The Chaos Balance

LIX

The road dust raised by the column of armsmen riding ahead was everywhere, rising shoulder high, sometimes higher, coating Nylan’s and Ayrlyn’s new grays with fine red powder. Tonsar rode to Nylan’s left, Ayrlyn to his right.

In the hot afternoon sun, every time Nylan blotted away sweat, his forearm came away coated with a thin later of reddish mud. If it rained, it would settle the dust, but with much rain, then they’d have to slop through mud. Nylan took a deep breath. His mount looked like a roan, and his nose itched. He rubbed it, but it did no good. He sneezed-once, twice.

Then the engineer glanced back toward Sylenia, since Weryl’s seat was mounted behind her saddle, and had been from the morning after Fornal had put all the troublemakers and trainees under Nylan’s and Ayrlyn’s command. Nylan wasn’t quite sure what to expect, except trouble sooner or later. Happily, he did not see the squat armsman who had leered at the nursemaid earlier.

The current trouble was that their “command” got to eat Fornal’s armsmen’s dust. Only the supply wagons were farther to the rear. The last one had a small anvil, probably what passed for a weapons anvil, and an antique bellows, hammers and tongs, even ten stone worth of coal in bags. Where Fornal had gotten them Nylan hadn’t asked, though he hoped the coregent had paid for it, rather than seized it. Somehow, though, he wasn’t that hopeful, and it bothered him, not that he could afford to do much about it, not at the moment.

Weryl seemed to be dozing, with muddy streaks running from the corners of his mouth where drool and dust had combined. Nylan smiled faintly, then looked through the dust at the line of trees a half kay to the right that bordered the river. Was the entire east bank nothing but marsh, swamp, and thicket? While the road on the west bank was level and faster traveling than the section from Lornth to Rohrn, the way was dry and hot, although the rolling fields to the left of the road beyond the fences showed healthy green shoots.

“Dust and more dust.” Ayrlyn coughed, then glanced over her shoulder. “If they fight the way they ride, we’re in trouble. They’ll need a lot of training.”

“What do you think, Tonsar?” asked Nylan.

The subofficer shrugged.

“You’ll have to lead some of them,” Ayrlyn prompted.

Nylan could see her smile, but the brown-bearded armsman looked stolidly ahead, as if he were riding to his doom.

After they had covered perhaps a hundred cubits, the armsman sighed, loudly. “I have been faithful and I have worked hard. And begging your pardons, angels, I do not see why the regent insisted I must be your subofficer. I will do what I can, and that be little enough with these.”

Nylan understood. Tonsar had brought them to Lornth, and Fornal was the type to blame the messenger.

“Begging your pardons, again, sers,” the subofficer continued, “but, if I lead them, they will not follow, and one cannot lead from the rear.” He pursed his lips. “I would march all of them against the white demons at the first chance and be rid of them.”

“We don’t have that choice,” pointed out Nylan. “There is no one to replace them.”

“Would you send them against the white demons?” Tonsar looked hopefully to Ayrlyn. “Could we not find others…somewhere?”

“Where?” Ayrlyn raised her eyebrows. “Fornal had to beat the bushes to get this crop-or so we were told.”

“That be true.” Tonsar sighed again.

Over dull murmurs of conversation and the dust-muffled steps of the horses, two voices rose.

“…worthless hunk of dog meat…”

“You should talk…”

At the yelling, Nylan turned in the saddle and looked back to where two riders had pulled off to the side of the road.

“Now what?” asked the flame-haired angel.

“Two of them are arguing about something.” He shook his head and looked at Tonsar. “Any suggestions?”

“Most are hopeless. Some are troublemakers. The others are mad.” Tonsar frowned. “You could kill one. Fornal would.”

“Remember Ryba,” said Ayrlyn. “This isn’t the time for kindness.”

“You think…?” Nylan’s guts tightened.

“Yes.”

Nylan wheeled the mare and urged her toward the two troublemakers, where three other riders lagged, clearly trying to hear what was going on with the arguing pair. Refraining from shaking his head, the engineer urged the mare toward the five.

“…wouldn’t know a bow from a hoe…”

“…never worked an honest day…or a dishonest one…”

The engineer wondered if both he and Ayrlyn should have intervened together. No, he decided. Each had to handle things alone, or there would be even more trouble.

