Colors of Chaos

LXXXVII

FROM WHERE HE rode beside Fydel, leading the White Lancers and halfway down the hillside, Cerryl could see a hamlet ahead, little more than a gathering of huts in a depression between the rolling hills. From around the huts rose the smoke of cook fires, and farther out Cerryl could discern scores of mounts confined, either in rough corrals or on tie-lines. The hamlet itself lay perhaps ten kays westward from the end of the canyon that had led them from fallen Axalt into Spidlar.

Cerryl glanced back over the line of lancers, in the direction of the supply wagons still out of sight behind the hill he and Fydel were descending on the winding clay track that barely resembled a road. Behind them, the snow and ice of the Easthorns’ higher reaches almost merged with the puffy white clouds that had begun to drift in from the north.

Cerryl hoped the clouds didn’t bring rain-or not too much. He turned and studied the road ahead and the hillside that seemed to alternate between rocks, scrub bushes, and patches of grass-a land suited mostly to grazing, if that. He squinted, trying to see farther westward where several of the more distant hills appeared to be wooded, but the hills faded as the gelding carried him downhill.

A half-kay or so outside the unnamed hamlet, the road flattened and widened somewhat. With the more level ground came the scents of horses and smoke and other less savory evidences of human habitation.

In the hamlet itself, Jeslek and Anya stood outside a rough-timbered dwelling slightly larger than the handful of others, perhaps twenty cubits in breadth and ten deep and boasting a clay-chinked stone chimney. Cerryl could sense the residual of the chaos used to clean the dwelling.

“So…you have arrived.” Jeslek’s sun-eyes glittered. “At last. We have been here near on two days.”

“We made prudent haste,” answered Fydel. “It took longer because of the rock slides and the rising waters. And the supply wagons you left for us to escort.”

“You passed through Axalt?” The High Wizard’s eyes traveled from Fydel to Cerryl and then back to the dark-bearded mage.

How else could we have gone? Then Cerryl realized, belatedly, that Jeslek wanted an acknowledgment of some sort. “We saw the destruction you wrought, High Wizard. Nothing remains of Axalt.”

Jeslek snorted. “I have sent a message to the Traders’ Council of Spidlar, suggesting that they heed what befell Axalt.”

“They will not,” said Anya, standing beside Jeslek, her flame-red hair fluttering in the light and chill wind that blew out of the Easthorns and across the rolling hills of southeastern Spidlar. “They scarce will have learned that we have arrived here. Nor will they credit all the levies to follow until they have seen them in battle.”

Jeslek gestured toward the cots and small barns behind him. “Battle? It will be eight-days before we see any battle. By then, we will have advanced half the distance to Elparta.”

“What would you have us do?” asked Fydel.

“Best you quarter with us,” offered the High Wizard, “though we will be here for but a few days, while we refresh mounts and make repairs.” Jeslek glanced at Teras. “You had best consult with Senglat as to where you should camp your force and rest their mounts.”

From where he had drawn his mount up next to Cerryl, Teras nodded acknowledgment. “As you suggest, High Wizard.”

“Shortly, we will discuss how we will proceed to bring Spidlar into the fold.”

Cerryl dismounted wearily. Any respite would be more than welcome, but he doubted that Spidlar-or any land-would come into the fold all that willingly.