Whhstt! Small as the firebolt was, the White mage’s aim was good enough to turn one archer into flames and ash and send the second spurring his mount down the grassy slope. The retreating archer tried to beat flames out with one hand and guide his careening mount with the other.
Squinting into the afternoon sun, Cerryl ignored the smell of burned flesh and focused on the blue-clad lancers nearly half a kay away on the trail road, lancers who seemed to be turning.
After a deep breath, Cerryl launched another large firebolt.
Wwhhhssttt! The globe of fire arched sedately over the grassy slope and dropped, splashing chaos fire across the second line of Spidlarians and their mounts.
Cerryl reeled in the saddle, points of light flashing before his eyes and his head throbbing. When he could see, he found that Hiser had ridden up beside him.
“They’ve turned, ser. You killed another half-score.”
Only another jive score to go. Cerryl nodded slowly. “Send a scout to watch the trail on the far side. We need to make sure that they’re actually moving back.”
“Yes, ser.” Hiser rode back toward where his company had been mustered, waiting.
The gray-eyed mage struggled to get to his water bottle, his fingers trembling so much that he had to concentrate totally on unstoppering the bottle. He drank slowly, and the water seemed to reduce his shakiness and the frequency of the flashes before his eyes, but not the headache or the bone-weariness he felt.
The sun was clearly nearing late afternoon, hanging over the low hills to the west, when Hiser returned.
Cerryl glanced up, taking in the sun and the shadows cast by the scattered trees and bushes. Had that much of the day gone?
“They’re going,” announced Hiser. “One of the scouts says they’re heading back along the road to Kleth.”
“For now,” Cerryl said. For now. He took a long and deep breath. One thing was becoming increasingly clear. Chaos fire was far more suited to either ambush or defense, not to direct-on attacks, not unless he could count on the enemy remaining massed in one place, and that seemed unlikely, to say the least.
The constant use of chaos, even on a small scale, seemed to be close to unworkable-at least for him-no matter how much order or chaos he could handle at longer intervals. He didn’t even want to think about why he was out in the backlands, fighting off Spidlarian armsmen with far too few White Lancers for the task, needing to muster chaos all too often-or about the lengthening separation from Leyladin.
XCV
In the orange-tinged light that followed dawn, Cerryl looked down at the glass on the rough-planked trestle table, rubbing his eyes. Over the past three eight-days, he hadn’t slept that well, not with the constant tracking of the Spidlarian forces and his efforts to keep them away from the supply road, especially with another set of Certan wagons moving out of the Easthorns and toward Elparta.
Because he knew he would never get back to it with all the screeing facing him, he permitted himself the luxury of a quick look in the glass for Leyladin, seeking that distant focus of order somehow faintly gray, rather than the pure black of Dorrin the smith. Was that because she lived amidst chaos? Or for some other reason? Why is there no mention of gray anywhere, not in any of the books or by any of the senior mages? Even as a warning?
The mists cleared from the glass, and, almost as if she had been waiting, the red-golden-haired healer smiled from where she sat in a green dressing gown at the writing table in her silk-hung room. The room still amazed Cerryl, but he smiled as well, even knowing that she could not sense his expression, but because he was cheered by her smile. After a long look, he let the image go and looked at the blank glass on the table for a moment.
Finally, after taking a swig of water from his nearly empty bottle, he began to concentrate, scanning one by one the hamlets that bordered the supply road. All were vacant, as they had been since spring.
Cerryl rubbed his forehead once more, again wondering where the Spidlarians had gone. He stood and walked to the hearth, where he took a water bottle off the shelf and took a deep swallow. After that, he went back to the table and the screeing glass.
In time, he found the Spidlarian force, breaking camp in a higher meadow amid leaved trees, rather than evergreens. From what he could tell, they had doubled back north and west, midway between Fydel’s patrols and those of Cerryl, but more than forty kays north of the Elparta - Axalt road.
