“Wait,” came back the answer.
Cerryl shifted his weight in the saddle, his eyes on the high red walls, then upon Anya. He was gratified to notice that Anya’s eyes were also upon the walls and that chaos smoldered around her, as if she were uncertain as to what the Hydlenese might do.
“They could refuse to return Leyladin,” he offered, not hoping that, but wanting Anya’s reaction.
“Then, we could bring down all the walls.”
“How?”
“Just help the ground and stone beneath the foundations shift…You can use chaos as if it were butter or a grease, you know. It flows; it’s not stiff like order.”
Cerryl frowned. That made sense, but he hadn’t thought about it in that way-as he hadn’t about so many things, he kept discovering.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Captain Reaz shifting in his saddle. Was the good captain uneasy about what might happen as well?
The cool wind flowed around the mages and the lancers, and the walls remained silent. Not a sound came from the browned fields beside the road, except for the faint whistle of the wind. Cerryl hunched up inside his jacket for a moment.
A triplet of horn notes echoed from the walls, followed by a calclass="underline" “How would the great Duke Ferobar know that you are what you claim?”
Fydel whispered to the herald, and the man echoed his words: “Who else would bring tenscore White Lancers?”
“Any brigand of means could dress men in white.”
Anya smiled cruelly. “Tell him he shall have his answer in but a few moments.”
“Just splash the gates in chaos fire,” Fydel snapped. “We want the healer first.”
“As you wish.” Anya turned to Cerryl. “Make ready.”
Cerryl nodded and began to raise chaos, careful to keep it around him but well away from his body, easing it from the earth, careful to match what Anya mustered.
“Now!” commanded the redhead.
Cerryl released his chaos fire with Anya’s. The two fireballs arched toward the walls, then merged. A wave of flame splashed and crested nearly to the top of the walls above the closed gates.
As the chaos flame subsided, sections of the gates continued to burn, gray and black smoke rising from the wood into the cool afternoon air. Cerryl could smell the bitter scent of burning wood and chaos and even feel some of the heat, carried on the wind toward them. A patch of dried grass ten cubits or so from the side of the road by the causeway leading to the gate began to burn, then died as the flames consumed the last of the grass.
“Ask them again,” Fydel told the herald.
Sweat dripped from the heavy man’s face as he rode forward once more and bugled, then called, “On behalf of the High Wizard of Fairhaven, we have come to provide an escort for the healer and Lady Leyladin to return to her home in Fairhaven. You have requested proof, and we have provided it!”
No answer came from the walls, save that men began to dash buckets of water from the parapets toward the gates beneath. Slowly, the flames vanished, until only few parts of the gates steamed and smoldered.
After more buckets of water, even the steam and smoke vanished, but the wind carried the smell of wet ash to Cerryl. He shifted his weight once more in the hard saddle.
A trumpet call echoed from the wall. “The Lady Leyladin will join you shortly. Once she reaches you, the hospitality of the duke is withdrawn, and none of the White persuasion are welcome in Hydlen once you depart on your return.”
“What hospitality?” muttered Fydel. He turned to the herald. “Tell them we await the lady healer and will depart only when she is safe with us.”
The herald wiped his brow, then bugled and repeated the message.
“An attack for sure.” Anya turned to Cerryl. “Shortly after Leyladin rides to us. Are you ready to cast fire at the gates when they emerge?”
Nodding, Cerryl blotted his forehead. Suddenly, despite the cool wind from behind him, the sun seemed to burn the back of his neck.
The gates creaked ajar, and a single figure on a black mount rode forth. Cerryl caught his breath, but the blonde hair and the unmistakable sense of order that surrounded her reassured him.
“We need to get her away from the walls,” he said to Fydel.
“We all need to get away from the walls.” The square-bearded mage glanced toward Anya. “You two had better prepare. We are not staying a moment longer than we must. I would rather not rely on chaos fire against the lancers the duke could muster.”
Recalling Fydel’s feeble attempts in Gallos two years earlier, Cerryl could understand the older mage’s concerns. Cerryl glanced at Anya.
“She’s close enough now. Follow me.” Anya’s face seemed unreachable, her eyes glazed over.
Cerryl swallowed and tried to send his own perceptions after Anya’s, following her line of chaos toward the large chunks of bedrock underlying the Tower. How did she know?
Somewhere, he could hear Fydel talking to Captain Reaz and then to the herald. He could also sense the growing order as Leyladin’s mount trotted swiftly toward the lancers.
“Lancers, turn about!”
“…turn about!..Turn about!”
Cerryl could sense how Anya eased chaos in the lines between the rocks and how she concentrated chaos in one rock, shifting it from one to another, and he tried to replicate her actions.
The ground shivered as one soft rock deep beneath the Tower collapsed in upon itself.
Seemingly in the distance, the herald bugled again as Leyladin reached Fydel.
“Lady Leyladin, are you all right?” asked the bearded mage.
“I’m tired and hungry, and worried, but I’m otherwise right.”
After a second triplet, the herald called, his voice not quite shaking, “Remember the might of Fairhaven, and do not think to challenge it again, lest the full might of the High Wizard fall upon you. You have been warned!”
Fydel glanced in Cerryl’s and Anya’s direction.
Cerryl could feel the sweat pouring off his forehead as well as down the back of his neck, could feel the rocks shifting beneath the Tower. Another section of the deeper rock collapsed, but the Tower shivered.
Cerryl thought of water…
What about letting water meet chaos? Even as he channeled more chaos beneath the Tower, he also sought a stream of water, easing it edging from the levels below the rock toward the chaos he built, forcing them together, more and more tightly.
HSSSSttt!! Crumptt! A section of ground exploded out from beneath the base of the Tower walls, and steam sprayed upward, the heat welling even toward the lancers.
“Ride! Let us ride!” ordered Fydel. “Too close.”
The ground shook more violently, then trembled several times more. With a rumble, more stones slid out from the bottom of the Tower. Others seemed to crumble and fragment.
Hot droplets of rain cascaded down around the mages.
Screams that might have been were lost in the roar of falling and grinding stone.
The ground shook yet again.
“That’s enough!” snapped Anya, reeling in her saddle as she wheeled her mount.
Cerryl shook his head.
“Are you all right?” Leyladin eased her mount next to Cerryl’s.
“We must ride!” snapped Fydel.
Cerryl reached for Leyladin’s hand. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m glad to see you.”
“I have to go. I’ll catch up with you later.” If I can.
“Fydel, catch his seeming!” ordered Anya.
Confusion crossed Leyladin’s face as Cerryl thrust the gelding’s reins at the healer and slipped from the saddle.
“Ride with them. You have to go.”
“Healer!” snapped Fydel.
Cerryl staggered to the side of the road, his sight cut off as he lifted his light shields to keep the Hydlenese from seeing him, though a part of his mind pointed out that they wouldn’t see much in all the dust.