The Chaos Balance

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  As he waited for the rest of the column to cross the first bridge and for Huruc to arrive, the engineer noted that the center section of the larger span, between the piers, also had a planked roadbed and wooden side walls.

  Rohrn seemed to be a trading town, with a scattering of empty wharves on the western side of the river, just north of the stone bridge. Part of the bluff had been terraced to allow access to the wharves. Most of the town sat on a bluff a good ten cubits above the river. The river was flowing more fully than normal, Nylan could see, because the bushes and trees on the eastern side were partly submerged in the churning brownish water, and the water on the western side lapped at the top of the wooden piers.

  “Da… wahdah, wahdah,” called Weryl from behind the saddle.

  “Yes, there’s water there. Lots and lots of water.” Nylan turned his mount to watch the last of the armsmen cross the first bridge, followed by Huruc.

  Another face caught his eyes-a brown-haired and burly man who appeared to be a squad leader. The subofficer looked at Nylan and smiled. “Ser angel, I did not think to see you bearing arms for Lornth.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” answered the smith, still trying to wrack his brain for the other’s identity. “Tonsar,” whispered Ayrlyn.

  “You want to fight the Cyadorans, Tonsar?” asked Nylan, glad for the reminder from Ayrlyn.

  “I would not say that it’s something anyone would wish.” Tonsar grinned. “My boys and me, we will do our best.”

  “Just make sure you do,” rumbled Huruc as he rode up. “Lead on, angels. Two abreast.” The force leader gestured toward the second bridge. “Just follow the main street to the other side of the town. The barracks are there, but I’ll catch you before you get that far.”

  The near-setting sun beat right into Nylan’s eyes as he urged the mare onto the bridge. The echo of her hoofs reverberated from the paving stones of the approach and the first section of the bridge proper.

  He leaned toward Ayrlyn. “Thank you. I knew he was the one who escorted us to Lornth, but I just couldn’t remember his name.”

  “Tonsar? Who would never let it be said that he slaughtered a family? And you couldn’t remember that?” Ayrlyn grinned.

  “No,” said Nylan sheepishly. “I never was good with names. I guess I’m still not.”

  The mare’s hoofs thudded on the planks of the bridge’s center section, then clopped again on the stones on the far side, where Nylan headed down the fractionally wider street that seemed to lead toward a square a few hundred cubits westward.

  Rohrn was a smaller version of Lornth, with a scattering of buildings constructed of the pinkish granite, and the others of stone and plastered-except that Rohrn seemed older, with patches on the plaster. Nylan guided the mare around a long series of potholes that dotted the cracked paving stones of the main street, some of which were deep enough to hold stagnant water. The houses, some shuttered and some unshuttered, were plaster-finished in various shades of white, tinged pink by the red dust and gray by age.

  A mosquito whined out of the shadows cast by a shuttered house, and Nylan brushed it away, still squinting into the low sun.

  “There’s a square ahead,” Ayrlyn observed.

  Nylan nodded and turned at the sound of faster hoofbeats to see Huruc squeezing his mount past the left side of the column.

  “Be not long now,” said the armsmaster as he reined back his mount and took a deep breath. “Hate riding narrow streets.”

  Three women in brown trousers, with baskets at their feet, watched from the porch of the chandlery as Nylan and Ayrlyn led the column into the square.

  “… sad sight… old man and a woman leadin‘ Lornth… and a child behind them… sad it be…”

  “… ser Gethen, mayhap…”

  “… say he’s a big man, and that old fellow’s not that big… Gethen’s bairns… all growed…”

  Nylan snorted. “If I’m not a woman, then I’m an old man.”

  “I know better.”

  “So do I,” said Huruc.

  A charred signboard swung from a chain before a burned-out shell that might have once been an inn. Large clumps of browned grass, interspersed with pale green stems, grew around the base of the empty stone pedestal in the square.

  Rohrn had clearly seen better days, but Nylan said nothing as Huruc trotted up.

  “You can see the barracks ahead,” announced the head armsman.

  The space between the houses widened, and then there were no more houses, but an open field. The ground before the barracks was churned mud, as was the soil inside the large corral to the right of the stable building. The corral held more than a hundred mounts. The entrance to the stable had been strewn with straw in an apparent effort to firm up the reddish ooze.

  From the odor, Nylan decided that the ooze had mixed thoroughly with horse droppings and less savory other items. His nose wrinkled.

  “Thinking about sanitation again?” asked Ayrlyn.

  “Was it that obvious?”

  “Only to me.”

  Huruc whipped out the big blade and stood in the saddle.

  “Hold up! Hold here!”

  As the column jostled to a halt, another group of horsemen rode awkwardly toward the stable and then toward the corral. While all wore blades, the blades were far from uniform, and one youth carried his without even a scabbard.

  “Levies… some not much good,” said Tonsar in a low voice that barely carried to the angels.

  A black-bearded figure rode across the muddy ground.

