L. E. Modesitt - The White Order

The green-blue sky was clear, and the midday sun warm, but not too warm. A light wind, with a hint of chill, blew from the west, from the unseen Westhorns, ruffling the roadside grass, including the few tufts that grew out of the old road wall on the west side of the packed clay, a road wall little more than stacked gray and black stones.

Something did not feel right, and Cerryl reined up abruptly. A small cot stood less than a kay to the west, and rows of cut stalks lined the field beyond the strip of meadow that bordered the road. A man gathered and bound the straw, not looking toward the road or the travelers.

A small river meandered from the northwest, and another stone bridge crossed it perhaps three hundred cubits down the road from where Cerryl had stopped. On the far side, low-lying fields, almost like marshes, stretched nearly another a kay before reaching the reddish granite walls of Fenard. A long and low dust cloud rose from the road on the north side of the river, a dust cloud coming from the city.

Cerryl glanced down at the road, its dust damped by the intermittent fall rains, then across the bridge. Dust meant a lot of riders, and a lot of riders meant lancers.

Cerryl glanced to his left, toward a low and rolling hill. Several horsemen appeared on the crest, their purple overtunics visible clearly in the sun. He almost sighed as he heard the fumbling and clanking behind him. As he had suspected, his escort did not contain those lancers most accomplished in arms.

Ludren! Take your men and ride south-as fast as you can.

Ser?

Ride south as fast as you can, Cerryl said. If you hurry, you might outrun all those lancers.

But... we're not to the gates.

If you don't mind, neither do I. Otherwise, we'll all look like Eliasar's straw targets.

The overmage and Klybel said

Ludren-you stay with me, and you're dead. You may be anyway... Please just go. Cerryl tried to keep the exasperation from his voice as he looked at the oncoming lancers and watched the archers on the hill begin to string their bows.

Ah ... yes, ser. Good luck, ser. Ludren wheeled his mount. The mage says we're done, boys, and it's time to go. Best we hurry.

Now he tells us ...

Move! Ludren gave a half-salute, then spurred his mount.

Within moments, Cerryl flung the cloak of light or darkness around himself and the chestnut. Using his feel of where order and chaos fell, he could sense his way slowly toward the scrubby tree at the edge of the unfenced meadow land.

'Wheeee... whuffff...

Easy... easy. Cerryl patted the chestnut on the neck, trying to calm the gelding as he walked his mount slowly off the road, across the shoulder, and through the twisted and browning grass.

The ground vibrated with the hoofbeats of the Gallosian lancers approaching. He hoped that the faint wavering that appeared-as it had around Anya-with the light cloak would be masked by the wind and the fluttering gray winter leaves of the tree beside which he and the gelding waited.

There was no point at all in trying to use chaos-fire against the Gallosian horsemen. There were too many, and using flame would alert everyone to the fact that there was a white mage around. Better no one knows you're here.

As the hoofbeats gradually faded out, Cerryl waited in his self-created blindness and darkness, hoping he could sense the approach of twilight, and worrying about Ludren and the other lancers. He'd needed the diversion, but he hadn't liked using them. You didn't hesitate there.

In all likelihood, many would have died in combat somewhere ... Are you sure? Or did you choose what benefited you? He nodded. He'd chosen what helped him, and nothing was going to change that. He just hoped he didn't end up like Jeslek and Sterol.

Although the road seemed silent, Cerryl waited a time longer, conscious of the sweat that oozed down his back. Finally, he released the shield and quickly studied the road and the cot.

The peasant had disappeared, and smoke rose from the earthen-brick chimney of the cot. The sun hung over the hills to the west, those low hills that led to the Westhorns.

The road was empty, except for a cart that creaked southward, already past Cerryl and heading toward Southbrook or Tellura or some other town that Cerryl and the lancers had skirted on their ride toward Fenard. No lancers waited on the hilltop.

Cerryl waited, sipping his water until the sun dropped behind the hills. Only then did he urge his mount toward the river to drink, and then he waited until the sky was nearly full dark before traveling the last kay or so toward Fenard, halting in the gloom several hundred cubits from the gates.