“Owara is so small that a hare would miss it, except it smells so bad that even a hare wouldn’t hop through it.” The man with the braided black hair laughed cruelly.

“You must be the only man in Runnel,” called the thin-faced blond, “and the last, for your mother would have expired immediately on seeing you, and no woman could-”

“Knock it off!”

Both men looked up, but just waited as Nylan rode up. Both sneered, the black-haired man openly, the blond with his eyes.

“For the moment, I don’t care how you two insult each other, so long as you keep in formation. You’re slowing things down. Now, get moving.”

“And if I don’t want to?” asked the black-haired man.

“Well…” mused Nylan. “I suppose the generous thing would be to wound you, but that would either get you out of the fighting or a pension. I could beat the manure out of you, but I might end up just disabling you for life, and that would create the same sort of problems.” He shrugged and offered a smile. “So…take your choice. Leading the first charge against the Cyadorans, or getting a blade through your chest right now.”

“You talk big, but you’re just another little lord,” snapped the black-haired man. “I’ll do as I please.”

“You’ll get back in formation,” Nylan said coldly, triggering his step-up as he spoke, knowing what he would have to do.

“Make me.”

In a single flowing motion, Nylan drew the shortsword from the shoulder harness and released it.

The blade went into the other’s chest hilt-deep. The man tried to reach for the big blade, but after an initial twitch, slumped over the mount’s neck.

Ignoring the white wave of death and agony that washed over him, and the daggers that knifed through his eyes, Nylan had the second blade in his hand even before the other four looked to him. All four mouths were open. “The regent wouldn’t take that, and we don’t either.”

The engineer rode up next to the sagging body, and yanked out the blade, then turned to the blond man. “You! Your name?”

“Wuerek, ser.”

“You strap his body to the mount, and when we get to Clynya tonight, you bury it. We don’t have time right now. You understand?”

“Yes, ser.” Wuerek looked down.

“I’ll do my best to get you all through this, but your part is to do your best, and that means following orders.” He eased the mare back through the dust raised by Fornal’s armsmen. “Ride in pairs!” snapped Nylan. “This isn’t a jaunt to the tavern.”

As he rode, the levies looked away.

“…black angel…mean bastard…”

“…gave Gisyl a chance…idiot…don’t mess with pros…”

The smith wanted to shake his head. It didn’t seem to matter where he was. There was always some idiot who would respond only to force. To such, forbearance, reason, or common sense meant nothing. He took a deep breath. How many more such would there be?

He rode along the shoulder of the road, passing their command-four squads roughly, except that it was hard to tell because, even when the men did attempt to approximate a column, about half couldn’t figure out how to get their mounts to match pace with their partner.

He wanted to rub his throbbing forehead, but didn’t dare, not immediately, since that would send the wrong signal.

“What happened?” asked Ayrlyn. “I could feel-”

“Idiot dared me to make him follow orders.” Nylan shook his head. “Makes me think of Mran-and Ryba. I guess I’m no different. I thought I was, but-” He shrugged.

“They’d have torn you apart if you hadn’t,” Ayrlyn said.

“Sad, isn’t it?” Nylan rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the throbbing there.

“It’s life.”

“Begging your pardon, ser?” asked Tonsar.

“Some troublemaker, big black-haired fellow, Gisyl, I think, wanted to stage a mutiny. He dared me to make him obey. I told him he could obey or die. He didn’t believe me.”

“And what happened?” asked the armsman.

“He’s dead.”

Tonsar’s mouth opened, then shut. “So…so quickly?”

“If you’re going to kill someone, it’s better to make it quick. Then they can’t hurt you threshing around.”

Tonsar swallowed, then looked over his shoulder. “You didn’t leave the body?”

“No. I made the other troublemaker strap it on the mount. He’ll have to bury it when we get to Clynya.”

Tonsar swallowed again. “No one would have minded-”

“If they have to clean up afterwards,” said Nylan, “maybe they won’t be quite so ready to quarrel.”

“Yet…yet…” Tonsar stammered.

