The Chaos Balance

LXXIV

Fornal sat on the sole stool at the end of the trestle table, next to the mug and uncorked bottle of vinegary amber wine. He picked up the bottle and filled the mug. “Hope this has fared better than the last.”

“It should.” Nylan had tried to sense the handful of wine bottles and had picked what felt the least disordered.

After a swallow, Fornal wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Best of a bad lot. Too hot here for good wine.” He took another swallow. “You wanted to talk.”

On the bench across the table from the one on which the angels sat, Huruc and Lewa nodded in turn, the candle throwing exaggerated shadows of their motions on the blotched wall behind them.

“We should make Jirec our ‘official’ camp,” suggested Ayrlyn, taking a swallow of water from her mug.

“Even I know Jirec is not a good place for our camp,” said Huruc. “The stream is drying up, and the wells are brackish.”

“Brackish,” echoed Lewa. “It is too close to the camp of the white demons.”

“Say on,” said Fornal mildly, refilling the mug before him.

“We build some large cookfires, spend a day or so there, clang a few chimes, and get our friends to come visit. And we give them a surprise party.”

Fornal and Lewa exchanged puzzled glances. Huruc and Nylan grinned.

“What sort of surprise?” asked Fornal cautiously.

“We set up a trap. So far, we’ve been fairly straightforward. Barbarians don’t do sneaky things,” Nylan explained. “The Cyadorans know you wouldn’t consider such a devious scheme.” He wanted to add something to the effect that honor forbade it, but decided against pressing Fornal.

“If you wish to attempt such a…a scheme,” Fornal finally said, “I wish you and your levies well.” He drained the mug in a single gulp-admirable restraint, Nylan suspected, for the young regent.

At least he hadn’t openly called it dishonorable, Nylan reflected as he answered. “We should be able to kill more than a few if we set it up right.” He smiled at Fornal. “That way you will have fewer to face in open battle.” His guts twisted-the order fields didn’t like deception, not in him, anyway, and the discomfort was continually getting worse.

“I am becoming more glad that you fight for Lornth,” Fornal said slowly. “I do not like this dodging and plotting, but the white demons have not been honorable. While you undertake this, I will return to Clynya to raise more armsmen to replace those we have lost. I trust that will not be a problem?”

“No,” said Nylan. “We will work to ensure you return to face fewer of the Cyadorans. We will have to gather a few things, like mattocks and shovels and picks, and I will have to forge a few items.”

“Do what you must.” Fornal picked up the bottle as he stood. “This was almost decent, angels.” He nodded stiffly. “Good eve.” Then he carried the bottle to his room. The door shut firmly.

“I must go. To the barracks.” Lewa rose.

Only after the other subofficer left did Huruc shake his head. “You angels make them uncomfortable,” he said in a low voice. “Ser Fornal knows he must win, but he struggles against the old traditions. Lewa-he cannot see beyond what has always been.”

“And what of you, Huruc?” asked Nylan.

“The world is changing. A handful of women and a single mage have destroyed the mightiest gathering of armsmen in my lifetime. Three mighty white wizards perished. A smith and a mage takes a small heavy blade and disarms the mighty and apologizes for his skill.” Huruc smiled ruefully. “Yet…honor should serve men, not destroy them.” He rose. “I, too, must check my men.”

At the door, the armsman turned. “I hope you are as successful against the white demons as you have been against Lornth.” Then the subofficer disappeared into the darkness.

“I do, too,” offered Nylan, watching the flicker of the candle change the size of Ayrlyn’s shadow on the wall.

“We will be.” Then Ayrlyn’s fingers reached across the table and twined with his. “We can’t do anything more tonight. Success or not, life is short. And Sylenia is meeting Tonsar in the old hayloft, and Weryl is asleep.”

Nylan squeezed her fingers in return. They rose, side by side, and eased toward the door to their room.

The smith hoped that, later, he did not dream once more of trees filled with both order and chaos. His daytime existence had far too much of each…and yet…yet…he knew he needed to explore whatever the tree dream-or message-meant. He just didn’t know when he had time.

“Later,” Ayrlyn whispered.