For friends, John, and their respective ladies,
and for Myra A. Daley, who knew
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
I am indebted to the following people for their assistance and information:
James Luceno, Myra Di Blasio, Linda Lionetti, and Major John C. Speedy of the
United States Military Academy, West Point
And to my editor, Mr. Lester del Rey, for generous measures of his patience,
prodding, guidance, candor, and encouragement; I owe thanks for whatever virtues
this book may possess.
A Del Key Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1979 by Brian Daley
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House,
Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada, Limited,
Toronto, Canada.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 78-61501
ISBN 0-345-30142-0
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: February 1979 Third Printing: June 1982
Cover art by Carl Lundgren
PARTI
Protocols of the Sword
Prologue
IN a narrow ring of light in unmeasured darkness stood the Accused.
His head was bowed, hands clasped together within long sleeves—flesh seeking its
own contact for reassurance, in vain. An arraignment in Shardishku-Salam£, these
proceedings were unconcerned with justice. Their function was retribution. The
Accused was aware of punishments available here; that was a form of punishment.
Yardiff Bey felt nothing change in the enormous Fane of the Masters. Yet between
one moment and the next he knew the attention of the Five was upon him. No
indication escaped to his face or posture, but in. a shielded cinderbox in his
soul, fears blew brighter.
He damped them down. Was he not first among sorcerers, subordinate only to the
Masters? Brief, awful elation fanned up his spine at the thought. In flying back
to Shardishku-Salama* in his demon-ship, Cloud Ruler: to plead before the
vindictive Lords of the City, Yardiff Bey had taken his greatest dare. He was hi
more hideous danger than most men could envision in wildest speculation.
A waitingness hung around him, and cruel, dispassionate curiostity. He'd always
exulted in the cold intellects of the Five, but now it was their displeasure
directed at him. The single beam of light glinted from the strange ocular that
was bound hi place where his left eye had once been. He sent a stem command
through every part of himself, physical and incorporeal: Be still!
He bowed deeply, unhurriedly. When bis voice came, it was impeccable in its calm
control.
"Masters, your servant has returned. Will he be heard?" He sensed mirthless
amusement. Did They
2
think he'd come on a fool's quest for mercy? There was a vast stirring somewhere
in the colossal temple.
Yardiff Bey was slammed to his knees, by no force he could see. Without his
will, his hands came up to rend the front of his robe, in mourning and
contrition.
"List us your failures," came a disembodied command, "and number your faults."
He was cast headlong on the cold floor, held as a doll beneath a man's boot
would be held, by the stacked, murderous weight of the will of the Masters of
Shardishku-Salama. He sobbed for breath that wouldn't come, and that weight
retreated the merest bit. He knew a meager flicker of triumph; he hadn't been
condemned out of hand, and so had the opportunity to say on. He brought his head
up a degree, neck trembling with effort.
"Waste not the tool," he strained, "before h mends its errors. Let me make my
reparations." He slumped again, drawing breath only with horrible exertion. He
felt, by tingling of images not quite seen on his inner eye, that the Five were
conferring.
The air was suddenly icy, carrying thick, infernal stenches. There was a new, an
overwhelming Presence in the Fane. The sorcerer recognized its awesome savagery.
His patron, Amon, a chief among demons, had come, after ignoring all previous
pleas. Before Amon, even the Masters were silent, deferential in their
intangible, unmistakable way.
When the demon spoke, words lashing like whips, the walls of the huge Fane shook
in the lightlessness.
"More vainglorious plans, unworthy one? Are my agents in Salami to be twice
fools, and trust you a second time?" Amon asked. "List me your failures. You had
the whole of Coramonde hi your grasp. Your puppet-son was enthroned over the
most important country in the Crescent Lands. You had the rightful Heir
Springbuck trapped, along with the wizard Andre deCourteney and his enchantress
sister Gabrielle. How was all that dashed asunder?**
Yardiff Bey groped for response. "I—I sent the dragon Chaffinch against them, oh
Lord. He should have slaughtered them easily. But they had with them the alien
Van Duyn . . ."