Cerryl consulted his rough map, then nodded. There was a trail, not really a road, that angled toward the Elparta road. He suspected that Jeslek probably wouldn’t have paid that much attention to the trail. But he will if you allow the wagons to be taken or his flank to be attacked. Cerryl pursed his lips. Could there be another force joining them?
With a sigh, he turned back to the glass, squinting as his eyes watered and the inevitable headache began to build.
There was another force, smaller than the first, but still twice the size of what Cerryl had, angling in from the west. Both blue forces would reach the Axalt - Elparta road at about the same point. Unless you stop them.
But how? His eyes watering, Cerryl massaged his forehead. Using pure chaos-particularly firebolts-definitely limited how many armsmen he could take on, especially at once. He took a last swallow from the bottle, then stood and walked to the open door.
In the stillness, the air outside the cot was already warmer than inside the rough wooden building as Cerryl walked toward the cook fires. The aroma of roasted mutton drifted toward him.
Standing by the rough pole corral fence, Ferek lowered the chunk of greasy meat he was eating. “You’d not be looking all that pleased this morning, Mage Cerryl,” observed the subofficer. “Have the blues gone into the Easthorns now, trying to reach the road?”
“I think not.” Cerryl motioned to Hiser.
The blond subofficer swallowed the last morsels of the hard bread he had been eating and walked toward the mage and the older subofficer.
Cerryl’s headache and watering eyes reminded him that he also needed to eat, and the mage stepped aside toward the plank propped on two tree sections that served as a provision board. Cerryl took almost half a small loaf of bread and used his white-bronze belt-knife to laboriously cut a chunk of the dry white cheese that seemed nearly as hard as the wood on which it rested.
The bread, though warm, was dry, and Cerryl had to struggle to swallow a mouthful. He wished he’d brought his water bottle from the cot, but he managed to gnaw off a corner of the cheese before he turned hack to the subofficers and swallowed before speaking. “There are two forces now, the one we’ve been chasing and another one, maybe half the size of the first. They’re headed toward the Elparta road, maybe forty kays west of here.”
“That’d be a solid two-day ride,” said Hiser.
“It should be three for them.” You hope.
“Together… what? Fourfold our numbers?” asked Ferek.
“Could be more than that,” Cerryl admitted. “We have to keep them from getting to where they can attack Jeslek and the other lancers from behind.”
“Take some mighty good working to do that.” Ferek’s tone was bland.
Hiser just looked at Cerryl, his mouth expressionless but concern in his eyes.
“We’ll find a way.” Cerryl offered a smile he did not feel. “After you finish eating, get the men ready. We’ll need to start as soon as we can. I’d like them to have a chance to rest before we face the blues.”
The blond Hiser nodded, then tugged at his short beard. “We leave anything here?”
Cerryl shook his head. If they beat back the Spidlarians, they’d need to stay closer to Jeslek’s force, and if they didn’t…
“One way or the other… no sense in that,” agreed Ferek, mumbling his words over another mouthful of the greasy mutton.
Cerryl took another mouthful of bread and a chunk of the hard white cheese, chewing carefully.
“They won’t ride away this time,” predicted Hiser.
“No, I don’t think so either.” Cerryl could feel some of the worst of the headache subsiding. You have to remember to eat…
“I’ll have them cook down the rest of the mutton.” Ferek turned toward the cook fires.
“I’ll pass the word,” Hiser answered. “Be a bit, still.”
“I know,” Cerryl mumbled through the last of the hard cheese. He turned and walked slowly back to the cot to pack his own gear, thinking about Hiser’s words. How could he deal with close to eightscore lancers who knew how to avoid firebolts?
Hr frowned as he paused inside the cot’s doorway, his eyes going to the glass he’d left on the table. What about rearranging order and chaos? Wouldn’t that be less tiring than extracting chaos and flinging it? How would that help you in a battle or skirmish?
Cerryl shrugged as he packed the glass and peered around the dusty room. You’d better find some way.
