lancers, neither stepping back nor forward.
The lancer officer snapped an order, and the archers released their nocked arrows.
The fugitive's blade seemed to flash, and he stood untouched, two broken arrows lying by his feet, both somehow charred and snapped.
The lancer officer glanced at the white wizard. This time, the wizard raised his hand, and a larger fireball flared toward the blond man.
Once more the golden-fired blade flashed, and fragments of fire spewed around the fugitive. Cerryl could see a black slash across the back of the man's left arm. The man was breathing heavily but continued to hold his strange blade in the guard position.
Another firebolt flashed from the white wizard, parried by the blond man, and yet another firebolt. After the third firebolt, the fugitive barely could raise the sword.
Cerryl missed the order from the lancer officer, but arrows flew toward the blond man. The first arrow took the fugitive in the arm. A second missed, as did a third as he threw himself to the side, but his leg slipped on the gravel of the road.
As he fell, the man hurled the blade. It flashed white and gold as it spun hilt over point and into the low brush at the end of the meadow by the road.
Two firebolts flashed from the hands of the white wizard in succession, exploding over the body of the fallen man and rising into a pillar of flame.
When the fires receded, all that remained was an irregular star of blackened ground-no body, no ashes, just an odd-shaped star of soot. Soot and the odor of burned meat.
Cerryl leaned against the doorpost and swallowed hard to keep from gagging. By the time he had regained full control, the drumming of hoofbeats had died away, and the lane was empty. Even the dust over the road to Lydiar had begun to settle.
He slowly pushed the barn door open enough to slip out. Then he studied the lane and the road. The lancers-and the white mage-had indeed left on their return to Lydiar.
Slowly, Cerryl walked down the lane, avoiding the star-shaped patch of soot, until he reached the area where the dead man had thrown the blade. A faint glint of something tugged at his eyes, except that tug urged him to look away.
He fought the feeling and followed it to a deeper patch of grass. Gingerly, he picked up the blade by the hilt, a hilt of bronze, apparently wrapped in something like silk.
Cerryl studied the blade, noting that it was not iron or steel or anything like it, but more like the metal of the knife that had been his father's.
The sound of boots on the road alerted him, and he slipped the blade behind him as he turned.
Brental smiled. “You need not hide that blade, Cerryl. I see we had the same thought. You found it, and it be yours. Might I see it?”
After a moment, Cerryl extended the blade sideways, looking over Brental's shoulder as Dylert walked down the lane from the barn.
Brental took it, then squinted. “I can hardly see it. It twists your eyes right well away from it.” He shivered and quickly handed the blade back to Cerryl. “It be yours, if you wish it.”
Cerryl took the blade back.
Dylert nodded, as if to agree that the blade was Cerryl's.
Brental glanced past Cerryl, toward the Lydiar road, before speaking. “You saw the firebolt? The flame the poor fellow cast? Pity-poor chaos flame, too, it was.”
“Chaos flame?” blurted Cerryl.
“Aye,” answered Dylert. “The fellow with that blade there, he'd a been a renegade white-one who'd not follow their rules. Strict they be, about chaos and its use.” He looked hard at Cerryl. “Seen a handful over my years. A man has the talent and not be under their rules and protection, the white mages, they like as not kill or ruin a fellow ... and them's the lucky ones.” He shook his head slowly. “In their own way, they be fair, fairer than most dukes and the like. But a man should walk a fair
The lancer officer snapped an order, and the archers released their nocked arrows.
The fugitive's blade seemed to flash, and he stood untouched, two broken arrows lying by his feet, both somehow charred and snapped.
The lancer officer glanced at the white wizard. This time, the wizard raised his hand, and a larger fireball flared toward the blond man.
Once more the golden-fired blade flashed, and fragments of fire spewed around the fugitive. Cerryl could see a black slash across the back of the man's left arm. The man was breathing heavily but continued to hold his strange blade in the guard position.
Another firebolt flashed from the white wizard, parried by the blond man, and yet another firebolt. After the third firebolt, the fugitive barely could raise the sword.
Cerryl missed the order from the lancer officer, but arrows flew toward the blond man. The first arrow took the fugitive in the arm. A second missed, as did a third as he threw himself to the side, but his leg slipped on the gravel of the road.
As he fell, the man hurled the blade. It flashed white and gold as it spun hilt over point and into the low brush at the end of the meadow by the road.
Two firebolts flashed from the hands of the white wizard in succession, exploding over the body of the fallen man and rising into a pillar of flame.
When the fires receded, all that remained was an irregular star of blackened ground-no body, no ashes, just an odd-shaped star of soot. Soot and the odor of burned meat.
Cerryl leaned against the doorpost and swallowed hard to keep from gagging. By the time he had regained full control, the drumming of hoofbeats had died away, and the lane was empty. Even the dust over the road to Lydiar had begun to settle.
He slowly pushed the barn door open enough to slip out. Then he studied the lane and the road. The lancers-and the white mage-had indeed left on their return to Lydiar.
Slowly, Cerryl walked down the lane, avoiding the star-shaped patch of soot, until he reached the area where the dead man had thrown the blade. A faint glint of something tugged at his eyes, except that tug urged him to look away.
He fought the feeling and followed it to a deeper patch of grass. Gingerly, he picked up the blade by the hilt, a hilt of bronze, apparently wrapped in something like silk.
Cerryl studied the blade, noting that it was not iron or steel or anything like it, but more like the metal of the knife that had been his father's.
The sound of boots on the road alerted him, and he slipped the blade behind him as he turned.
Brental smiled. “You need not hide that blade, Cerryl. I see we had the same thought. You found it, and it be yours. Might I see it?”
After a moment, Cerryl extended the blade sideways, looking over Brental's shoulder as Dylert walked down the lane from the barn.
Brental took it, then squinted. “I can hardly see it. It twists your eyes right well away from it.” He shivered and quickly handed the blade back to Cerryl. “It be yours, if you wish it.”
Cerryl took the blade back.
Dylert nodded, as if to agree that the blade was Cerryl's.
Brental glanced past Cerryl, toward the Lydiar road, before speaking. “You saw the firebolt? The flame the poor fellow cast? Pity-poor chaos flame, too, it was.”
“Chaos flame?” blurted Cerryl.
“Aye,” answered Dylert. “The fellow with that blade there, he'd a been a renegade white-one who'd not follow their rules. Strict they be, about chaos and its use.” He looked hard at Cerryl. “Seen a handful over my years. A man has the talent and not be under their rules and protection, the white mages, they like as not kill or ruin a fellow ... and them's the lucky ones.” He shook his head slowly. “In their own way, they be fair, fairer than most dukes and the like. But a man should walk a fair
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