3
He faltered for a way to tell it. "You know there are other universes, mighty
Amon, Realities sprouting from alternatives, like leaves from a tree. Van Duyn
is from another, and from it he and the deCourteneys plucked soldiers, and a
metal war-machine to slay Chaffinch.**
"Your first failure," thundered the demon. "Masters of Shardishfcu-Salamd,
witness it now!"
Yardiff Bey's senses jolted, as Amon conjured up those events again . . .
Through the eyes of Ibn-al-Yed, mask-slave to Yardiff Bey, they saw the castle
where Springbuck, the deCourteneys and their little band were at bay. Ibn-al-Yed
had only to keep them confined until the sorcerer sent the dragon Chaffinch.
But there was a disturbance in the air, a pushing-apart of the boundaries
between worlds. A lumbering, drab-green vehicle came roaring into the meadow.
From it a man emerged, confusion manifest on his face, some odd black implement
cradled under his arm.
It was, in certainty, a trick of the deCourteneys. The Druid who'd accompanied
Ibn-al-Yed called up an air elemental, to undo it. But as the were-wind ripped
at him, the stranger brought up his implement. There were bright, stuttering
explosions. Druid and horse toppled, dead, pierced with holefr by the
otherworldly weapon.
Ibn-al-Yed backed his horse away hi shock and confusion. Yardiff Bey, his
Masters and dread Amon looked back through time, at the indecision in the
newcomer's features. He wiped his forehead once, quickly, on an olive-colored
sleeve. Over his left breast pocket were cryptic letters no one there could
decipher: us ARMY. Over the right was another strip of characters, whose meaning
they would come to know: MACDONALD.
Through the eyes of the late Ibn-al-Yed, the sorcerer watched that early
disruption of his careful design. The image receded, Amon summoned up another .
..
There was revelry in Hell.
The metal war vehicle had killed Chaffinch, but events had left Gabrielle
deCourteney in the hands of Yardiff Bey. It was an occasion of tremendous
importance, enormous success. In Amon's mansion on the in-
4
fernal plane, the demon's votaries writhed, ecstatic, to insane music.
Without warning the cyclopean doors burst apart in a shower of wooden splinters
and metal fragments. The armored personnel carrier revved down the center of the
room, treads chewing stone, engine bellowing above the din.
The machine's weapons cut loose, flashing ruin in all directions. Gunfire, as
Yardiff Bey was to hear it called later. The fugitive Prince Springbuck
appeared, and Andre deCourteney. Gabrielle was rescued, as explosions and
gunfire purged the chamber. Yardiff Bey had to flee, as Amon was humiliated by
mad invasion.
The sorcerer quivered, experiencing it again. No one had affronted great Amon
that way in an eternity. Now a last image . . .
Yardiff Bey sat in his own sanctum, high in the palace-fortress at Earthfast,
laboring at a spell against the intruder, MacDonald, whose interference had
persisted. Gil MacDonald of the bizarre innovations, unpredictable deceptions
and unlooked-for influence, had thrown Bey's equations out of kilter.
With this invocation, sapping MacDonald's soul from his body, Yardiff Bey would
remedy that. But he began to meet odd resistance; his enchantments were warped
and subverted. There was howling from his supernatural
servants.
An armed company appeared where the outlander's naked soul should have cringed.
Springbuck, Andre deCourteney, Van Duyn and MacDonald himself, whole, were among
them. In seconds the palace-fortress was filled with fighting and dying, crash
of alien weapons, curses of combatants and belling of sword strokes. Yardiff Bey
made his escape by a barest margin aboard his flying vessel Cloud Ruler. He'd
lost, in minutes, his iron grip on Coramonde.
The taste of that catastrophe denied his mouth once more. Then Amon let the
retelling fade.
First among sorcerers, once the Hand of Shardishku-Salama*, Bey felt his breath
heaving with terror and resentment.
"And all of that you will set right?" came the demon's challenge, on a
sepulchral wind. The sorcerer
5
raised himself to hands and knees with quaking hope. But his response held only
firm conviction.
