CI
Cerryl stood and walked around the cot, his jacket fastened almost to his neck. His breath had been steaming in the cold morning air just after dawn, but the small fire he had built and the fall sun had warmed the unseasonably cool day enough that he no longer resembled a chimney with each breath as midmorning approached.
Although the cold rain had passed, Cerryl had called off road patrols for the next few days, relying instead on his screeing and upon the mud and pooled water on the roads and trails to delay or halt any possible Spidlarian force. What force? The blues shouldn’t have enough lancers to hold even Elparta.
At the hearth, still warm with coals from the small morning fire, Cerryl paused. Despite the closed plank door, the wind still seeped through the cracking and badly chinked mud bricks of the wall, around the warped and the mis-hung door, and up under the roof sills, leaching away the slight heat of the hearth fire.
His first attempts had shown only muddy and empty roads around their hamlet and encampment, although the images of the western side seemed to display less water and mud. Still, nothing remotely resembling the opposing Spidlarians appeared anywhere. Nor was there any trace of the concentrated order that accompanied Black mages - not any closer than Dorrin, the smith in Diev, and he was about as far from Cerryl as one could get and still remain within the boundaries of Spidlar.
Cerryl let the glass go blank once more, then paced back to the fire and then to the door, which he opened. A light but cold wind enveloped him, despite the sunshine from a sun that did little to warm him. The green-blue sky seemed more like that of winter than early fall.
Would the winter be as much colder than usual as the fall was showing? Cerryl shivered. That kind of cold he could do without. He closed the door and walked back toward the table.
After massaging his forehead, Cerryl stood and looked down at the glass, silver against the time-smoothed wood. He concentrated, thinking about Elparta and Fydel, rather than Jeslek, since the square-bearded mage was hardly sensitive enough to notice he was being watched through a glass.
The silver mists formed and parted to reveal an image. The scene in the glass was clear enough - too clear. A large mass of villagers… peasants… locals - whatever Cerryl wanted to call them, they were people, and they were being herded along the road. From what Cerryl could tell, the lancers who flanked them were urging them westward along the road.
Why?
Cerryl brushed thin brown hair back off his forehead. Why would Jeslek herd people ahead of the White Lancers? To keep the Spidlarians from attacking? To use the people as a shield to reduce the casualties to the levies and the White Lancers?
Is Jeslek that short of lancers and armsmen?
For several moments more Cerryl watched, until he could sense the beginning of yet another headache. Then he let the image slide away until the glass reflected only the ceiling beams of the cot and the underside of the branch and thatch roof.
Villagers or people being herded along a road toward something? Why? Again, the question leapt into his thoughts. Because of the Black warleader or something the Black smith had created to use against Jeslek and the White Lancers?
Cerryl fingered his chin. Was that why Jeslek was so adamant that Cerryl remain to guard the road? Because the Blacks had developed something that couldn’t be felt or seen with a glass?
He shook his head, knowing that he didn’t know enough but sensing that what Jeslek was doing with the people would cost someone more, a great deal more, before the war in Spidlar was over.
Are you just saying that because you disagree with what he’s doing? Or because you honestly feel that way? What if Jeslek is right?
Cerryl brushed his thin and too-long hair back off his forehead again. He probably should groom the gelding and then talk to Hiser and Ferek and wait for any instructions from Jeslek. If they ever come.
CII
Standing between Ferek and Hiser, Cerryl studied the provisions remaining in the shed-one half-barrel of wheat flour, in which he’d had to use chaos to kill off the weevils twice already, and less than a quarter of a barrel of maize meal. The last of the dried fruit and nuts had gone nearly two eight-days previous. The shed, whose gap-boarded walls had been rough-caulked with moss and mud, smelled of moss, mud, and mold, despite the efforts of various lancers to keep it swept and dry. A spiderweb glistened in the corner above the remaining barrels, trembling ever so slightly the light breeze that swirled through the shed itself.
