Cerryl frowned. Had he heard the sound of boots on the hard-packed mud and gravel?
Anya smiled, broadly and falsely. “Cerryl, I know you have so many important things to consider, but the High Wizard will need your sage advice when he returns.”
Cerryl wanted to wince at the sickly-sweet tone and cover the redhead with chaos. She seemed to be acting more and more as if she were the High Wizard.
“Now…when we get ready to head out. Fydel, remember it’s not too far until we reach that homestead. Don’t fire it. The High Wizard wants to study it first-the one with the brush barricade around it and the charred cottage in front.”
Cerryl nodded at the reference to the smith’s place, although his screeing had shown it appeared to be empty and the smith was at the shipwright’s-or he had been earlier.
“That is your precious smith’s place, is it not?” asked Jeslek, returning to the tent, chaos swirling around him.
“This Dorrin is not my smith,” Cerryl replied evenly. “He’s left there for the shipwright’s.”
“It matters not. He can’t escape our ships.” Jeslek dismissed the smith with an offhand gesture.
Cerryl frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He could sense a change around him-a concentration of something-order? He turned to the side of the tent where the silk billowed ever so slightly. The air wavered. “Look! Over there!” As he spoke, he lifted his shields, wondering what good they would do against an order master even as he did.
“Concealment!” blurted Anya.
Fydel’s mouth merely dropped at the appearance of the red-haired smith almost right before them, carrying something that looked like a short and heavy crossbow without the bow. The device was pointed at Jeslek.
The High Wizard gestured at the smith, and chaos swirled, beginning to build. WHHHsssttt! The firebolt flared past the smith and burned through the tent silk.
Crack…thump…whummmmmmPPPPTTTTTTT…Another kind of order-cased flame flashed from the smith’s device toward the High Wizard.
Simultaneously Jeslek hurled a wall of chaos toward the slight figure who had invaded the tent. EEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIiiii…
As the order-forged flame of the smith and the High Wizard’s chaos met, incandescence seared through the tent, rending the silk walls. Despite his shields, Cerryl felt himself being hurled backward through a vortex of order and chaos that shivered the air and ground.
Darkness blanketed him.
He found himself lying on charred silk looking upward at a sky that seemed far darker and more cloud-filled than when he had entered the tent. Slowly, wondering how long he had lain there unconscious, he staggered upright in the cold rain that pelted down around him. He fingered his whites-definitely wet, and that meant he’d been down for a time, at least.
Thurrrrrummmmmmmmmm…thuruummmmm…Winds buffeted the few sections of the tent still in place, and thunderclaps shook air and ground alike, but both seemed to be lessening.
“Jeslek! Jeslek!” Anya’s voice was shrill, perhaps the first time Cerryl had heard it so.
Heavy droplets of rain continued to lash from the near-instant clouds, so heavily that Cerryl had to blink as he lurched toward the center of what remained of the High Wizard’s tent. Then ice pellets rattled down in a quick flurry before vanishing.
Cerryl took a deep breath and sent forth his senses, trying to see if any traces of the smith and his dark order remained. Nothing…What did he do, that he could strike so quickly and be gone? The light cloak was similar to what Cerryl had used himself, but had he failed to recognize it because it felt different when used by an order wielder? Does it matter now?
He stopped, looking over where Jeslek had been. Jeslek was gone. Jeslek gone? The greatest…or most powerful White mage…perhaps ever? Gone?
Cerryl took a step, then another, still searching for the High Wizard.
Anya stood by the shattered remnants of the small table, binding her arm. Fydel rose from one knee behind her.
Cerryl tried his order-chaos senses again, but there was no trace that Jeslek had ever been there, except for the gold amulet that lay amid the disintegrating pieces of a white tunic. Nor was there any sense of the order that bespoke the Black smith. The only body was that of a White guard. Cerryl shook his head. Jeslek dead…like that? He glanced at Fydel.
“He’s dead…gone,” Fydel affirmed.
Cerryl rubbed his forehead, and his fingers came away slightly streaked with blood.
“It happens.” Anya stooped and lifted the gold amulet from the pile of dust and clothes on the trampled and burned grass. Stepping around the dead guard’s body without even looking down, she dangled it toward the bearded White wizard with the gash across his forehead. “Would you like it, Fydel?”
“Darkness, no! Give it to Sterol.”
She turned to Cerryl. “Would you-”
Cerryl stepped back, almost involuntarily. “It’s past time for games, Anya. Sterol should have the amulet returned to him. Especially now.” How can she just ignore Jeslek’s death? Did he mean that little? Is she that cold?
“Don’t tell me that you two brave and strong White brethren are afraid of a poor Black smith and healer who must stoop to stealth and murder?”
Fydel looked away.
Cerryl did not, instead meeting Anya’s eyes. “He was rather effective, wouldn’t you say?” His arm gestured at the pile of dust that had been Jeslek, the two bodies, and the missing side of the tent ringed with charred patches. “There were three of them-just three, according to Jeslek. Between them, they’ve destroyed more than half our forces, a half-dozen of the White brethren, and the High Wizard. Just what would happen if they had decided to have sent a few more-perhaps older and more experienced order masters and Black warriors?” Cerryl’s smile was crooked. “For such reasons, I would prefer to defer to one of great experience, such as Sterol.”
“Do we wait for him…to finish this rabble?” snapped Anya. “No! Cerryl, you need to lead the pursuit of the smith. Now!”
“No. I think not. I think we can proceed-but slowly.” Jeslek…gone? Like that? Cerryl felt his thoughts were running in circles.
“You are always so cautious, Cerryl,” Anya said brightly, her voice tight. “Do you think that the Council-or even Sterol-would let the blues get away with this? The High Wizard has been killed, and you wish to proceed slowly. Oh, so slowly.”
“When one cannot rely on sheer force of chaos, dear lady,” Cerryl forced out the deliberate words, “one must needs be cautious.”
“Bah…let’s get the troops moving.” Fydel blotted the blood from his forehead and stepped through the space where the tent wall had been. Then he paused and pointed toward the remaining two bodies on the ground-those of the guards who had stood outside the tent. Fire flared, and only ashes remained. With another snort, Fydel marched toward the hut where the march captains waited, not even looking back at the other two mages.
Anya and Cerryl raised their eyebrows simultaneously, even as Cerryl turned toward Anya.
“Well, Cerryl?” asked the redhead. “Are you with us, or will you remain here and be cautious?”
“I’ll be ready to lead the vanguard shortly. As the High Wizard’s most trusted and valued assistant, you should draft the scroll to the Council-and Sterol-and then direct Fydel, as you have already been doing. Perhaps you should also inform the armsmen that Jeslek is dead. It might be a good idea, you know?” Cerryl turned and walked heavily across the damp and matted grass toward the tie-lines where Hiser and Ferek and his lancers waited.
Beyond the first tie-line, Fydel had mounted and was talking to the march captains.
Is this wise? Cerryl glanced back toward the ruined tent, then up at the dark clouds that had already begun to disperse. He kept walking.