"I swear it! I have come back because I am needed. There approaches the time of
greatest effort, but greatest risk also. Let me play my part hi the Masters*
mighty labor, Dark Father, as I was meant to!"
He couldn't hear the current of thoughts that passed among them. Amon's sawtooth
voice came again. "I see what is in your thoughts, for they are open to me. Your
Masters' might waxes plentiful now, but will be diverted more and more into the
enchantment they forge as time goes on. They must work undisturbed, and though
the chance of hindrance is slim, yet it must be eliminated. Begin your work,
search out that last source of peril. But be warned: your Masters and I, and my
terrible Overlord, are engaged hi other struggles, other enterprises. You must
be self-reliant, or be swallowed up in that final Night we shall found."
Then Amon was gone, between one heartbeat and another.
The ring of light began to move, to lead the sorcerer back out of the Fane. He
lurched at first, drunk on the enormity of it but his stride soon became surer,
stronger, with his incredible good fortune. Raw power swelled hun, of magic and
personal force.
Yardiff Bey's feet were set once more, on the thrill-path of conquest
Chapter One
What are MacDonald's antecedents, after all? Dropout, drifter, product of
popular-culture eclecticism. His sole sustained adult endeavor revolved around a
war that estranged him from his society. An absurd background for a young man
caught up in meta-eventst
from EDWARD VAN DUYN'S personal journal, The Infinite Parallax
TIRED, he chose not to sleep. Too often lately, he'd awakened hi saturating
sweat from tremulations of the soul.
Gil MacDonald sat without lamp or candle, before the dying embers of the
hearthfire in his room. In them, he saw racing horsemen and swords malting-
hornet-darts of light in the night. On a night filled with just those things,
his lover had died.
He raised his right hand, the one that had held the Lady Duskwind's as her wound
had stolen her from him by inches. He drew it across his eyes, to wipe away
memory; his thoughts could seldom go far from her.
He'd been snatched into Coramonde, with his crew and their armored personnel
carrier, by wizardry. After they'd been returned to their own Reality, he alone
had chosen to come back. He hadn't counted on falling hi love. In love, he'd
never thought he might lose Dusk-wind so cruelly. Bereft of her, he found his
remaining desires condensed, embittered.
He'd come back to the palace-fortress at Earthfast only that evening. For weeks
he'd combed the Dark Rampart range, west of Earthfast, with an entire Legion of
Coramonde. It had been rumored that Yardiff Bey
7
kept his flying ship Cloud Ruler concealed there prior to his rise to power and
subsequent overthrow.
Gil hadn't turned up a thing, not a whiff. Worn thin, short on the sleep he
resisted these days and determined to find the sorcerer, he'd balked at the Ku-
Mor-Ma?* urgent request that he go back to Earthf ast. When he'd finally
arrived, he'd found that Springbuck was closeted with some visiting big shot
He'd immediately gone off to be by himself.
A soft knock came at the door. Gil's hand dipped inside his loosened gambeson,
fishing out the Browning automatic. He padded to the door, the clammy stone
making his bare feet clench. The knock came again, discreet rapping a servant
would use. Nevertheless, he stood to one side of the bolted door, cocking the
pistol.
"Yeah?"
.    **Sir, the Ku-Mor-Mcd craves your presence with an haste. He has tidings of
import which you must needs
hear." ** 'Craves my presence,'w Gil muttered. "Okay, tell
him rm coming, be right along.**
He wondered why Springbuck would want conversation hi the middle of the night.
He sat on his wide, empty bed, sighing and pulling his boots on. A new thought
made him pause. Maybe Springbuck had picked up on something about Bey?
His sword, byrnie and other gear he left on the floor, in a burst of enthusiasm
born of enmity.
Springbuck, Protector-Suzerain of Coramonde—Ku-Mor-Mai, in the Old Tongue—had
been up late with affairs of state, hi his comfortable study. Its curtains were
fastened across high windows, and a fire crackled in the hearth. Burnished lamps
of brass and crystal lit it warmly, and thick furs and pelts were strewn on the
floor.
