Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (35 page)

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 die 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.

...AND SO IT came to pass that Ryba was the last of the angels to rule the heavens and the angel who set forth the Legend for all to heed. Yet Ryba did not wish the Legend to leave Westwind.

   For with the going forth of the prophet Relyn, who told all east of the mighty Westhorns about the Legend and the triumph of order, Ryba became more displeased, and called unto her all those of her guards.

   And from that day did the new angels accept no man full-grown, no matter how ill or disabled, leaving any man found in the domain of Westwind to make his own way or to perish upon the Roof of the World.

   Nor was any man raised in Westwind allowed to lift a blade, for it was foretold that when a man next lifted a blade would Westwind soon fall, but until then would Tower Black hold against all Candar, east and west, and even against all the mages of the world.

   When word carried to Tower Black that the smith Nylan forged mighty blades again, and that those of Lornth warred with ancient Cyador, the black stones shivered with the foresight of the Angel.

   Then did Ryba announce that Lornth would rue the day it put its trust in the iron of Nylan and the songs of Ayrlyn, for all that a. man builds with iron will fall to iron, and the songs that a man finds sweet can carry no truth.

   And the guards of Westwind hardened their hearts, as cold and terrible as the ice that never leaves Freyja.. . .

         Book of Ayrlyn

         Section I

         (Restricted Text)

NYLAN PATTED THE mare's neck, easing her into a wide turn, and rode slowly back toward the south end of Jirec, trying to see the approach to the abandoned hamlet as the Cyadorans might, On the right side of the road were the remnants of a long animal shed, the west end collapsed, so that the ruins looked like an earthen ramp. Beyond the sod-roofed shed were the blackened walls of a dwelling that had been fired by the Cyadoran sweep of the hamlet eight-days earlier.

   Thin plumes of gray smoke-cookfires for the “Lornian camp”-rose from the far end of the rough oval of dwellings that clustered around the seasonal and now dried-up watercourse.

   If Kula and Syskar were ovens, Nylan reflected, Jirec was an antique blast furnace where a low wind carried gray grit everywhere, pitting building walls and removing all color, roughing exposed skin and faces, irritating already over-stressed eyes, shortening tempers, and turning every scrap of food into something resembling internal sandpaper.

   He blinked, trying to let his tears dislodge another fragment of wind-blown grit, as he rode slowly along the rutted way until he neared the small olive grove where eight armsmen- and Ayrlyn-labored.

   “I am not a laborer,” said Fuera, under his breath, looking up from the thigh-deep trench, then looking away from Ayrlyn, whose eyes flashed.

   Nylan turned in the saddle. “Ayrlyn didn't want to hear your complaints, Fuera, and now you're bitching to me. Neither of us wants to hear it. We've been doing our best to keep you alive, and you keep complaining. Do you think Ayrlyn likes plaiting grass? Or that I liked sharpening poles?” His arms went to the scratches across his uncovered forearms. “Your bladework has gotten good enough that you could rejoin Huruc's squad. If you keep it up, I just might let you. Besides, why complain now? You're almost done.”

   Fuera looked down at the shovel and resumed digging.

   “... may be tough, Fuera, but most'd have flogged you or killed you ...”

   “... poor Fuera doesn't want to get his white hands dirty...”

   Ayrlyn continued to rough-plait weed stalks and grasses into mats which she had stacked along the trenches. Meresat laid sticks across the completed trenches, then set the mats over them, concealing the lines of sharpened poles that angled up, before gently covering the mats with a thin layer of gravel and dirt-some of which blew away even before touching the mats.

   Nylan guided the mare around the road. He glanced toward the trenches opposite the olive grove. That part had already been completed. “You have that nasty look in your eyes again,” he said as he drew up beside Ayrlyn and looked down at the redhead. “The one that says people are going to get hurt.”

   “If I have to go back to basket-weaving, someone is going to pay for it. I don't get to ride around looking important.”

   “I did cut and sharpen most of those poles,” he pointed out. “And I was lugging stones for a barrier.”

   “Let's hope this works.”

   “It should. The Cyadorans are arrogant enough to ignore most of the details. They always attack later in the day.” He pointed. “The shadows from the olives-I think they're olives, anyway-they're already hitting on the covered trenches.”

   “You're sure they won't see them?”

   “That's where the archers come in. You don't look at the ground when people are firing arrows at you, particularly dumb barbarians.”

   “So . .. they'll keep moving?”

   “That's the general idea.”

   Ayrlyn tossed out another mat and stretched. “That should do it.” She walked back across the road and toward the side of the grove farthest from the road to where she had tied the chestnut. She eased her water bottle from the holder, uncorked it, and took several long swallows.

   “That's better. This place is dusty.”

