Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (58 page)

A REDDISH GLOW covered the sky above the western hills as Nylan set Weryl on his small bedroll and then sank onto his own, sitting and catching his breath, barely able to move. His back and shoulders were stiff. His thighs and legs burned from the long days in the saddle racing to get ahead of the white horde. And his head ached.

   Whuuuu . . . uuufff. . . Downhill from where the engineer sat, the chestnut lifted her head, then tossed it, before going back to grazing, trying to seek out the green clumps of grass buried among the brown. Nylan's mare grazed silently, if more intently.

   After a moment, Nylan rose, wearily, and stepped toward the provisions bag he had set by the saddles and blankets. The four mounts grazed on the longer grass in the protected hollow below the scrub oaks, the tieline anchored to sturdy roots.

   “Da!” called Weryl, lurching up from his own bedroll, trundling forward and throwing his arms around Nylan's left leg. “Da!”

   His own aches forgotten, the engineer bent and lifted the boy, hugging him tightly for a moment, their heads close together. “Weryl. Sometimes ... sometimes...” Sometimes, it's so hard to appreciate that while you're little now, before. I know it... you 'II be grown... already changing so much...

   “Da . . . wadah?”

   Nylan loosened his hug and grinned. “I'll get you water, you little imp.”

   “Wadah?”

   “Yes, you can have some, even if you aren't thirsty.”

   “Da!”

   “You understand more than you ever say, you sentimental man.” Ayrlyn looked up from the provisions bag Nylan hadn't managed to reach.

   “That's dangerous.”

   Not with me ...

   Nylan could sense both the thought and the warmth behind it. “Old habits die hard. I'm trying.”

   “I know.” I know ...

   After a silence, he asked, “How are we doing? In getting ahead of the Cyadorans, I mean.”

   “Tomorrow we should see Rohrn,” Sylenia interjected, stepping toward the angels. “If it has not been burned already.”

   “The Cyadorans are three days behind us, at the rate they're traveling,” explained the redheaded angel.

   “You angels ... you know what you should not and cannot see. Me, I trust what you say, but I would see Rohrn first.” Sylenia picked up the two water bottles. “There is a stream, and we need water.” She swept her hair, just loosened from the bands that held it when she rode, over her shoulder and marched downhill through the swaying and dry knee-high grass.

   “You think they're that far behind us?” Nylan shifted Weryl to his other arm. “They've only traveled one day in four?”

   “They're really not traveling fast. They seem more interested in destroying everything than in making a quick assault.” The corners of her mouth turned up sardonically. “What else would you expect of the descendants of the Rationalists? Nothing is human except them. No other ways or beliefs can be tolerated.”

   “With just a little force to ensure the true and rational way.”

   “Cynical, but accurate.”

   “Force again.” Nylan sighed. “Will we ever escape it?”

   “We can, but not by converting an existing system. We'll have to begin from scratch. You know that.”

   And he did. The forest of Naclos represented a different approach-the approach of balance, where the use of force became a last resort-only to balance order and chaos, rather than the first option or order of business. But even the forest had fallen before the Old Rats.

   “There's one little problem,” he pointed out. “We still have to make our strategy work.”

   “It's not little.” Ayrlyn laughed harshly. “And you were calling me the mistress of understatement?”

   “I'm following your example.”

   “My example? When it's a dubious virtue, it's my example?”

   Nylan, still holding Weryl at his shoulder, looked down at the brown grass sheepishly, then back at Ayrlyn.

   After a moment, she grinned.

   So did he.

RIDERS AHEAD." NYLAN noted the dust on the road south from the bridge that guarded the east entrance to Rohrn.

   “A scouting patrol. It's not the Cyadorans, not under a purple banner.” Ayrlyn's hand touched the hilt of the shortsword at her waist, then brushed back strands of hair off her still peeling forehead.

   Nylan touched his own blade, but left it sheathed as the Lornians slowed their approach.

   At the head of the column rode a redheaded subofficer, square-faced, impassive, backlighted by the low sun that hung barely above the bluffs on the far side of the river, the bluffs that held the roofs of Rohrn. The column halted. So did the angels.

   “Greetings, Lewa,” offered Nylan. “We have returned. As we said.”

   Lewa looked at both angels, then at Sylenia.

   “It's the angels!” called a voice from the rear of the squad-Fuera, Nylan suspected.

   “When will you leave again?” Lewa's voice was cold.

   “Not until the Cyadorans are defeated,” Nylan said tiredly.

   Lewa paused, then nodded slowly. “Your word, you always keep. For good, or worse.”

   “We're sorry it took so long, but,” Nylan admitted, “we needed to find a better way to fight the Cyadorans.”

   “They are like locusts, stripping the ground, and like fire, laying waste to all before and behind them.”