  “Here comes Fornal.” Nylan glanced back at Sylenia, but the nursemaid’s face was calm, impassive, as it had been for most of the trip.

  “Greetings. I am glad to see you have arrived as announced.” Fornal inclined his head. “The angels and you, Huruc, have quarters on the upper level, and you many stable your mounts within the stables. Your men have the south end of the barracks,” he added to Huruc, “and they will have to use the smaller corral behind the stable.”

  “Yes, ser.” Huruc stood and waved the blade. “This way!” he bellowed.

  As Huruc led the others away, the black-bearded regent eased the roan toward the angels. “Besides your blades, deadly as they are, did you bring any magical weapons?”

  “Not many battles are won with magic,” Nylan said calmly.

  “I am glad to hear you say that, mage.” Fornal smiled openly. “Few seem to understand that simple truth.”

  Nylan waited.

  “Have you thought of a nonmagical way to aid us, besides your own considerable prowess?”

  “Some of your levies don’t know how to hold a blade, much less use it,” suggested Ayrlyn. “You cannot afford to spend time training them. That’s something we’ve had a little experience with.”

  “My sire had mentioned such.” Fornal’s fingers stroked his dark beard. “There are two squads and a few others-not a large number perchance-but,” the young regent shrugged, “as you say, they might well be armed with pitchforks as blades for all that they know of either. I would be indebted if you would undertake to turn them into a fighting force. Or at least a force that will not mill or turn at the first charge or arrow.”

  “Do we have your leave to use what methods we see fit?” asked Nylan politely.

  “Any such method as you know that will leave most of them intact to fight.” Fornal smiled more broadly. “I will introduce you two as their force leaders before we ride in the morning. We can discuss the details when we eat this evening.” He inclined his head. “I will leave you to make ready.”

  “By the way,” the smith asked, “do we know how much armor these Cyadorans wear?”

  “A breastplate and a small glittering shield-that is what the reports tell.” Fornal frowned momentarily. “Why ask you?”

  “We can discuss it later, but I would like to request that we bring an anvil and some hammers.”

  Fornal nodded. “You would use your skill to repair weapons, ser angel?”


  “That is one thing I can do. A grindstone would also help.”

  “Those… those we can find.”

  “Thank you.”

  Fornal inclined his head politely, then turned the roan to follow Huruc.

  “What was that all about? The armor business?” asked Ayrlyn. “You said you wouldn’t forge better blades-”

  “Repairs won’t be that, but if I need to forge something, once we get in the middle of nowhere, where will I find an anvil or tools?”

  Ayrlyn nodded, then smiled faintly. “Here we go again.”

  “Probably.” Nylan took a deep breath. “We’ll also need coal or charcoal, and some oil. Most of these blades are dull and nicked. They use them like crowbars, to knock people off their mounts.”

  “That won’t go over well with the professionals,” Ayrlyn predicted.

  “No, but since nothing will,” Nylan answered, “we might as well do it our way.” He flicked the reins. “We need to get off these mounts. I can smell Weryl even above the local sanitation.”

  Behind them, Sylenia’s mount and the gray squushed through the mud as the four horses headed for the weathered stable. In the rank behind Sylenia, a squat levy watched the nursemaid, nervously running one hand through his brown beard.

  Nylan frowned, but he could not stop a man from looking.

  LVIII

  IN THE MIGHTY city of Cyad dwelt the mages of the white rainbow, whose ships fueled on fire and spanned the seas, whose white marble palaces glittered in the sun of contentment, and who pursued the knowledge of the distant stars.

  Horseless wagons, harnessing the power of chaos to the will of man and mage, traversed the polished stone roadways smoother than glass. Those great firewagons sped more swiftly than the wind, bringing crops and goods and wealth to all of Cyador.

  All were content in the order kept by the white mages, and seldom were necessary the shimmering shields and burnished blades of the mighty Mirror Lancers, for there was peace.

  In those days had Cyador allowed Lornth privileges in the Grass Hills, among them the privilege to remove metals from the earth. Seeing this privilege, the smith Nylan, in his guile, asked of the regents of Lornth why they existed upon the suffrage of Cyad, when for generations they had slaved and the mages of Cyad had done nothing with the bright copper buried in the Grass Hills.

  Those of Lornth pondered his words long into the deeps of the night and recalled that the Grass Hills were yet those of the Lord of Cyad.

  As they pondered, then sang Ayrlyn the soul-singer of that darkness of despair that would follow when Cyad asked back what was its due, and when Lornth could no longer mine the bright copper of the Grass Hills.

  What can be done, asked the leader of the Lornians, for she was a woman and trusting. How shall we hold to the delvings of our fathers and forefathers that have sustained us through the years?

  In response to such questions, the dark angel Nylan offered a great wizardry against which the might of Cyador and her mages would not prevail, and, persuaded by the wily Nylan, the council of Lornth said, it shall be so, and they turned their eyes from the evil that Nylan proposed.

  Colors of White

  (Manual of the Guild at Fairhaven)

  Preface

  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 th
at 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?”