With a last glance at the empty trestle table, he turned and stepped back into the cool morning air, hoping that the day would remain pleasant, rather than turn sweltering.
XCVI
The hazy clouds of morning had thickened and turned into heavy gray masses that filled most of the sky, with but occasional patches of blue-tinged green. Despite the clouds, the day was warm and sultry, without even a hint of a breeze. The light rain of the morning had given way first to mist and then to the damp heat that permeated everything.
Cerryl felt that if he so much as lifted an arm or shifted his grip on the gelding’s reins, he would burst into sudden sweat.
“Damp,” murmured Hiser. “Makes it seem hotter.”
“Get hotter yet ‘fore summer’s over,” answered Ferek.
“This is where they join.” Cerryl reined up and surveyed the road and the draw that held the narrower way that the Spidlarians traveled from the north. He shook his head, thinking about how the narrow strip of clay actually curved eastward for several kays, around the hills, before swinging west and south to join the Elparta - Axalt road.
Behind him, the column slowed and stopped. The scouts had already vanished behind the woods a kay or so ahead, around which the main road curved.
“They won’t be coming that way,” suggested Ferek, spitting onto the patchy grass of the main road’s shoulder. One hand gestured toward the wooded hills to the right of the road and toward the defile that held the narrower road from the northwest.
“How would you come?” asked Cerryl.
“Those fields back a ways… they be a trace steep, but they be open. They slope to the main road. I’d bring the mounts up that way. Specially after knowing what you done to ‘em in narrow places.”
From his mount to Cerryl’s left Hiser nodded.
What Ferek said made sense, but would the Spidlarians see it that way? And if they did, what could Cerryl do with an open field? As Cerryl recalled the meadows, the slope from the narrow road was uphill. Would any lancers advance uphill?
Cerryl dismounted and handed the gelding’s reins to one of the lancers drawn up behind Hiser. Then he extracted the glass and set it on an even patch of ground on top of its leather case. With the heavy clouds overhead, there was no direct sunshine to worry about.
Cerryl concentrated on the glass, trying to bring up the Image of the Spidlarians, ignoring the perspiration that intensified when he attempted screeing or employing either order or chaos. Slowly, the silver mists cleared, and an image of lancers appeared. From what he could tell, they remained on the same road as before, heading in a generally southward direction, but at least a day north of where Cerryl and his forces were positioned.
You hope. Then, Cerryl had been screeing and hoping a great deal over the past several eight-days. Finally, he repacked the glass, pausing to massage his forehead for a moment.
“Ser?” asked Hiser.
“They’re still riding this way.” Cerryl remounted and looked eastward. “We should ride back to those fields,” he decided. “Not everyone, just a half-score or so. The others can stand down here.”
“Now?” asked Hiser.
“The blues won’t be here for almost another day, not at the pace they’re making.”
“What if they go across the hills to cut off distance? They could do that,” suggested Hiser.
“Don’t think so,” offered Ferek. “From what the mage has shown in the glass, that north way be open. Till the last few kays, leastwise. Cross the hills, and too many places there for a mage to hide and throw fire.”
“Best we lay out the encampment,” suggested Ferek.
“And send out scouts and pickets,” added Hiser.
“Ferek,” Cerryl ordered, “you take care of setting up the encampment. Hiser will lead the half-score lancers from his company who will ride back to that meadow field with me.”
“Yes, ser.” Ferek nodded. “Men could use an early stop and some rest. We’ll have it all set up when you get back.”
Cerryl turned his mount back eastward, letting Hiser ride ahead of him and issue the commands to select the half-score of lancers that would accompany the two of them. He would have preferred to stop and rest himself.
How are you going to handle a force that could be five or six times yours? Especially when they know how to attack a White mage? Cerryl shifted his weight in the saddle. He didn’t have any answers, just hoped that there was something about the fields that would give him an idea.
Hiser eased his mount up beside Cerryl as the smaller group separated from the longer column of White Lancers. For a time the only sounds were the plodding of hoofs, the breathing of horses, and scattered murmurs of the lancers trailing the two.