He'd no sooner finished conferring with the envoy of the Mariners when his
seneschal had announced Van Duyn and the Princess Katya. He*d had them admitted
at once. Duty, spent from days of hard riding, they'd told their story, their
grave words interweaving.
Now Van Duyn, former Senior Fellow of the Grossen Institute for Advanced
Studies, niter-universal traveler
8
and self-exile from his own Reality, ran a hand through disheveled gray hair,
adjusting gold-rimmed glasses with the other. His heavy M-l, that otherworldly
weapon, rested against the arm of his chair. For his help in the thronal war,
Springbuck had granted the scholar stewardship over an impoverished collection
of city-states, the Highlands Province, in the northwestern corner of Coramonde.
The Princess Katya, who'd become enamored of the alien, had gone with him, to
watch him apply his peculiar theories of government and organization. Van Duyn
had made impressive progress in his few months there, but now the province was
abandoned, its few survivors scattered.
"It can't be anyone's fault but mine," the outlander was saying. "The local
commander, Roguespur, pleaded for more men, arms, patrols and fortifications.
But I needed men for improvement projects, and iron and smiths for plows and
equipment, and the border's been quiet for years. I knew the Druids were said to
be there, but those were old tales." He shook his head. "I should have listened
to them. I should have remembered—"
Katya put a pale hand on his. Her long, white-blonde hair swung around her with
the gesture. Springbuck recalled the sobriquet given her hi her own nation of
Freegate—"the Snow Leopardess."
"Edward, how can you blame yourself?" she remonstrated. "No sword or spear laid
waste to the Highlands Province, and none could have saved it. When magic comes,
only magic can countervail it,"
Springbuck pursued the point. "You're certain it was the Druids?"
The Snow Leopardess affirmed it. "Their spells haven't been seen hi living
memory, at least not on this ride of the mountains. Yet, from whence else would
come that magic of polar winds and an ice-elemental?"
Van Duyn concurred wearily. "When those clouds came down out of the mountains,
we went from late summer to midwinter in minutes. No clothes or fire could
protect us against that cold. When the ice-demon followed behind, nothing could
withstand it. No one who got near it lived. I saw men shatter like icicles. All
we could do was run for our lives.*' He remembered the
9
gallop, frozen grass shattering wider their horses* hooves like filaments of
glass, the air filled with a cold of such awful purity that each breath was
torment and the reflex of breathing contested with the pain of the lungs and
throat. The ice-elemental, liberated from some absolute-zero corner of Hell,
continued to prowl the province for victims. And those who fell behind never
caught up.
**Toward dawn, we passed out of the frozen zone," Katya went on. "We tried to
return the next day, but it was beyond us, unendurable. Twill demand the
deCourteneys' arts, I avow, to alter the situation back
there."
Springbuck avoided their eyes noncommittally. "Other ears must hear this. Will
you both withdraw to private chambers and take refreshment? Katya, your brother
is in Earthfast. He'll want to see you at once, I know."
"Reacher is here? What brings him?"
**Several matters. He, too, has news. Many reports have come to me in recent
weeks. Reacher will join you presently, as you dine."
When they left, Springbuck called for a council, then thrust aside the addenda
for his latest Restoration Edicts and found himself staring at his sabre Bar,
the sword called Never Blunted, which hung over the mantel.
Ga MacDonald, whom he summoned, entered in obvious haste. Unannounced and
unaccompanied, as they both preferred it, the other alien slid into a chair. The
Ku-Mar-Mcd contemplated his friend.
The former sergeant's face was clean-shaven, his hair trimmed short. It gave
prominence to the dark smear of powderburn on his cheek, the scar on his
forehead. He'd gotten both in the throne room at Earthfast, when Springbuck had
won his crown by rite of combat.
"Now what?*' the American asked. He listened to these latest developments,
sitting forward on his straight-backed chair, hoping to hear what he wanted so
badly.
