Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (38 page)

   “Now!” Ayrlyn ordered.

   Thunk!

   Borsa began to wind the wheel as soon as the throwing arm stopped vibrating, and Nylan had another grenade ready, feeling that the catapult was slow, too slow. Ayrlyn made another adjustment.

   'Thunk!

   Yet... five grenades went over the wall before a series of ragged horn calls echoed into the hot night.

   Thunk!

   Was that smoke oozing downhill from the Cyadoran walls? Nylan readied another canister and fuse, trying to be precise, despite the increasing pain and pressure in his skull.

   Thunk!

   The screams of horses began to fill the hot darkness, competing with intermittent trumpet blasts and shouts, and the white chaos of death flowed down into the gully with the smoke from burning hay, and the stench of charred meat.

   Nylan forced down the bile in his throat, knowing that Ayrlyn had to do the same, as she sensed, watched, and adjusted the catapult.

   Thunk!

   Additional watch lanterns flared up, and the four continued to aim, load, and fire the canisters over the wall less than a hundred cubits away. The smoke thickened, and the smell of burned flesh enfolded the gully. Borsa retched, but kept rewinding the catapult.

   Thunk!

   Before long, yellow and red flames licked into the dark sky, well above the walls, and Nylan's head throbbed from the screaming of the horses and from the handful of armsmen who had perished in the flames.

   Thunk!

   “Time to go!” ordered Ayrlyn. “Someone's gathering a force together, and we don't need to stay and get discovered. Besides, we don't have that many canisters left.”

   Fighting the stabbing pain in his eyes and skull, Nylan slipped the remaining grenade canisters back into the half-quilted pockets on the pack mare, then handed the hammer to Ayrlyn, who knocked out the pegs-the low-tech equivalent of massive cotter pins-while Borsa and Vula tied the framework together and strapped it on the other packhorse in swift movements.

   Ayrlyn's insistence on practicing in the dark in Syskar had clearly paid off, Nylan reflected as they rode back down the gully and up toward the swale where the rest of the squad waited.

   As he rode, trying to ignore the pounding in his skull, Nylan remained absently bemused, simultaneously horrified, that in such a short span of time, they had created such a mess, and were leaving before the Cyadorans were even really organized. Then, how could they fight fires in what was nearly a desert?

   He jerked in the saddle as he sensed the Lornians ahead, realizing that pain was fogging his senses.

   “... that them?”

   “. . . four riders . .. silver hair . . .”

   “It's the catapult party,” he announced, not knowing what else to say. “We're back.”

   Tonsar had the ten others mounted and waiting. “The flames, they reach the stars.”

   “Hardly,” answered Nylan, “but let's go. Before they send out lots of riders.”

   “You're leading,” Ayrlyn pointed out. “You're the one with the night vision.”

   Nylan turned his mount, easing her into a fast walk, resisting the temptation to trot or canter.

   “Is anyone coming?” he asked Ayrlyn.

   “I can't sense anyone. They've sent some patrols out to where we were, but nothing on the road to the north.”

   Nylan nodded. Maybe, just maybe, the Cyadorans were afraid of some sort of night ambush. He hoped so.

   While he kept looking back, and while Ayrlyn rubbed her forehead and cast her senses on the evening breezes, no one followed. No one at all, and that bothered Nylan ... somehow.

   The glow on the southern horizon had faded into a blurred smudge of light, and the crunching of hoofs on the dusty trail had taken on a monotonous rhythm before anyone spoke again.

   “The white ones-they will be most angry,” ventured Tonsar.

   “That's generally what happens to whoever takes the damage in war,” Nylan said, one hand massaging the back of his neck, hoping that easing the tightness would help his headache. Why did the death of horses create the white-based chaotic pain? It wasn't so bad as that of the soldiers that had died, but it still hurt. He took a deep breath.

   “You angels have won another victory,” said Tonsar. “Yet you are not pleased.”

   “We killed soldiers and horses, and killing horses isn't exactly a glorious victory,” Nylan pointed out tiredly. “Not the way anyone would prefer to fight. We just don't have many choices.”

   “You were not happy about sending your mage-fire at the horses, but you did,” said Tonsar.

   “We also fired the hay they had collected,” Ayrlyn said with a sigh. “And a few wagons. It's all the same thing.” She shifted her weight in the saddle.

   Nylan concentrated on the trail, trying to sense if it were as empty as it seemed to his night vision, trying to ignore the white agony that blanketed both of the angels.

   “But why?” pressed the burly subofficer.

   “Tonsar, we killed close to twoscore soldiers and twice that in mounts, I think,” answered the redhead. Nylan could sense the pain in her voice, and his own head still ached. “Even with the men they lost, the Cyadorans will be short of mounts and fodder for those they have left. Where will they find it now?”

   “Our camp, I would say. Or the hamlets. Somewhere.”

   “Fornal won't leave it for them. Besides, how will they get there? And will they want to leave a third of their force behind-without mounts?”

