hear the drumbeat hoofs of many other horses and see the dust rising beyond the hillcrest on the road from Lydiar-a good two kays east of the mill.
Another series of notes rose across the afternoon, and a company of lancers rode over the hill, moving at what seemed to Cerryl to be a fast trot. But he wouldn't have known one gait from another, except a walk from a full gallop.
His eyes went back to the single horse and rider.
The rider gestured toward them. “You two. One of you-you have it-you must help!” He spurred his mount, and the horse took another dozen steps, and then his leg seemed to give way. The rider half-fell, half-flung himself clear and staggered into a heap in the dusty road.
“Cerryl-there be trouble,” murmured Dylert. “Help me close the mill door, quick-like.”
Cerryl turned and ran to the door, pushing while Dylert pulled. When the long sliding door had but a cubit left to close, Dylert gestured to Cerryl. “Cerryl! Hurry and close the door on the finish barn, and stay inside! Be making sure you stay there. Understand?”
“Yes, ser.” Cerryl nodded and ran down the causeway to the finish lumber barn. He glanced over his shoulder.
The rider was rising to his feet, glancing back at the oncoming lancers.
Cerryl rugged the finish barn door, smaller than the one at the mill, until it was nearly closed, before slipping inside. His eyes went to the mill, its door closed, and then back to what he could see of the road, but all he could see was the rider, turning back toward the mill, drawing a blade.
The youth's lips tightened, and he pulled on the door, sliding it closed-almost. He left a sliver of space between the massive doorpost timber and the door itself, so little that no one could have seen without being right at the door. Then he watched, squinting through his peephole.
The dusty rider half-walked, half-staggered uphill, moving determinedly toward the mill, carrying a shimmering blade. His eyes flicked uphill, and Cerryl almost felt as though the rider sought him.
The man drew closer to the mill, less than two hundred cubits from where Cerryl hunched behind the door. He wore a belt scabbard, not a shoulder harness the way the demon women had or the way mercenaries supposedly did. His sleeveless tunic was stained and streaked with dust and dirt, as was the once-fine silk shirt beneath it, and even at a distance, Cerryl could see-or sense-that the fugitive's face was flushed and that a faint white glow surrounded him-like it cloaked the books from Cerryl's father.
The fugitive's eyes raked across the buildings and fixed on the finish barn. Abruptly, he turned as the drumming of hoofs rose again, nearer, and a score of lancers appeared, but a hundred cubits or so downhill from the single man.
All the lancers wore the cyan livery of Lydiar, except for the man riding beside the lancer officer who led the troop. The exception was a figure dressed entirely in white-a white mage.
Cerryl shivered but kept watching.
The lancer officer gestured, and the lancers reined up. Three lancers, bearing bows already strung, rode to the front of the column and drew arrows from their quivers with a fluidity that bespoke long practice.
The fugitive squared himself to face the archers. He raised a hand, and a small ball of fire arched from his fingertips toward the lancers.
Cerryl held his breath as the fire flared toward the Lydian lancers, yet none moved.
The white mage nodded, and simultaneously the fireball splattered I into fragments that fell short of the riders. A tuft of brown grass burst ! into flame, and then ashes.
For a moment, the shoulders of the blond man in the travel-stained clothes slumped; then he straightened and drew his blade, raising it to the late afternoon sun. The metal glistened as though it held the fires of the sun, even after he had lowered it to chest height. He faced the
Another series of notes rose across the afternoon, and a company of lancers rode over the hill, moving at what seemed to Cerryl to be a fast trot. But he wouldn't have known one gait from another, except a walk from a full gallop.
His eyes went back to the single horse and rider.
The rider gestured toward them. “You two. One of you-you have it-you must help!” He spurred his mount, and the horse took another dozen steps, and then his leg seemed to give way. The rider half-fell, half-flung himself clear and staggered into a heap in the dusty road.
“Cerryl-there be trouble,” murmured Dylert. “Help me close the mill door, quick-like.”
Cerryl turned and ran to the door, pushing while Dylert pulled. When the long sliding door had but a cubit left to close, Dylert gestured to Cerryl. “Cerryl! Hurry and close the door on the finish barn, and stay inside! Be making sure you stay there. Understand?”
“Yes, ser.” Cerryl nodded and ran down the causeway to the finish lumber barn. He glanced over his shoulder.
The rider was rising to his feet, glancing back at the oncoming lancers.
Cerryl rugged the finish barn door, smaller than the one at the mill, until it was nearly closed, before slipping inside. His eyes went to the mill, its door closed, and then back to what he could see of the road, but all he could see was the rider, turning back toward the mill, drawing a blade.
The youth's lips tightened, and he pulled on the door, sliding it closed-almost. He left a sliver of space between the massive doorpost timber and the door itself, so little that no one could have seen without being right at the door. Then he watched, squinting through his peephole.
The dusty rider half-walked, half-staggered uphill, moving determinedly toward the mill, carrying a shimmering blade. His eyes flicked uphill, and Cerryl almost felt as though the rider sought him.
The man drew closer to the mill, less than two hundred cubits from where Cerryl hunched behind the door. He wore a belt scabbard, not a shoulder harness the way the demon women had or the way mercenaries supposedly did. His sleeveless tunic was stained and streaked with dust and dirt, as was the once-fine silk shirt beneath it, and even at a distance, Cerryl could see-or sense-that the fugitive's face was flushed and that a faint white glow surrounded him-like it cloaked the books from Cerryl's father.
The fugitive's eyes raked across the buildings and fixed on the finish barn. Abruptly, he turned as the drumming of hoofs rose again, nearer, and a score of lancers appeared, but a hundred cubits or so downhill from the single man.
All the lancers wore the cyan livery of Lydiar, except for the man riding beside the lancer officer who led the troop. The exception was a figure dressed entirely in white-a white mage.
Cerryl shivered but kept watching.
The lancer officer gestured, and the lancers reined up. Three lancers, bearing bows already strung, rode to the front of the column and drew arrows from their quivers with a fluidity that bespoke long practice.
The fugitive squared himself to face the archers. He raised a hand, and a small ball of fire arched from his fingertips toward the lancers.
Cerryl held his breath as the fire flared toward the Lydian lancers, yet none moved.
The white mage nodded, and simultaneously the fireball splattered I into fragments that fell short of the riders. A tuft of brown grass burst ! into flame, and then ashes.
For a moment, the shoulders of the blond man in the travel-stained clothes slumped; then he straightened and drew his blade, raising it to the late afternoon sun. The metal glistened as though it held the fires of the sun, even after he had lowered it to chest height. He faced the
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