"That's gotta be it," he posited. "Bey's there, in the north, coming at us with
his Druids." He hitched him-
10
self around eagerly. "How far did they come? We'll let Bey in far enough and
whap!, the deCourteneys take a crack at him."
"You are less cautious than you once were," Springbuck observed.
"Huh? Look, I never said we shouldn't watch out. But this is Bey, man, Bey!"
"And you were certain he would be hi the Dark Rampart range, remember? Before
that, it was the far eastern provinces you wished to search, where he used to
have many supporters—"
"And he wasn't there; I know! This deal though, this is the real item. Hell, the
Druids used to work for Bey; isn't that what you told me? So why are we spinning
our wheels? When do we move out?"
"Not yet, in truth. There are other factors."
Gil bristled. "Yardiff Bey arranged your folks' deaths, didn't he? Yeah, and
Duskwind's, and that of how many others? And he snatched our pal Dunstan, and
still has him, am I right? So what's gotten into you, saying 'take a break'?"
Springbuck stretched hi his cumbersome robes to ease himself and measure his
reply. Slightly shorter than average, with dark tones of skin and hair, he
betrayed a fencer's sinuosity even when seated. As usual, he'd foregone the
crown he seldom wore outside his Court. The corners of his eyes creased from
time to time; he was nearsighted, part of the reason he liked to parley in his
study.
The Ku-Mor-Mai owed the American a great deal, not the least of which was his
life. There -was substance to what Gil had said, too. Yardiff Bey was the
creator of such suffering, pain and misery that his capture demanded high
priority. And the sorcerer's being at large posed a threat to all the Crescent
Lands, Coramonde in particular.
"Our situation is less secure now," he told the other. "My reign is being
resisted in many quarters of the suzerainty. The military units upon which I may
depend are spread in tenuous array. There are those who liked my predecessor far
better than they do me. And there are partisans, irregulars from the late war,
who have no
11
love of the commands of Earthfast. In some areas all authority has been swept
away."
Gil understood, and berated himself for his own hard words, recognizing that his
temper seemed more difficult to curb these days. In Coramonde, men sided with
neighbors or relatives and obeyed their immediate superior, bound by oaths and
honor to their liege, hetman, Legion-Marshal or whomever. Fealty to a remote,
central monarch was less concrete. When local leaders came into contention, it
was difficult for the Ku-Mor-Maa. to settle things from the palace-fortress.
Coramonde had known a number of wars arising from such squabbles, when the
Legions had been sent in.
"There have been assassinations," Springbuck continued, "and defiance, unrest
throughout the suzerainty. I will speak to you my secret fear: open revolt is
not far beneath the surface. There have already been armed clashes, little short
of rebellion. And here am I, with my reliable troops taxed to maintain order,
deployed too thinly. Whether I can hold the center in this stress or not, and
let things fly apart, is more hi question every day."
Springbuck was in desperate need of dependable units and Gil had kept an entire
Legion busy with his hunt, but the American could feel only guilty apprehension.
His anxiety was that the young Ku-Mor-Mai would ask him to shelve the search for
Bey.
Their talk was interrupted by people summoned to the council, taking seats at an
oval table of gleaming spruce.
There was Ferrian, once Champion-at-arms of the Horseblooded, his long hair worn
hi the high horsetail his people favored; and Van Duyn and Karya, just returned,
with Katya's brother, the King of Freegate, Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach.
Readier was only a few inches over five feet, but broad-shouldered and long-
legged for that. His hair was shades darker than Katya's, his eyes not such a
lambent violet as hers. He wore fine mesh armor washed with gold for this state
visit, but chafed hi it He'd been raised on the High Ranges among fleet-footed
hunters, used to their sparse attire and their weapons, the cestus
12
and claw-glove. He was undefeated hi battle, armed or unarmed, preternaturally
strong and fast. In exchanging greetings, he showed special enthusiasm for
Ferrian, an old companion. Katya's arm was draped around her brother's neck
affectionately.
Gil waved and said hello, but didn't go to them. He and Van Duyn had no
particular liking for each other. Van Duyn considered the younger man
irritating; Gil thought his countryman too dour.