   “Let's take a look at where we set up for the archers, and then check and make sure Tonsar has everything ready to bring to the diggers if the Cyadorans show up.” Nylan waited as Ayrlyn mounted, then let his mare walk slowly away from where the eight men completed the last trench. If the Cyadorans didn't show, then they'd start adding another trench or so at twilight and finish early in the morning.

   North of the olive grove were more burned-out buildings- a dwelling, two sheds, and the earth-banked and stone-walled ruins of a long barn. The faint odors of death and charcoal swirled together with the grit of the hot light wind.

   Nylan swallowed and pointed. “We can hold all the mounts here. You can't see them from the grove or the road.”

   “This is the third time you've told me,” Ayrlyn answered with a hoarse laugh. “I believed you the first time.”

   Nylan grinned sheepishly. “Sorry.”

   They rode past the back of the burned-out dwelling where Nylan had built a ten-cubit-long stone barrier from behind which they would be able to use their bows. He hoped his skills with his composite bow hadn't deteriorated too much.

   Then they headed north, toward their temporary quarters and the mock “Lornian” camp that consisted mainly of outsized cookfires and all-too-rustic quarters in a mostly roofless barn.

   Tonsar paced toward the two as they reined up, swinging a short length of rusty chain, almost idly.

   “How much longer might we be here?” asked Tonsar. Behind him, in the shade of the half-burned barn-stable, were ranked the armsmen's mounts, saddled and ready. Most of the armsmen sat or stood under those undamaged parts of the roof that provided shade from the unforgiving sun. Ayrlyn and Nylan had been rotating the diggers and trap-builders, so that no more than a third of their force was laboring at one time. “Been near three days . . . and no one comes.”

   “They'll be here,” Nylan said, shifting his weight in the saddle and blotting his forehead. “They'll be here.”

   “You may not have to wait that much longer.” Ayrlyn pointed to the southeast, where a single rider galloped along the dusty road through Jirec, skirting the olive groves, much as Nylan had.

   “He be riding like the white ones are behind him,” agreed the burly subofficer.

   The three watched as the rider pulled into the holding, glancing from one end of the former barnyard to the other before seeing the angels and heading toward them.

   “They're coming! Scores of them! They got those long stickers,” gasped the slender armsman.

   “How far back?” asked Ayrlyn.

   “Not more than five kays.”

   “Are they riding hard?” Nylan pursued.

   “No, ser.” The scout swallowed. “Measured pace, like always.”

   “We've got enough time to do it right,” Ayrlyn said, nodding to Tonsar.

   “Siplor! Get out there to the traps, and tell 'em to clean up and mount up!” Tonsar gestured, then marched toward the half-walled quarters, tossing the -chain over the end of a charred timber. “Form up!”

   “Buretek! Ailsor! Get your bows!” Ayrlyn's voice cracked across the compound like a whip. “We need to set up.”

   The other two archers scrambled across the barnyard toward their mounts, and Ayrlyn swung the chestnut and began to head back toward the ambush point.

   Under the hot sun and clear sky, Nylan waited, his skin itching from sweat and dust, his face burning from the same. He . forced himself to watch, then eased out his water bottle and took several long swallows. Commanders were supposed to be calm, even when their hearts were pounding. He replaced the water bottle slowly, deliberately, then shifted his weight in the saddle slightly.

   Although the armsmen seemed frozen in molasses, Ayrlyn was less than half a kay ahead of Nylan when the remaining armsmen had mounted up, and the smith flicked the reins.

   “Let's go.”

   “I see no dust,” said Tonsar.

   “Good.”

   When they had crossed the center of the loose grouping of devastated structures and reined up behind the long shed that would shield them from the view of the Cyadorans as the white lancers entered Jirec, Nylan turned his mount, raising his hand for quiet. Siplor and the diggers were already mounted and waiting. Meresat grinned, but Fuera avoided looking at the angel smith.

   “I've told you, and Tonsar's told you, but I'll say it again. Whether you live could rest on how quiet you are. So don't say anything. We'll be back to lead you against the demons.” He gestured toward the other side of the ruined shed/barn. “The four of us will be less than two hundred cubits away, and we'll be getting the whites as confused as we can. Then, it will be up to you to finish the job.” He nodded curtly, and turned his mount.

   Ayrlyn and the two archers had their bows out and arrows set up for easy reach by the time Nylan had tethered his mount and carried his own composite bow and shafts behind the barricade on the south side of the ruined dwelling.

   “Tonsar got them moving fairly quickly,” said Ayrlyn, moving to make room for Nylan behind the planks.

   “He wants to get back to Syskar.”

   “I wonder why.”

   They both laughed.

   The silence, broken only by the hiss of the hot breeze, dragged out.