   “No,” predicted Nylan. “They'll take it out on someone else. That's usually the way it works.”

   He turned his eyes to the long road northward, a road that seemed to stretch forever. Even the thought of Ayrlyn beside him and Weryl waiting in Syskar offered little comfort.

SO MUCH FOR honor among barbarians," snapped Azarphi. A long red welt covered his forearm, and scattered burn marks dotted his forehead.

   “The lack of honor was to be expected,” answered Majer Piataphi. “The fireballs were not. Where did they learn about those?” He turned to the third officer.

   “It's hard to tell, ser.” Miatorphi frowned, then winced. Like the others, he sported scattered burns. “They couldn't burn the buildings, not with all the earth, but they got those few still in tents. Then they went for the horses, the wagons, and the hay.”

   “Even with all the earthworks, they got one of the barracks and the small mill building, too,” added the majer.

   “That took awhile. Most got out. The horses weren't so lucky.” Miatorphi lifted his tunic away from the burn on his arm.

   “Those aren't barbarian tactics,” pointed out Azarphi. “Not any barbarians we've heard about. There must have been scores of them.”

   “No,” answered Miatorphi slowly. “There were less than a score. There were no wagons, either. We found tracks. The fireballs came from down in the south gully. They had to get close.”

   “White magic?” asked the majer. “I don't see how. You can follow a white fireball, the magely kind. These just flared up when they hit.”

   “There were clay fragments,” Miatorphi added.

   “So . . .” Piataphi pursed his lips. “A disciplined night attack, and the barbarians have never done that. Targeted fireballs, no wagons, no wizards, and less than a score of barbarians. Yet we lost nearly fourscore mounts, between those that went over the wall or were burned or so badly injured that they had to be destroyed. There's not much fodder, and three supply wagons are charcoal. That doesn't count the eighteen men who were burned, the barracks, and the mill. How do you suggest I explain this to His Mightiness?”

   Both the captains swallowed. Miatorphi looked at the ashes that had once been a corral.

   Azarphi grinned nervously. “Could you blame it on those angels?”

   “Where did you hear about them?” asked the majer.

   The younger captain shrugged. “You hear things, ser. Could be that some are helping the barbarians.”

   “How likely would that be? Supposedly, the barbarians fought a war with the angels last fall. Why would the angels help them against us?”

   “Stranger things have happened. Besides, ser, you don't have to say that it was the angels. You could sort of hint... I mean, where would barbarians come up with fireballs? And they really like horses ... the barbarians do. You've heard the joke. You know, what's a barbarian sodomite?” Azarphi paused. “He's one who likes his woman better than his mount.”

   Miatorphi shook his head.

   The majer touched his chin absently, stifled a wince, and frowned. “I had not thought of it in that way. Yes ... we could raise those points.” He smiled a hard smile. “We also need to strike back. It does not have to be at their warriors. But we will show that Cyador is not mocked.”

   The other two nodded.

THE CANDLE WAVERED behind the sooty mantle, adding its own infinitesimal heat to that of the dwelling's main room.

   Nylan wished he could put it out. Any relief, however little, from the heat would have been welcome. Instead, he finished the water in his mug and refilled it, then looked at Ayrlyn, who nodded. He refilled her mug as well.

   Across the table, Fornal took a small sip of the near-spoiling wine and winced, but took another sip before setting the mug down hard enough to shake the wobbly table.

   “For an eight-day, they have done nothing. And we have done nothing except watch them,” said the regent. “Nothing. The armsmen are getting restless.”

   “So . . . they want to die sooner?” asked Ayrlyn.

   Fornal's eyes hardened as he turned toward the redhead.

   “The Cyadorans won't attack directly. That means you have to attack them behind their walls. Do you want to guess how many armsmen you'd lose?”

   “They just squat there,” protested Fornal. “They'll retaliate,” Nylan predicted, “but not against armsmen. They'll lash out at some hamlet or town.”

   “Cowards.”

   “What else would you expect?” Nylan asked. “They lost probably a score of troops and a quarter of their mounts.”

   Lewa frowned and nervously moistened his lips. Huruc watched Lewa stolidly for a moment before returning his attention to the black-bearded regent.

   “A waste. Nearly score-five horses.” Fornal shook his head.

   “For what?”

   “That will keep a good hundred of their armsmen from mounting up and trying to kill you,” suggested Nylan, not bothering to correct Fornal's exaggeration. They might have killed or maimed eighty mounts-bad enough considering the horses weren't at fault. Then, probably the lancers weren't either, but seldom did the consequences of fighting get visited upon the leaders. Horses, ignorant soldiers, bystanders- they all took the brunt of war. He almost snorted, thinking of poor Lord Sillek-who had cared, and had been one of the few leaders Nylan had ever seen get destroyed. “Your enemy can't fight you when he can't get to you.” Huruc offered a faint and ironic smile. “Why can you not attack again tonight or tomorrow?” asked the regent. “The same way you did before? Perhaps you could aim more fireballs at the soldiers,” Fornal added lazily. “Because the last attack took all the alcohol we'd made, and I won't have enough even for a small attack, for another eight-day.” Nylan's head throbbed, and he added, “It might be a few days earlier. Besides, the Cyadorans will be expecting that. We'll have to try something different.”