   Nylan almost swallowed, surprised at the unexpected verbosity.

   “That is what ser Fornal says,” added the subofficer.

   “He's right about that,” noted Ayrlyn.

 
  “We must patrol,” apologized Lewa, “else I would escort you. Fuera and Sias-they can be spared, and you should have some honor.”

   “Thank you.”

   “We did not see anyone within the last fifteen kays,” Ayrlyn said quietly.

   “That would be good.” Lewa nodded politely, then called, “Fuera! Sias!”

   At the subofficer's order, the two former levies turned their mounts out of the column and rode forward.

   “I ask you to escort the angels, and their companions, to the barracks and their quarters.”

   “Ser.” Fuera nodded, but with a glimmer of a smile.

   Nylan and the others drew their mounts to the side of the road. With a vague salute, Lewa nodded, and the patrol rode south.

   “You have fought much sun,” offered Sias with a look at Nylan's peeling and blistering forehead.

   “You might say that.”

   “We are glad you have returned,” added the former apprentice as the smaller group rode toward the bridge. “Could I still keep the tools? Some of them?”

   “The ones I said were yours?” answered Nylan with a laugh. “Yes. I may need the others, but we'll see.”

   The bridge was empty and dark, and the dull clop of hoofs echoed through the streets of a deserted Rohrn, a town with shutters fastened tight, streets empty, doors barred.

   “When did everyone leave?” Nylan asked Fuera.

   “They have been going for almost an eight-day. Even the great holders here have sent their families to Lornth, some to Rulyarth.” Fuera spat toward the open guttered sewer-a dry sewer, Nylan noted.

   “They are cowards,” added Sias. “Not like you.” Thanks for the setup, Sias, Nylan thought, sensing Ayrlyn's grin as they rode through the empty square and the closed chandlery. The white-plastered walls of the buildings looked gray and dingy in the fading light.

   The burned-out inn remained burned out, but the charred sign had fallen from its brackets-or been knocked from them.

   The far side of Rohrn was also shuttered and silent. Several armsmen turned from a woodpile as the group rode past the perimeter guards and toward the barracks. “The angels . . .”

   “They have returned . . .”

   The mutterings and the whispers seemed to go on and on, although Nylan and Ayrlyn had not even reached the stable when the dark-bearded Fornal appeared in the twilight, flanked by two armsmen with torches that flickered in the light breeze. In the wavering light, shadows chased each other across the regent's face.

   “I am so glad you have returned.” Fornal's voice was lazily cold. “The white legions are less than three days' march to the southwest, and they have seared the grasslands for kays around them. The holders ask what good was our victory at the mines, and you are not here to answer.”

   “We have returned, as we promised.” Nylan's voice sounded ragged to himself, and he hated sounding weak, especially in front of Fornal. “That you did.”

   The two armsmen glanced from the regent to the angels and back again.

   In the whispering quiet, Gethen walked into the vague circle of torchlight, followed by Zeldyan, whose blond hair glinted in the dimness.

   “You have returned.” Gethen's voice was flat. “But you return alone.”

   “You suspect the worst, but we have returned before we must fight,” Ayrlyn said quietly, her hand on her blade's hilt. “And we are here to fight.”

   Gethen looked askance momentarily before turning his eyes back to Nylan and quickly smoothing his face.

   “Fairly spoken,” grudged Zeldyan, her eyes on Ayrlyn, ignoring Sylenia. “What aid or succor do you bring? Is there any hope?”

   “Yes,” answered Nylan. For all the gratitude you have...

   Ayrlyn suppressed a wince at his thoughts, and the smith felt ashamed. The Lornians were desperate, deservedly so.

   “Where did you go?” asked Gethen.

   “To the magic forest... to the enemy of Cyador,” replied Ayrlyn quickly.

   Nylan added, “We went to the Accursed Forest. It is real, and it is accursed-at least for the Cyadorans. And it will help us defeat them.”

   “What is the price?” asked Zeldyan. “Our submission to some green goddess?”

   “It is not a god or goddess.” Nylan shook his head. “The forest-it thinks of itself as 'Naclos' or something like that- the one that is and always will be-only needs the lands that are now eastern Cyador. I doubt it will ever need or want more. That was its historic range, before the ancient whites destroyed and confined it.”

   “That is all?”

   “Look at Nylan,” Ayrlyn commanded. “Look closely.”

   Silence fell. Gethen motioned to one of the armsmen with a torch, who stepped warily toward the angels.

   “He is aged.”

 
  “Ten years, maybe more.”

   “So have you, lady,” Zeldyan acknowledged. “You did this for us?”

   “No,” answered Nylan with a faint smile. “We did it because it needs to be done. If it did not...” he shrugged, “we'd probably be dead.”

