5.Death of Chaos
XXX
West of Arastia, Hydlen [Candar]
GERLIS LOOKS UP at the sound of heavy footsteps. For a moment his eyes flick to the iron dagger with the charred handle that rests on top of the closed trunk.
“I don't care what he said! I am the force leader, and I will see Master Gerlis! And I will see him now!”
“Master mage,” announces the guard at the front of the pavilion tent, “Force Leader Cennon be here to see ye.”
The white-clad magician frowns, and the white mists vanish from the glass on the table. “Bid him enter, Orort.” Gerlis stands and steps toward the tent flap as it opens.
“Bid me enter, will you?” Cennon, unruly black hair bound with a silver band, marches into the tent. “Bid me enter?”
Gerlis looks for a moment at Cennon, then turns, and walks to the trunk, his back momentarily to Cennon, where he picks up the dagger and a small wooden platter before facing the force leader. “Why, yes. I did bid you enter, in all courtesy.”
“You and your talk of courtesy.”
“Would you rather I talked of power?” Gerlis steps forward and sets the dagger by the blank screeing glass, and balances the platter in his hand. A fireball appears on the tip of his index finger of his free hand.
“Charlatan! A child's trick, unlike the rockets. They are real.”
“You believe what you must, Force Leader Cennon.” Gerlis tosses the platter and releases the fireball.
Hssstttt! White ashes drift downward, and the odor of burned wood and grease fill the tent.
“Had I hit you with the full firebolt, you would be a grease spot... or less.” Gerlis looks at the carpet that covers the earth. “I prefer not to soil my carpets.” He picks up the long knife from where he had set it next to the glass, careful to hold it by the burned leather of the hilt, rather than let his fingers touch the cold iron blade. “I believe this belonged to one of your men.”
“Hardly. One of mine would not have lost his knife.” Cennon does not reach for the charred hilt.
“I admire such certainty, Force Leader Cennon.” A smile follows, one showing wide white teeth, as Gerlis sets the knife aside. “You wished something?”
“Why have we waited while the Kyphrans dawdle their way through the Lower Easthorns?” Cennon brushes away the drifting ashes. “We should strike them before they expect us.”
“I doubt seriously if you can surprise them again. You might have noticed that they are sending a great number of advance scouts, and those scouts are rather thorough. The autarch is cautious.”
“We surprised them once.”
“On her lands with no warning,” points out Gerlis. “You might also note that most of the rocket carts have been sent to the border with Freetown, since Duke Colaris is a rather more imminent threat.”
“I could still destroy the Kyphrans without your infernal wizardry.”
“Duke Berfir believes that also. He also believes, as he pointed out to you, that such destruction should take place somewhere reasonably close to his lands, or at the very least those lands which he claims.”
“That I have to obtain your approval... my father will hear of this-soon!”
“I presume that your messenger will reach him shortly. I also presume that he will understand Duke Berfir's logic.” Gerlis smiles with his mouth.
“Someday...”
“I agree.”
Cennon looks at the white wizard for a long time, his fingers flexing around the hilt of his own cold steel blade. Then he turns and marches out into the windy morning, where ragged clouds scuttle out of the Higher Easthorns to the north, as if fleeing from the northern winter.
“Fool... not to see your own limits...” Gerlis turns back to the table and the glass and reseats himself. After a time, and concentration, Gerlis watches an image emerge from the screeing glass-seeing again the five squads of Kyphrans and the young man in brown who accompanies them.
The white wizard smiles, with his entire face and eyes, and the image, and the mists, vanish. “Yes, Cennon, you will find your limits, poor hero. And you, too, little black mage.” His eyes lift to the banner in the corner, the one with the crown on it. He shakes his head.
After a time, he looks at the glass once more, where a bald man in a tan uniform appears, crossing the deck of a warship. Gerlis purses his lips and concentrates once more. In time, the valley floor grumbles, and shudders.