   “This . . . this kind ... of fighting . . .” Fornal shook his head again. “I am most glad the older holders are distant.”

   “It's what you have to do when the other fellow has more equipment and people. You make his strengths work against him. How do you think those horseless lancers feel right now?”

   “Angry,” suggested Huruc. “Some will be asking why their leaders cannot protect their mounts. It will get worse, if their armsmen are like those I know.”

   “Then they will murder more innocent peasants. Peasants are not supposed to die in war. Armsmen are.” Fornal shook his head. “Leaders are supposed to protect their people.”

   Lewa nodded sagely in agreement, his ears wiggling as he did so.

   “How much protection will they have if the Cyadorans don't have to worry about you?” asked Nylan gently.

   “You . .. you are worse than a white mage, angel.” Fornal took another sip of wine. “The peasants, they are better for my presence. That is why I must suffer your tactics, but I do not have to be happy that I must act like a snake and creep through the grass, or a mountain cat and attack in the night.”

 
  “I wish it were easier,” Nylan said, “but we are doing our best to stop them.”

   “No one faults your courage, angels.” Fornal stood. “I, too, wish there were another way. But I cannot see it. Nor can anyone else, and that angers me. And I do not have to like the death of good horses, however. . . useful it may have been.” He took a last gulp of wine-and winced as he set down the mug. “Still hot and sour.”

   Without another word, Fornal walked to his chamber and shut the door, hard enough that the table wobbled again.

   Slowly, stolidly, Lewa rose and nodded to the three. “We patrol tomorrow.” He left by the open front door, and a moth circled in toward the candle-fluttering around the sooty mantle after the subofficer disappeared into the darkness beyond the front stoop.

   “They have no answers,” Huruc said. “Nor do I. I fear many more will die before this ends.” His eyes fell on Ayrlyn. “You are a seer. Is this not so?”

   “Many would die no matter what happened,” Ayrlyn said slowly. “All we can do is try to change who dies.”

   Again, her words left Nylan cold. Was that all life was- rearranging the names and dates of death, because everyone died, and it was only a question of where and when?

   “You offer cold comfort, angel.” Huruc stood. “Yet your words ring true, and I would have truth over comfort. Comfort has all too often killed armsmen before their time.” He nodded and was gone.

   For a moment, neither Nylan nor Ayrlyn spoke. Then Nylan blew out the candle, and they sat in the darkness. “Nobody likes seers or truth,” he finally murmured. “I'm not even sure we're either, just the next best thing.”

   “Is what we're doing right?”

   “I hope so.” At least that answer didn't start the headaches that followed what he recognized as deception or self-deception.

   “You've changed. So have I.”

   “Everyone changes,” he temporized.

   “You offer what you think is truth more often. On the Roof of the World, you kept that to yourself.”

   “Ryba would have sliced me in two,” he protested.

   “No. I don't think so. You risk having Fornal or Gethen or whoever send an army against you now.”

   “So do you, even more than me. And it costs you in other ways. You don't pick up the lutar anymore. That bothers me.”

   “It bothers me, too, but that will pass.”

   “You're sure?”

   “I'm sure. I know, and that's scary sometimes.”

   Nylan swallowed.

   “It's not like Ryba, with visions, just a solid feeling,” she explained.

   “That's scary to me.” He forced a half-laugh.

   “Scary or not,” she yawned, “I'm tired.”

   Nylan stood and extended a hand, then led the way to their room-hot and still despite the open shutters on the small window.

   Weryl lay sprawled on his back on his small pallet, his arms wide, a faint smile on his open mouth. Sylenia snored softly, her back to the door.

   “Sylenia is worried about Tregvo,” Ayrlyn whispered as she leaned closer to Nylan. “Who?”

   “That armsman who keeps making advances. She told me that she feared none of us would return.”

   Now they had to worry about the nursemaid they'd brought so that they wouldn't have to worry as much about Weryl.

   Darkness, if it weren't one thing, it was another. But that seemed to be life. Nylan took a deep breath, then slipped off his damp shirt, trying to relax in the hot still air of the room.

   Ayrlyn slipped her arms around his waist, her lips brushing his neck for a moment before she released him. He could feel the dampness of her shirt. What were they doing in the sweatbox that was southern Lornth?

   He grinned to himself for a moment.

   “You're smiling,” whispered Ayrlyn.

   “Just thinking that everything that got us here seemed to be a good idea at the time. Probably be my epitaph-'He thought it was a good idea at the time.' ”

   Ayrlyn kissed him again, and it was all almost worth it. Nylan smiled inside.