   “You seem to have risked much for a people to whom you owe little,” said Gethen.

   “We hope ... we hope ... to find a place where we are welcome.” Nylan took a deep breath. “We've been riding from dawn to beyond sunset for more than an eight-day, except once,” he added. “We want to live in peace and in harmony.” Realizing he was so tired that he was repeating himself, Nylan snorted. “And we'll spend the rest of our lives fighting to do so-that's what being human is all about, anyway.” He paused, then added, “We would like some food and rest before the Cyadorans get here.”

   “As you wish, mighty angels.” Fornal offered a deep bow. “As you wish.” He turned and marched into the darkness.

   “Have you heard what has occurred in your absence?” asked Gethen. “Ildyrom lies dead, and even his bitch consort fell. Their mounts are cinders or scattered hundreds of leagues across the grasslands. Clynya, on both sides of the river, is in ashes and ruins, and the white demons march toward Rohrn.”

   “We rode through Clynya. We know.” Nylan dismounted slowly. “All except about Ildyrom. He was the lord of Jerans, wasn't he?”

   Zeldyan nodded.

   “They know of the demons and their fires. They have already destroyed fivescore of the white demons,” added Sylenia. “Just to return to Rohrn.”

   “Is that true?” asked Zeldyan.

   “Yes.” Nylan coughed. His legs ached, as they did after every day's ride, and his neck and shoulders were stiff again. “We're still learning. It's costly.” He led the mare toward the stable doors.

   “That aged them,” interjected Sylenia.

   “You have a champion,” said Gethen with a half-laugh.

   “You have changed, Sylenia,” said Zeldyan. “Best you remain with the angels.”

   “If I must.” Sylenia nodded toward the regent. “If I must, Lady.”

   “You are dangerous, angels,” said Zeldyan. “You will change all of Lornth before you are done. In that, Fornal was correct.”

   “Hardly dangerous,” suggested Ayrlyn as she .dismounted. “Just tired and sore.”

   Zeldyan offered a faint smile. “I said you would return, and your quarters are ready.” She inclined her head. “Nesslek is waiting for me.”

   “How is he?” asked Nylan.

   “Well, and hungry.” Another nod, and the blond was gone.

   “I needs must attend to ... certain matters.” Gethen nodded and disappeared into the darkness.

   “Once again, we've made ourselves so welcome.” Nylan's laugh was low and bitter.

   “You are too powerful for them,” said Sylenia.

   Was that true? They were tired and all too human. Nylan shook his head. Too powerful? When they were outcasts wherever they went? Powerful? Hardly. Just tired and grasping at less than straws in a world where the only constant was the need for force.

   The engineer began to lead his mare toward her stall.

THEY HAVE RETURNED ... as they promised," pointed out Gethen.

   “Yes, my sire. They keep their word. Always do they keep their word, and each time, Lornth changes.” Fornal's words were slow, measured. One hand dropped to his waist, where his fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger at his belt. “What can I say? They have killed more of the white demons than any of us, yet still the white demons threaten to destroy all we hold dear. If whatever magic they have brought does destroy the Cyadorans, will it also not destroy Lornth?”

   “Can we afford to lose their aid now?” asked Gethen, sitting upright in the old wooden chair, a chair pushed away from the table on which still rested a half a loaf of dark bread, a partly cut wedge of cheese, and an earthenware mug. The older regent's blade, still in its sheath, lay half across Gethen's knees. One hand was circled loosely around the hilt.

   “Yet, in little ways, they will destroy Lornth. A nursemaid looks at me as though I were the serf. My armsmen question me silently. What will come next?” Fornal eased his fingers from the dagger's hilt.

   “If we win, we can work out something. We still hold Rulyarth, and Ildyrom is dead.”

   “That may be true. Yet I say that should they bring down the Cyadorans, that success will bring down the Lornth I have known and given my life to serve. This I cannot prove, nor have they been other than honorable in their own way. But our Lornth will be no more.”

   “If they cannot defeat the white ones, our Lornth will cease tomorrow.” Gethen touched his gray beard with his left hand.

   Fornal shook his head. “For all that, my Lornth is perilously close to perishing.”

   “The Lornth we grew up cherishing, Fornal, perished the day the angels landed. Whatever may come, it is better than having all Lornth burned and dying under the white hordes.”

   “You will regret ever having listened to the silver tongues of these angels. For all their honor, they are as dark and evil as the white demons.”

   “Do we have a choice of demons?” Gethen rose from the chair, right hand holding the hilt of the blade fully as long and heavy as the one Fornal bore. His eyes did not leave his son's as he inclined his head but slightly. His lips crooked. “For that matter, in this life, have we ever had any choices, except to do what we have thought best?”