   “Still no sign of them,” murmured Buretek.

   Ailsor nodded.

   Stillness descended again.

   “What are you thinking?” Ayrlyn asked.

   “I still wonder why they don't use archers more.”

   “After all the effort it took to make those arrows for Westwind, you wonder?” Ayrlyn laughed softly. “Arrows take effort; they get lost, and a lot don't ever hit a target, and it takes time and effort to train an archer. Swords don't get lost, and anyone can sort of swing one.”

   “Oh ... in a way it makes sense, but bows are about the only standoff capability in a low-tech culture.”

   “You're also assuming that those who fight want a standoff capability.”

   Nylan nodded. Fornal-or the anonymous holders he always quoted-didn't seem to like it-that was certain.

   Another stretch of quiet fell.

   “You can just see the dust rising above the road,” said Ayrlyn in a low voice. “There.”

   The dust continued to rise, as the first white-clad riders appeared, moving at the measured pace that all Cyadoran forces affected. Glints of light flickered from the mirrored shields and burnished blades.

   When the lancers were almost a kay short of the first dwelling in the hamlet, a series of triplets sounded-on-key. The entire column seemed to stop, then thicken, before flowing out on each side of the row to form three-deep ranks of the lancers.

   The first line of lancers moved at a quick trot, the small shimmering shields worn on their left arms, the long white lances all resting on the lance guides at the same precise angle.

   The Cyadoran lines passed the ruined ramplike shed, the hoofs of their mounts almost drumlike on the dry ground, and swung toward the olive grove and the smoke of the “cookfires” beyond. Not a word passed the lancers' lips, and the hoofs continued to drum the hard dry ground.

   “All right,” Nylan ordered. “Let's start the fun.” He raised the composite bow and released the shaft.

   Not a single lancer even blinked, from what Nylan could tell, as the shaft whizzed through the ranks. Nor did his second shaft hit.

   Frig it! Sure, it'll hurt if you kill someone, but you'll be dead if you don't and that'll hurt more! His third shaft struck true, and a lancer staggered in his stirrups.

   Ayrlyn released a shaft. “Not as good as your bow.”

   Buretek followed Ayrlyn's example.

   Before the Cyadoran lancers reached the flat before the olives, the four with bows had loosened nearly twoscore shafts, and perhaps eight or ten lancers had fallen, mostly wounded, although wounds tended to be fatal eventually in low-tech cultures, Nylan suspected.

   “Faster! Now!” he ordered, as the lancers neared the concealed trenches. Arrows sleeted toward the white forces for several moments.

   Then, abruptly, more than a dozen mounts went down where the weakened road caved in, and even more when those who followed, dodging the fallen horses and lancers, ran afoul of the staked trenches and struggling downed mounts. The glittering reflections from the mirror shields sprayed in all directions.

   The screams of the horses bothered Nylan, but he pushed them out of his mind. “Keep firing!”

   With barely moving targets, the four were far more effective than earlier, but the massed lancers still began to move across and around the trapped area.

   “Let's go.” He touched Ayrlyn's arm. She jabbed Buretek, who nudged Ailsor.

   The angel smith and Ayrlyn pulled themselves onto the mounts waiting behind the burned-out house. So did Buretek and Ailsor.

   As Nylan rode around behind the ruined barn, with Ayrlyn beside him and the others behind him, he lifted the blade- the one from the waist scabbard. He looked at Tonsar. “Now!” Slowly, too slowly, the double squad that had formed behind the low walls of the ruined structure began to follow him westward, as if fleeing-until they reached the gentle hill that concealed them from any who might watch or follow. Then, they turned back south and began to parallel the incoming road.

   If the lancers saw the dust, he hoped that they would believe the Lornians were still retreating. But no one followed- the Cyadorans were disciplined-perhaps too disciplined for their own good.

   Nylan mentally filed that datum for future consideration and concentrated on the rough side road that led back to the main road-behind the Cyadorans. There wasn't much cover, but if the lancers were prepared, well . . . the Lornians had everything with them and they could head back to Syskar, with virtually no losses. Even the tools had been parceled out among the Squads.

   The Lornian force quick-trotted toward the rear of the lancers, the last squads or companies still jammed up by the confusion of trenches before the olive trees, their eyes forward and focused on the commotion ahead of them.

   Nylan hated leading charges. His riding skills were newly acquired enough that he still feared bouncing off the mare or some other probable occurrence. But if he or Ayrlyn didn't lead, who would follow?

   Only a single Cyadoran looked back, his mouth opening, as if in slow motion, and the rearmost dozen of the white lancers fell before the others understood what had happened. Then lances began to swing, and shimmering round shields, and white bronze sabres to rise and fall as the rear of the white forces began to respond to the attack.