The White Order(126)

He loosed another bolt of chaos along the tunnel wall closest to him, but all that resulted were cleaner bricks and white ash. In the lingering flash he could see as well as sense the curve of the secondary tunnel.

A brief tapping on the bricks echoed down the tunnel. Cerryl turned.

“Sorry, ser,” squeaked Ullan.

Cerryl returned to scrutinizing the tunnel ahead, frowning not only because of the smell of burned oil but because of something else.

Ullan clicked or tapped the lance again.

Cerryl ignored the tapping, trying to press his senses into the darkness of the tunnel.

A scraping rose over the burbling of the drainage way.

Suddenly, Cerryl could sense someone—something around the corner—waiting in the supposedly bricked-up tunnel. He began to gather chaos to him as he heard boots on stone.

A faint light oozed out from the side tunnel, and two men appeared, dim shapes, shapes not clear even in his senses, let alone to his eyes. Cerryl blinked in spite of himself.

One hung a bronze lamp from a hook on the wall, a hook Cerryl hadn’t noticed. Both men carried shields—large and dark glowing iron shields. They also bore dark iron blades that glowed with the reddened black of order, and moved silently and slowly toward Cerryl.

Behind him, Cerryl could hear the two white lancers easing backward, almost silently.

Myral had said the guards might not be much help. He’d also said that firing chaos against iron would jolt Cerryl.

Cerryl stepped back slowly, trying to think. What could he do?

The armed men moved toward him, shields forward.

Whhhstt!

Cerryl released a golden firebolt—not aimed at the leading man’s shield, where it would do little good, but at the sewer water directly before and beside the man.

A second firebolt followed the first, and a third and a fourth.

Cerryl held his shields against the chaos steam, keeping it confined, trying to direct it toward the armed men even as he backed away from them, but they continued to advance.

He angled a gold lance light low—toward the leading man’s legs. It missed, but the second man jumped and crashed into the tunnel wall, staggering there for a moment, his shield low.

Whhhhsttt! Cerryl flared another lance of the golden light into the man’s exposed face.

“Aeei—” The choked scream died as the armsman clutched at his charred face and throat, then toppled slowly forward.

As he cast another firebolt at the sewer water, the young mage backed away from the first armsman.

The armsman rushed forward, then half-flung, half-pushed the iron shield at Cerryl, lifting the iron blade and scrambling the few remaining cubits between them.

With a calmness he did not feel, even as the heavy shield crashed into him, Cerryl loosed another firebolt.

The man plummeted forward, his body a charred mass.

Cerryl pushed away the heavy shield, conscious that he would have burns on his hands. In several places, his white tunic was charred from the impact of the iron.

He had to reach out and steady himself on the wall. His head ached, and his stomach churned, and he stood there, gasping, the darkness seeming to recede and flash toward him.

Finally, he straightened and began to walk toward the steps. Dientyr stood there.

“Ser?” The white lancer looked at the walkway.

“Where’s Ullan?”

“Ah . . . I don’t know, ser.”

Cerryl kept walking until he reached the steps, where he sat down in the pool of light cast from the grate opening above. He didn’t care if his whites were filthy. He needed to rest.

“Dientyr? Have someone get word to Myral . . . brigands in the sewer. They’re dead, but I’m supposed to let him know.”

“Yes, ser.”

Cerryl ignored the relief in the guard’s voice and the rapid scramble up the steps. He just kept trying to catch his breath. Was it that he’d thrown so much chaos in such a short time?

When he finally felt less shaky, he eased his way back up the tunnel slowly, looking through the darkness. But there was nothing left—except two partly charred figures, two iron shields and blades, and the smell of burned oil—and slime and sewage. Of Ullan there was no sign, either.

He turned back to the steps to wait for Myral.

Dientyr and another lancer preceded Myral down the steps. A messenger in blue followed.

“Cerryl?”

“I’m here. There’s nothing here except me—and the bodies.”

“Bodies?”

“Two armed men—I don’t know why.”

“Best we see.” With the guard leading the way, and the messenger trailing, the two walked the few dozen cubits to the scene of the attack.

“Two of them.” Myral studied the two forms—the mostly charred one and the partly uncharred one. His face hardened as he used the white-bronze knife in his hand to lift one of the shields, but his breath rasped heavily as he straightened.