The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(138)

Whhsttt!

A pale-faced Fydel lifted a fireball into the leading rider, turning man and mount into a flaming mass. The rider to the right pulled up, trying to beat out flames crawling across his tunic and snarling those behind him.

Those on the left poured past the charred mass and the burning armsman, the hoofs of their mounts pounding on the white granite paving stones of the road.

Whhssst! Another firebolt from Fydel flared into the granite before the oncoming Gallosians, splitting their force around the chaos-fire.

Whsst! A small firebolt from Lyasa arced into the purple-clad rider next to the road wall on the northern side. His chest a mass of flame, he sagged in the saddle, then toppled over the wall into the puddled water in the drainage way.

Cerryl lifted a firebolt across the two leading lancers, and both went down in a flaming heap. Two more riders plowed into the dead arms-men and their struggling mounts, and the charge stopped-momentarily.

Fydel took advantage of the congestion to loft another fireball into the riders blacked behind the fallen and still-struggling mounts.

“First and third squads-to the left flank on the road!” Klybel's order rose above the confusion. Hoofs on stone sounded behind Cerryl and Lyasa.

Cerryl glanced eastward beyond the milling Gallosians. Another score of purple-clad riders rode more slowly from the east, and they bore neither lances nor blades but curved staves-bows.

“Archers on the left road flank!” called Cerryl. “More archers!” As he spoke, he arched a firebolt over the mass toward the oncoming archers, but it splashed on the granite short of them.

Kochar tried the same thing, with the same results.

“Too far,” muttered the redhead.

“Get the closer ones!” snapped Fydel. “You can do that.”

Cerryl's eyes inadvertently flicked to the south, where yet another rank of mounted Gallosians thundered over, through, and around their fallen comrades toward the white lancers, who used blades against the handful of Gallosians from the first two attacks who had survived the fireballs.

An arrow clattered on the stones beneath Cerryl, and he jerked his eyes back to the Great Highway.

A good dozen archers remained mounted, loosing shafts.

Cerryl glanced to his left and right. No one was watching. Gathering chaos as he had in the runnels, he focused it into a golden lance that flew straight-straight through the lead archer, who flew from his mount in flames.

Whhstt! One of Lyasa's firebolts took out an archer on the flank.

Fydel lifted another fat fireball that exploded in the midst of the archers, leaving but two mounted. One turned his horse and started to ride away.

Whhsttt!

The thin student mage mustered more chaos and released another light lance, effective at downing the last archer moving forward.

Behind the archers rode another company of the purple-clad arms-men bearing long iron blades that glittered in the midday sun.

Fydel staggered and reached out to grasp the road wall.

Cerryl glanced toward the riders, then tried to spray chaos across the front rank, the way he once had in the sewers.

A flare of light washed across the Gallosians, and the four riders and their mounts slowly tumbled into a blazing line of fire, a line that nearly engulfed the next set of riders.

Whsstt! Lyasa's firebolt scored more riders, and even a smaller blast from Kochar splashed into those who followed.

The road cleared-almost. Out of the smoke came a single rider. The lancer bore down on Cerryl, the long gray blade swinging straight at the student, even as the armsman tried to shield himself behind the smallish oval shield.

Whhst!

A flare of golden light-like an arrow-speared the lancer, who looked dumbfounded as he pitched back out of the saddle onto the ground.

Cerryl glanced around. The road was empty, except for a handful of white lancers, the mages, and burned heaps that had once been men and mounts.

Lyasa stepped up beside Cerryl and glanced at the circular hole in the beaten leather armor of the Gallosian. She glanced at Cerryl, then cast a small fireball onto the corpse.

“Why-” Cerryl broke off his question.

“Better this way.”

“Thank you.”

Lyasa smiled. “There will come a time ...”

Cerryl nodded. He would pay his debts.

They turned. The ridge was a sea of swirling smoke and dark heaps. To the west, Cerryl could see a handful of riders in purple, moving slowly. On the ridge line remained only the white lancers-perhaps two thirds of them.

Jeslek sat exhausted on the road wall, his face so red that Cerryl could see the color from more than a hundred cubits away. Anya sat beside the overmage, her back to Cerryl and Lyasa.

Kochar stepped up beside the two student mages and looked at the charred corpse of the last lancer. “Oh, you two did stop him.”

“We managed,” Cerryl said. “I needed some help from Lyasa.”

“At least he admits it...” Fydel's words drifted with the wind and the smoke from the intermittently burning grass and low brush toward Cerryl. The bearded mage also sat on the road wall, leaning forward, forehead resting in his hands.

Cerryl swallowed, trying not to smell the odor of smoldering brush and burnt flesh, wondering what and how much he would have to keep hidden in order to survive.

“Let's look at that arm,” demanded Lyasa.

Cerryl glanced at his arms, first one, then the other. His sleeves were smudged with dirt, soot, and grime, but he didn't think he'd been wounded. He felt stupid as he realized Kochar had been hurt, and he watched as Lyasa lightly bathed the slash in chaos-one of Broka's techniques, he recalled-and then bound it.