The roll of distant thunder rumbled across the valley, and for reasons he couldn’t place Cerryl thought about chaos and the people Jeslek had been herding down the road. Three days had passed, and there had been no scrolls or orders from the High Wizard-and nothing in the glass, except images of White forces circled around the walls and closed gates of Elparta.
Cerryl blinked and tried to catch what the subofficers said.
“… not enough for even half an eight-day, not with proper-like rations,” finished Ferek.
“We’ll be needing more coin, ser Cerryl,” offered Riser, “or we’ll be having to forage off the local folk again. Be having to do that sooner, excepting for the provisions your friends sent us.”
Cerryl should have looked into the supplies more closely, but all the screeing and waiting and worrying had distracted him, tired as he was from all the effort required to use the glass so much and so often.
A wave of unseen white, a fading echo of some distant and massive use of chaos, swept across Cerryl as he stood in the small provisions shed. He fought off the shudder. What has Jeslek done? Raised more mountains?
Hiser looked at Cerryl. “You all right, ser? Matters… stuff, it be not that bad yet.”
The mage shook his head. “It wasn’t… isn’t that. Someone is using chaos-too much.”
Not quite rolling his eyes, Ferek glanced at the younger subofficer.
“My being able to sense those sorts of things has kept most of your company alive, Ferek.” Cerryl’s voice was mild, even though he wanted to yell at the man. Then, was that because he worried about what Jeslek-or someone-might have done?
Hiser glared at Ferek.
“Ah… begging your pardon, ser… didn’t mean…” Ferek stammered out the words.
“That’s all right, Ferek,” Cerryl said quietly. “Even most lancer officers don’t understand.” He paused. “I’ll send a scroll to the High Wizard stating our situation and asking for coins so that we don’t have to take from the locals. If he doesn’t respond, then we do what we have to.” But you hope it doesn’t come to that.
“Some of the fellows said there’s a boar rooting in the woods over and down by the creek feeding the bigger stream.” Ferek offered. “Wild-like, I mean.”
“Well… if they can bring it in, that’s better than taking from the nearby hamlets.”
“They can, and it’s enough to stretch things, the cooks say.”
“Fine. I’ll send off another message sent to the High Wizard.” Cerryl half-turned. “I’ll be in my cot. Need to see why all that chaos…”
“Yes, ser.”
The White mage who’d never wanted to be an arms mage walked through the fine, cool mist that promised to turn into a full cold rain before twilight, back toward the cot he had grown to know too well over more than two seasons.
After closing the door, he set several sticks and a log in the hearth and tweaked them into flame with the smallest touch of chaos. Then he uncased the screeing glass and set it on the table.
As the faint heat from the hearth tried to beat back the chill seeping in around the door and the closed shutters, Cerryl concentrated on the glass and upon the chaos he had felt so strongly earlier.
The silver mists swirled into place, then lifted to reveal another kind of chaos-a city on a river, with gray stone walls toppled as if swept down by a giant’s hand and water puddling in the streets, a raging torrent running down the River Gallos, except the Spidlarians called it the River Spidlar, or most of them did, from what Cerryl recalled.
After a year, after saying he would not destroy any cities after Axalt, Jeslek had done just that. He had raised another wave of chaos and brought down another city-or part of it, since the glass showed some structures untouched.
Why? Because the Black warleader was good enough to hold off an entire White force with a fraction of the men and equipment?
Rubbing his forehead and standing with his back to the growing warmth of the hearth, Cerryl let the image slip from the glass.
What had really happened in the campaign for Elparta? Cerryl was convinced there were too many details he didn’t know. And things you really won’t want to know?
“That, too,” he murmured to the empty glass. “That, too.”
Then he took out ink and quill and parchment. Regardless of what had happened in Elparta, he still needed to inform Jeslek about the provisions needs of his lancers.
His eyes flicked westward as he reseated himself at the table.
