign for Elparta? Cerryl was convinced there were too many details he didn’t know. And things you really won’t want to know?

“That, too,” he murmured to the empty glass. “That, too.”

Then he took out ink and quill and parchment. Regardless of what had happened in Elparta, he still needed to inform Jeslek about the provisions needs of his lancers.

His eyes flicked westward as he reseated himself at the table.