The White Order

XCIV

THE RAIN, A cold drizzle earlier in the day, had become a hot, afternoon, chaos-heated mist that cloaked all the mages-and their mounts. The white lancers walked their mounts and those of the mages through the hot mist and along the road to the east of where the three mages and students struggled with the chaos deep below the high plains of Gallos. The horses skittered sideways intermittently, demanding attention and reassurance as the ground rumbled, as irregular screaming bursts of steam perforated the rising hills less than two kays to the north.

“Keep the chaos below the upper rocks!” snapped Jeslek-the first time Cerryl had heard any sense of urgency in the overmage’s voice. “Keep it down!”

The wavering wall of order darkness that spread to the north of the road flexed under the rising and expanding globule of reddened-white chaos.

“More. . all of you,” grunted Anya. “You don’t. . give more. . Fydel, and I’ll let you fry first.”

The darkness thickened.

Cerryl glanced down the road, where Jeslek stood alone, a point of white amid the chaos that shimmered like light reflected from a still sea at twilight, except more brightly. As he watched, the light around Jeslek brightened even more.

The ground rumbled with a thundering from below, shuddering so much that Cerryl could feel it through his boots.

One of the mounts held by lancers somewhere behind them screamed.

“Hold, you ball-less beast! Hold!”

Cerryl took a quick step forward, trying to keep his balance and his concentration on the interworking of order and chaos.

“Demon damn him. .” muttered Anya, half under her breath. “Demon damn him. .”

“Quiet. .” grunted Fydel.

Sweat, the leftover moisture from the rain, and the hot mist combined in streams of water that poured down the mages’ faces, even down the creamy chiseled features of the red-headed Anya, plastering her hair down across her forehead.

The smell of brimstone raised with the steam that escaped the shifting and rising ground drifted from the north and the west across the mages and toward the lancers.

Cerryl swallowed, trying not to gag at the odor.

Behind him, Kochar retched.

“You. . haven’t time to retch. . Keep holding the. . barrier,” demanded Anya.

Kochar retched again, but then an additional sense of order joined that of the others.

The sounds of other disgruntled horses, not quite screams, punctuated the rumbling from the depths and the rippling of the ground that had been the low hills of the high grasslands.

Gurrr. . rrrrr. .

Cerryl blotted his brow with the back of his forearm sleeve and continued to concentrate on channeling chaos back into the depths under the rising hills and away from the road. For him, channeling was easier, and seemed more productive than straining to hold order barriers against the heat and reddish white power loosed by Jeslek.

“Getting it. .” Anya’s voice was hoarse.

“If. . he doesn’t loose. . more chaos. .” replied Fydel.

“Still. . holding. .”

The brown-haired and thin-faced student mage turned another wave of chaos back, back toward the upwelling that had already become a small mountain two kays and more north of the Great White Highway.

“No more chaos. . now,” called Jeslek. “Just. . hold for a bit. . not too long.”

“Easy. . for him. . to say,” whispered Lyasa, the words barely reaching Cerryl.

He nodded briefly, silently.

Slowly, the pressure of the chaos faded. . subsided.

“Keep holding!” ordered Jeslek.

Cerryl blotted away more sweat, but not enough to keep the salty stuff out of the corners of his eyes, which burned anyway.

A light gust of hot wind carried another gout of brimstone, and he swallowed back the bile that threatened to climb into his throat-or higher.

“Better. .” said Fydel. “Better.”

Anya straightened. “All right. You can rest.”

Jeslek turned and began to walk, ever so slowly, back toward the other mages. He stopped and bent slightly, breathing hard, as if trying to catch his breath.

“Even Jeslek. . pushed too much.”

“Won’t see that happen much,” answered Fydel.

Kochar and Lyasa exchanged glances.

Jeslek stopped a dozen cubits from the group of mages, brushed back overlong white hair. “That’s a good start for the prefect. It will give him something to worry about.”

Gurrrr. . rrr. .

As if to emphasize Jeslek’s words, the ground trembled. . and rippled, even as the low hills to the northwest continued to shudder their way upward, cutting off the direct late afternoon sun.

The smell of brimstone continued to drift over Cerryl both from the north and the west as he studied Jeslek.

For the first time, the overmage looked exhausted, his face drawn, almost pinched. The white hair that usually sparkled was dull and lifeless, and his face was covered with a gray stubbly beard.

Cerryl slumped onto the wall at the side of the road, hot from chaos and indirect sun, faint stars flashing before his tired eyes, eyes that burned. After a moment, he lifted his head, wishing he had taken his water bottle when he had dismounted.

Lyasa sat beside him, offering him some of her water.

“Thank you. I wish I’d thought of it.”

“I’ll take some of yours later. There won’t be much water around here for a while.”

After taking a long and welcome swallow, Cerryl nodded. Any streams had to have been dried up or diverted or turned to steam. Heat continued to well off the high hills, or low mountains, that stretched on either side of the flat beside the Great Highway.

Klybel rode up from the east, reining up short of Jeslek.

“We still lost almost a dozen spare mounts. The smell and the unsteady ground spooks the most excitable ones. They broke their leads.”

“We will get spare mounts.” Jeslek nodded. “Yes, you will have those spare mounts.”

The lancer captain glanced toward the northeast, where another bank of lowering clouds promised a return of the rain. “The Gallosians will return, you think?”

Jeslek turned toward Fydel, who stood beside his mount. “Fydel, find out where the Gallosians are.”

“Yes, overmage.” Fydel heaved himself to his feet and walked slowly toward the lancers who held the mages’ mounts.

“We need water for the mounts,” continued Klybel. “Your mountains have moved the streams away.”

The white-haired mage glanced toward the clouds. “The drainage ways beside the Highway here will be full of water before long. Let it come to us.”

The lancer captain frowned momentarily. “As you command.”

Jeslek watched as Fydel concentrated on the small glass he had set on the road wall.

“The Gallosians are encamped ten kays to the east,” Fydel finally reported.

“They will be back in the morning,” predicted Jeslek. “We need some rest and food.”

“Here?” asked Klybel.

“None of the mages-or the students-have the strength to move. If your lancers need water, send them in detachments to the southwest. That’s the only safe place besides here right now.” Jeslek coughed. “Or back toward the Gallosians.”

“The southwest.” Klybel turned his mount.

Cerryl sat on the side wall of the Great Highway. Like Lyasa and Kochar, he was breathing hard, still trying to catch his breath.

“Derka. . said this couldn’t be done.” Lyasa moved closer to Cerryl.

“He. . was wrong.” In how many other things was Jeslek going to prove the older mages wrong? Cerryl wondered.

After a time, he stood and limped on feet sorer than he would have imagined toward the chestnut that held biscuits and hard cheese. He needed to eat something. Anything.