“You think they’ll just blame me?” Nylan shrugged. “Troops always do, but that’s all right so long as they get in the habit of obeying and not doing stupid things.”

Tonsar closed his mouth, and beyond him Ayrlyn nodded thoughtfully. Sylenia busied herself with checking the sleeping boy.

Nylan noticed that the line of trees that had marked the east side of the river had vanished, and only a low line of bushes followed the watercourse. On the west side, between the road and the bluff that ran down to the river, was only grass.

A shadow slipped across the road, from the thickening clouds blowing out of the Westhorns to the east.

“Be not too long afore we make Clynya,” observed Tonsar. “And a good thing, with the rain coming in. A good rain will lay the road dust for the journey south.”

“Too good a rain will turn the road into mud soup,” ventured Ayrlyn.

“Ah, lady angel, the rain in the south here, it never falls for long.”

Nylan hoped he was right, but the relief from the direct sun provided by the clouds was welcome, more than welcome. He turned to Ayrlyn. “Your turn.”

“Right.” With a grim smile, she turned her mount and began to ride back along the part of the column that contained their two squads plus of trainees and troublemakers.

The sun hung just above the western hills when they reached a ridge crest. On the other side, the road swung down in an arc into a gentle valley cut by the river. There were no bridges, just what appeared to be a flat sloping ford.

“Clynya…Clynya…”

The mutterings that came back through the road dust confirmed to Nylan that they were nearing their immediate destination.

“It is not even sunset,” proclaimed Tonsar.

“Good,” murmured Sylenia.

Nylan just wiped away more muddy sweat, and glanced up at the still-dark clouds that covered two-thirds of the sky. They felt like rain, but there hadn’t been any, not even a hint of moisture on the light breeze out of the east that had done little to cool him on the afternoon’s ride.

He studied the valley as they began to ride down toward the ford. Unlike Rohrn, Clynya was on the eastern side of the river, on a slight hill nearly two kays north of the ford itself. Was that because the greater threat happened to be the Jeranyi? Using the river as a defense made sense to Nylan, but he wondered if towns and cities were located for such sensible reasons. The plateau he had picked out as a possible city site made more sense than Lornth’s location, but there wasn’t even a town on the plateau.

Just across the ford, less than a kay from the river, and to the left of the road, were a series of earthworks, and behind them, blackened timbers. The grass reached halfway up the earthen barrier, but had not covered all the blackened ground or ashes.

“What was that?” asked Ayrlyn.

“I believe that must be the Jeranyi fort-the one that Lord Sillek destroyed. I have not been this far south, but Huruc was, and he said that Lord Sillek had destroyed the fort and driven the Jeranyi back across the grasslands.” Tonsar shrugged. “They will try again. They always have.”

“Wasn’t there some sort of agreement?” Ayrlyn pursued.

Nylan looked toward Sylenia, who was turned in her saddle and trying to give Weryl a drink of water.

“Ildyrom cannot be trusted. He is a Jeranyi.” Tonsar shrugged. “They will be back.”

Nylan frowned. For the Jeranyi to have built a fort on the Lornian side of the river…Sillek had indeed had his troubles. To have succeeded in pushing the Jeranyi back across the grasslands, and then still having been forced to fight Westwind-the engineer shook his head. The Lornian holders appeared singularly stupid, but, maybe, there was something he and Ayrlyn didn’t know. Maybe.

“There aren’t many trees,” said Ayrlyn, breaking into his thoughts, “even near the river.”

“The sheep like the green shoots, and,” Tonsar shrugged, “there is not that much rain.”

Nylan glanced up at the clouds. “This doesn’t make sense. There’s enough rain here for there to be trees.”

“Unless the summer is very dry and long and hot,” suggested Ayrlyn.

“Hot…very hot,” agreed Tonsar. “Rain. It rains seldom.”

The engineer did not even want to think about a summer that hot and dry.

A line of rain gusted over the low thatched roofs of Clynya and swept westward down the road toward the column of armsmen, down toward the ford, the West Fork, the grasslands, and Jerans. Almost as the sprinkling of rain had come, it was gone.

Yet after the splattering of rain, all that was left were dark spots on the road, and a hint of dampness in the air.

