The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(137)

“I guess we are, aren't we?”

“Neither the prefect nor the overmage is likely to back down,” said Lyasa.

Cerryl took another drink from the bottle, then glanced farther eastward, where three lancers had tied the students' mounts and watched them. His chestnut sidestepped and lifted his head, as if to indicate unhappiness with the situation. Cerryl agreed with the gelding's unvoiced feelings.

The Gallosian armsmen appeared well before midmorning, the lead riders bearing purple pennons, and all riders bore polished oval iron-faced shields that shimmered in the sunlight. Heavy shields, Cerryl suspected from his own brief attempts to bear weapons. Besides the shields, each had an iron-tipped lance in a holder.

Again, an armsman rode forward under the messenger's blue-trimmed pennant. The pennant fluttered in the hot light wind that swirled across the ridge and the highway, a wind not strong enough to bend the knee-high and browning grass.

Jeslek mounted his off-white horse, and with an escort of a half-score lancers, rode forward onto the ridge and reined up, waiting for the messenger.

The messenger inclined his head. “I bring you the words of the prefect under the flag of truce.”

“We listen under the flag of truce.” Jeslek waited, his white hair glittering almost silver in the bright sunlight.

“You have abused the right of the road and profaned the lands of Gallos. You must return them to the grasslands they once were, and pay the prefect three thousand golds in penance.”

Jeslek's eyebrows rose. “Your prefect has a rather high opinion of the value of those worthless grasslands. He also has an excessive opinion of himself.”

“Are you refusing to undo the damage you have caused? If so, I am bid to tell you that you will suffer the prefect's wrath.”

Jeslek offered a bland smile. “We look forward to seeing his wrath. It could be amusing.”

The messenger swallowed. “So be it, mage.” He turned his mount, riding quickly back toward the massed horsemen.

“They'll charge quickly,” Klybel said. “Stand ready!” His voice rose as the order was echoed down the ranks of the white lancers.

“Stand ready!”

Fydel carried his screeing glass toward the spot where the student mages waited, his eyes darting back toward the Gallosian ranks.

“Arms ready!”

From the south sounded two trumpet notes, then two more.

A wave of dark shafts appeared in the green-blue sky, seemingly from nowhere, dropping into the ranked white lancers. At least three lancers sagged in their saddles.

“Archers! Hidden on the left,” called Fydel, standing on the road wall and yelling the directions back to Jeslek.

His face twisted in annoyance, Jeslek turned and lifted what seemed like a wave of fire that arched over the white lancers and surged over the north side of the ridge line.

Fydel gave a nod and slipped the glass into its leather case, then almost ran back to the students. “Start raising chaos!”

Cerryl watched the Gallosians but could not see where Jeslek's fire tide had gone, only feeling that it had swept through a group of men.

“Aaeeeiii...” Screams-brief, muted screams-followed the fire wave. No arrows did.

Jeslek stood bent forward, his hands on his knees, his face somehow both pale and flushed.

A mass of Gallosian horses charged across the ridge line, straight at the outnumbered white lancers, lances leveled.

The front line of Klybel's lancers spurred their mounts forward, but slowly.

Whsst! Whstt! Whsst! Three quick firebolts from Anya splashed across the front of the Gallosians, and two mounts dived into the damp ground, snarling a half score of riders who followed.

Whhsst! Fydel lifted a larger firebolt that arced into the left center of the purple-clad armsmen, bringing down more mounts and men.

Still, a good score of the Gallosian riders reached the white lancers, and white and purple overtunics mixed together in a swirl, and the off-tune striking of lances on shields, blades on shields, and blades on blades drifted toward the younger mages.

Whst! Whst! Whst! Three more firebolts sailed over the nearer combatants and into the waiting ranked line of Gallosians.

The trumpet sounded again, and all the purple-clad figures surged forward.

Jeslek straightened, as though he had taken a deep breath, and around him rose another cloud of sparkling fire. That cloud sprayed into fragments and foamed above the few fighters remaining near the front of the white lancer line, then flowed into the front ranks of the charging Gallosians.

Cerryl swallowed-hard. The entire front two ranks of the purple riders went down in a charcoaled and flaming heap, and at least another two ranks ended up either on the burning grass or turning into each other, dropping lances, and otherwise rendering each other ineffective.

Whst! Whst! Two more firebolts from Anya dropped into the confused mass, incinerating even more armsmen.

Whhsst! A single fat fireball from Fydel soared behind Anya's, then dropped and flattened into a half-dozen points of single flame, each point a dying armsman.

“To the east!” called someone. “On the highway.”

Cerryl glanced down the Great Highway to his left-eastward-to see a short column of purple-clad lancers charging toward them.

“Fydel! You and the students! Stop them.” Jeslek's voice was loud-and hoarse.

Stepping up and standing on the road wall, Cerryl turned eastward to face the riders-still almost half a kay away, but closing the gap rapidly.