CIII
The aroma of roasting pork mixed with the dampness of the mist that had hugged the hamlet area for more than an eight-day. Cerryl half-smiled as he walked from the cot toward the cook fires, his eyes going to the low clouds that continued to roll westward out of the Easthorns. The morning patrol had been cold and damp, but every patrol lately had been that way. He rubbed his forehead, trying to hasten the departure of the headache that followed every prolonged effort with the glass, efforts that continued to show no signs of either more supplies and levies or of Spidlarian forces near the Axalt - Elparta road.
Would the rest of the fall be filled with damp and rain? Darkness hard on the the harvest… if there even is one. Or early snows? Cerryl shivered at that thought, and his fingers went to the buttons on his jacket, a jacket that looked more splotched tan than white after two seasons in the field.
“We found three of ‘em, a sow, an old boar and a younger one,” said Ferek with a wide grin as Cerryl approached.
“I can smell that.”
“We left the young sow for now. Be a while yet, but the men can wait.” The older subofficer gestured toward the clouds. “You want a road patrol this afternoon?”
“Just to those cots to the east. Some of the folk have returned.”
“After the men eat?” asked Ferek. “Pork’ll do ‘em good.” He grinned. “Kieral found near on a stone of potatoes in the side field there, at the back. Missed them earlier.”
“That’s only good for a few meals,” mused Hiser, from beside Ferek.
“Take ‘em where we can get ’em.” Ferek nodded emphatically.
“The message should reach the High Wizard tomorrow.” You hope. “Late this afternoon is fine for the patrol.”
The three looked up at the sound of hoofs. Three lancers rode toward the corral and the cook fires. The lead rider wore the sash of a messenger.
“A message for Mage Cerryl from the High Wizard,” gasped the lean young lancer, extending a scroll.
As he took the rolled and sealed scroll, Cerryl noted absently that one of the lancers who rode with the messenger was a woman, older and hard-faced. “I have it. Why don’t you three dismount? We’ll be having a hearty midday meal, and I imagine it will be welcome after a cold ride.”
“Thank you,” the messenger answered.
The other two lancers nodded… and dismounted.
Cerryl stepped away from the cook fire that held two cauldrons filled with potatoes. The two boars were being turned on makeshift spits at the other two fires. After breaking the seal, he began to read.
Greetings, Cerryl,
As you may surmise from this, your presence is needed in Elparta, your presence and your particular skills. Now that Fairhaven controls Elparta and the River Gallos, as I trust you have discovered through your glass, protection of the road from Axalt is less important and provided as much by our control of both Elparta and the upper reaches of the river…
We expect that you will decamp immediately and make your way with prudent haste to rejoin us here in Elparta…
Jeslek had signed the scroll, but the signature was almost a scrawl, unlike the more precise lettering of earlier messages. The impact of using so much chaos, or because he’s hurried?
That also brought up the question of who had written the scroll itself. Anya? There hadn’t been any scriveners coming along the main road, nor any apprentice mages, and Cerryl doubted that Jeslek would have trusted Fydel to write anything. Then, he trusted Anya less than either Fydel or the High Wizard.
Cerryl rerolled the scroll and thrust it inside his jacket, then stepped forward.
Both Ferek and Hiser were waiting, but neither said a word, though their eyes were filled with questions.
“The High Wizard has summoned us to Elparta. We will depart at dawn.” Cerryl smiled. “There’s time enough to enjoy the boar.”
“Good,” said Ferek.
Hiser nodded politely.
“… about time,” came from one of the lancers loitering by the adjoining cook fire.
“… that blue commander… wonder if they got him…”
“… never happen… say he’s a giant…”
“… won’t have to freeze here anyway…”
After what his glass had shown of Elparta, Cerryl had the feeling that wintering over in Elparta-for that was surely what Jeslek had in mind-would scarcely be that warm. It would require at least some labor to repair enough of the city to house those lancers and levies stationed there through the cold seasons. And the following spring and summer would only bring more difficulty with the blues and their near-mythical commander.