“How are we going to face some tenscore lancers? Can you destroy them all with wizard fire, ser?” Hiser finally asked.
“Not if they spread out the way they usually do. That’s why we’re riding back there. I need to see what else I might do.”
When they reached their destination, Cerryl could sense that it was well past midafternoon, despite the still-thick gray clouds.
Once he reined up, a long vulcrow cawed and flapped away from the higher grass downhill from the main road. Cerryl studied the slanting fields once more. He let his order-chaos senses slide under the long, sloping field, probing for concentrations of order or chaos, but the ground felt no different from any other patch of soil, except that some order seemed slightly more concentrated near the small stream to the west of the lower road that lay beyond the broad and slanting meadow.
Through a small gap in the clouds a thin line of sunlight arrowed across the afternoon, briefly lighting the edge of the hardwoods that defined the eastern edge of the meadow, a meadow nearly a kay wide. The light faded as swiftly as it had appeared, and the green leaves of the woods appeared gray-green once more.
The distance between the two roads was closer to two kays, and to Cerryl’s eyes the main road appeared nearly two hundred cubits higher than the other, far narrower road, which wound back into the lower woods to the north and west. The lower road flanked the stream for perhaps four kays before actually meeting the main road to the west, and both stream and road wound through relatively thick woods.
“Two hundred cubits higher, even, maybe,” Cerryl murmured to himself. The slope between the two roads was greater than Ferek had thought and than Cerryl had recalled.
“A bit steep to bring up a mount,” suggested Hiser.
“Could be, but it’s nearly two kays, and they can spread out. If they take the road, they get bunched together.” Cerryl shrugged. “If they do, we go back to where the camp is. Between the hill gap and the woods, their lancers will get all bunched up.”
“They’d not like that.”
Less than coming up the meadow. Cerryl rode the gelding slowly out and down into the meadow. While the ground was uneven in places, the footing seemed firm and the slope not so steep as it had appeared from the higher road.
The grass was thick and green, nearly knee-high. Later in the year it would burn well, but not now. What if he loosed the o
rder bounds right beneath the surface? What would that do? Cerryl frowned. He couldn’t just leave order free. Could he shift it into other parts of the ground?
He swallowed and tried to reshift some of the order and chaos, strengthening the ground beneath the surface in thin lines and then breaking the order ties in other places.
Grrrrr… The ground shifted ever so slightly, and Cerryl swallowed.
“What was that?” asked Hiser.
Cerryl didn’t answer, struggling as he was with his battle to change the order-chaos balance of the rocks and subsoil, shift the strengths and the bonds that had knit the ground together. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and he absently blotted it away from his eyes.
A flock of blue-winged birds fluttered from the hardwoods, shriek-ing as they did. A sudden buzzing filled the sodden air, and dozens of flying grasshoppers rose out of the grass and hummed their way eastward and north, away from the ground Cerryl strained to alter. A single deer bolted downhill, then turned as she saw the White riders and bounded back into the woods.
“… little closer and we’d a had a good meal…”
“… real good meal…”
“… better be still… He’s got that look.”
“So’s Riser.”
Cerryl squinted and blocked away the low-voiced comments from the lancer squad. Even as he continued his efforts, he began to sense a roiling, almost a boiling, and an ebb and flow or order and chaos, far, far deeper than the subsoil where he worked.
Coils and lines of black order wound around unseen but clearly felt fountains of chaos that rose and fell sporadically in the depths beneath the meadow. Should he send his senses below? Would it help?
No… not now. Too much to do here. He forced his concentration back to the task at hand.
In the end, the meadow grass concealed a churned mass of clay beneath a thin layer of soil holding the long green grass, clay that, Cerryl suspected, more nearly resembled quicksand than clay. Cerryl had also left just enough support in thin pillars and layers of order to hold a few riders and mounts-in case the Spidlarians wanted to scout the meadow. Some of that order he would have to shift later.
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