Nylan stood in the saddle as the column ahead slowed in an open space before several buildings. While the timbered two-storied barracks had a rough plank roof, the stable was roofed with sod, and long streamers of brown grass hung over the thick eaves. Some sections of the roof sported new growth.

Still, the barracks and the stable were large, large enough for the several hundred levies.

Nylan turned to Tonsar. “You get to make sure that Wuerek buries that body-and deep.”

“Yes, ser angel.” Tonsar’s voice was weary.

“If he gives you any trouble, tell him I’ll bury him next to it.”

“Yes, ser.” A faint smile crossed Tonsar’s lips.

“Tonsar…” suggested Ayrlyn. “Don’t invent trouble.”

Nylan thought the subofficer was going to roll his eyes, but the man only nodded. As Tonsar rode toward the rear of the group, one word escaped his lips, loud enough for the two to hear. “…angels…”

“He’s not used to being understood,” said Ayrlyn dryly.

“Thanks to you,” Nylan answered.

Sylenia glanced from Nylan to Ayrlyn. The nursemaid opened her mouth, then closed it as another rider neared.

“The front stalls of the stables are for us. You angels have the upper middle quarters,” Fornal said smoothly, gesturing toward the wooden outside steps. “They are large enough for your needs. We all eat in the barracks hall after the two bells ring.”

“Thank you.” Nylan smiled politely. “Where are the subofficers billeted in case we need to find Tonsar?”

“At the end in the rear.” Fornal gestured vaguely in the direction of the long building. “They each have a small room.”

After the coregent rode toward the stables, the two angels followed, trailed by Sylenia and Weryl, letting Fornal enter the stables first. A handful of chickens skittered away from all the horses, flocking toward a gap-planked and tilting structure to the south of the stable. Some form of hen house, Nylan guessed, both from the low roof line and the smell.

“This way, sers,” called a grimy youth. “Officers at the front here.”

The stalls were small, smelly, and the clay underfoot slimy.

Nylan raised his eyebrows and glanced across the stall wall at Ayrlyn. She shrugged. What could they do-except share a wry smile?

After stabling their mounts, and grooming them, the three walked toward the barracks building, where they climbed the outside steps to the central rooms.

Nylan opened the door, and a faint wave of dust-and something else-roiled up around him. There were two rooms, consisting of a small bedchamber with a double-wide bed, and a main front room with two couch beds, and a small hearth. There was no wood for the hearth, not that they needed a fire in the early summer heat. An open area before the windows showed marks on the wide-planked floor where other furniture had been removed.

“It’s not too bad, but there’s something…” Ayrlyn frowned.

So did Nylan. “Chaos. Some time back, though. It’s gone, except it’s not.”

Sylenia, juggling a squirming Weryl, glanced from one angel to the other.

“One of Sillek’s wizards?” suggested Ayrlyn.

“Probably-there was one out here in the grasslands to hold off the Jeranyi. Someone told us that. He’s probably the one that burned out the Jeranyi fort we passed.”

“Sillek was resourceful…” Ayrlyn paused and turned to Sylenia. “You can put Weryl down and let him totter around. There’s nothing here that can hurt him.”

“But you said-” began the black-haired woman-girl.

“There’s nothing here now,” Nylan said, forcing a smile. “We could just tell that a wizard had lived here.”

“You are wizards,” pointed out Sylenia.

“Not exactly, and not the same kind,” answered the engineer.

A faint frown crossed the nursemaid’s forehead.

“Not all wizards are the same,” added Ayrlyn. “Healers and mages are not like white wizards. We cannot throw fireballs; they cannot heal.”

Slowly, Sylenia lowered Weryl. The boy sat down in a heap beside one of the couch-beds, then pulled himself erect and tottered toward Nylan.

“Daaaa…”

The engineer scooped up his son. “Long day? It’s not over yet. We still have to find supper.”

“Wahdah!”

“And water, too.” Nylan laughed.

“Especially water,” added Ayrlyn. “I feel like I’m wearing more dust than clothes.”

Nylan nodded, thinking it would get worse, with another three days before they reached the area of the copper mines. Had it been a good idea to bring Weryl? Probably not, if there had been any alternative. “There are buckets over there. I’ll find a pump or well.” He set his son back on the plank floor.