Last to get there was Andre deCourteney, the wizard who'd done so much to
counter Yardiff Bey. He merited esteem from all enemies of Shardishku-SaJarna.
He was squat, balding, with a blue stubble on his heavy jowls. His arms and
hands were matted with wiry black hair; stray curls escaped his collar to lie at
his throat. He wore yeoman's breeches and tunic, resembling a teamster rather
than a renowned wizard. The pudgy face was open and pleasant, though, and people
had always trusted what they saw there.
"My sister Gabrielle could not be found," he explained, "and Lord Hightower
seems also unavailable. All others are here, I think."
Springbuck had Van Duyn and the Snow Leopardess retell the devastation of the
Highlands Province. Concern came into each mien. Questions were posed. Gil, out
of turn, argued, "We're wasting time. Only Andre and Gabrielle can go head-to-
head against Bey and those Druids."
Andre looked surprised. "I do not believe Bey is there, though I am sure I am
intended to think so.M Gil's expression grew chillier. "You are correct, I
agree, in reasoning that Bey fostered the attack. But with the Hand of Salama>
you must never make those distressing leaps to conclusion. Ask, rather, 'Where
is the deception here, where the trap?' " He smiled, barely. "I, too, learned
that by harsh experience."
Gil had been overly irritated at the wizard. He reasserted self-control,
wondering, Whafs wrong with me? His temper subdued, he said, "Okay then, let's
hear it**
The wizard shook his head, jowls jiggling. "I have no theory, except that
Yardiff Bey would like to see my sister and me go north with this." He pulled a
chain from his tunic. Suspended from it was a gemstone of
13
changing colors in a silver setting, the mystic jewel Cal-undronius, one of the
deCourteneys* prime instruments. In close proximity, it negated all magic,
dispersing all
spells.
"It would please the Hand of SalamaY* Andre averred, "to see us take this into
contest with the Druids, but my thought is for alternatives. Where will Bey
strike hi the meantime?"
It was, surprisingly, Reacher who answered. He didn't often utter opinions,
preferring to listen, reserving comments in a shy way. Famous for cunning and
prowess, he was uneasy hi groups of people.
But he got to his feet now, working mailed shoulders automatically. He wasn't
used to the confinements of civilized attire.
Reacher cleared his throat self-consciously. "We hi Freegate also feel
encroachments of SalamaY' he stated softly. "Horsemen from the distant South
wastelands harry and pillage, a virtual war. I am convinced they are instigated
by the Masters, in the City of Sorcery." "Why does everyone equate Bey with
SalamaT' Van Duyn interposed. "Surely he fell from grace with the Masters?"
"He was the supreme operative of the Five,'* Andre answered. "Their best and
shrewdest lieutenant. It is barely conceivable, but he could have won their
amnesty."
Reacher shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. *% too, think our woes
stem from Salami," he finished, and sat down immediately.
The door opened again, and Gabrielle deCourteney entered. As famous for her
beauty as her sorcery, she bore scant resemblance to her younger brother. Her
white skin was flawless, her hair amazingly red, thick and heavy. She met then-
glances with eyes green as emeralds, her brows high-swept like gull's wings, her
age unguessable.
She wore a gown of brown Glyffan satin, of becoming folds and gatherings, belted
with a cord of woven copper. She settled herself next to the Ku-Mor-Moa. His
eyes stayed with her for a moment; he marveled, that this woman was his
paramour.
The others were waiting. Springbuck reassembled his 14
stream of thought. "There are other reports gathered here," he concluded, "which
you may examine. Cora-monde's troubles, too, smack of outside influence. There
is a final point."
He motioned to his aide, Captain Brodur, who rose and left. "An envoy from the
Mariners came to me. I invited him to set it forth to you all."
Brodur re-entered with a tall, thickset man whose hair and beard hung in black,
gleaming ringlets. His cloak was flowing, wine-red velvet, stylishly cut and
vented. His beaded slippers were of finest Teebran leather, but a broad,
businesslike cutlass hung at his sash.
Brodur announced, "I present Gale-Baiter, Captain of Mariners." The man made a
minute bow. Face composed, he delivered his message, careful to keep emotion
from it.
"Not long past, the Mariners declined to partake of your war on Yardiff Bey. Our
Prince did not deem it wise, intruding in affairs of Landsmen.
"Now, war has sought us out. One of our two great Citadels is Citadel no more.
It was laid waste to, its sea wall crushed, people massacred, homes destroyed.
Fair vessels and sailormen lie at the bottom. Our maritime nation is cut by a
fourth part, our safe berthings by half. We sifted the ashes, and know our
enemies are the Southwastelanders, who serve Shardishku-SalamiL
"So we have put aside trade, fishnets and tally sheets, to take up the cutlass
and the torch. What help we may render you against the Masters, you shall have.
We mean to see all enemies swept from the sea, nothing less."
The Ku-Mar-Mcd thanked Gale-Baiter. Brodur escorted him out. Conversations
around the table were subdued, more lip movement than sound. Van Duyn, who'd
expected reinforcements for the Highlands Province, saw that things would not go
that way.
When Brodur came back, Lord Hightower was with hun. Gil happened to be looking
their way, noticing that the aide held himself stiffly, without expression.
Hightower lowered himself into the chair reserved for him. He was of heroic
frame, deep-chested, thick-armed. His dense beard and long mustachios and hair
15
were white with age, hanging like snow on a mountain against his black hauberk.
At his side was his great-sword, bigger than any other man would presume to
carry, but they'd seen him ply it like a rapier. Past his eightieth year, he was
the last pureblood of a gifted line. Like his ancestors, he'd been permitted to
go into his age with undiminished vitality. He inclined his head to the Ku-Mor-
Med.
Springbuck welcomed him formally, then ticked off salient points of the meeting
on his fingers. "The Druids and their wildmen are in our northernmost regions;
Freegate is beset by raids and depredations; the Mariners have suffered the
worst defeat in their history. Combat flares too, I am told, away in Vegand, at
the southern tip of the Crescent Lands, but of that we ken little."
Katya said, "If you are leading to war against Salamd, it would be no easy
undertaking. And will not our enemies consume our lands hi our absence?"
"That is precisely why these attacks occur, I should say," Andre stated, "and
why we must plan to send our vengeance south. Do you take it that Salami simply
wants new territory, or a few more subjects? I do not. They contrive to make it
dangerous for us to prosecute war against them, for one motive. They need time.
They have some design of their own, that brooks no interference. They give us
our own preoccupations, so our alliance is pulled into fragments. Thus, they
insure an uninterrupted span for themselves."
Katya inquired, "To what end?"
"I cannot divine its nature yet," the wizard shot back, **but something is
taking shape in that dire city, of more peril than all these other incursions.
The Masters decreed this screen, hiding larger danger in the south; in
Shardishku-Salaml"
"The people of Coramonde—those who still support me—will want more proof than
that," Springbuck said dubiously.
Andre responded carefully. "It is my hope and belief that they shall have
confirmation, plain and unmistakable, in the correct moment. Other forces are in
conflict here besides mere nations."
Readier, head hung in thought, made up his mind. 16
"Andre deCourteney is the font of wisdom hi opposing Bey and his Masters. Let us
plan hi concert our response to the strife he promises.**
"Tomorrow,** Springbuck concurred, "we begin.*' He grinned. "And there is one
more pronouncement In times as precarious as these, it has been the custom of
the Ku-Mor-Mcti to select a Warlord. For first officer in all matters military,
I advance Hightower as Warlord over Coramonde, his authority issuing directly
from my own."
The old man sputtered thanks. "Honeyed words are not my aptitude. My gratitude I
will evince by service.** He reddened at their applause.
The session ended. Gil avoided talking to the Ku-Mor-Mcd., sore at himself for
time wasted looking for Bey. That his temper had become so fragile worried him;
he didn't want to discuss errors.
Fenian of the Horseblooded stopped him in the corridor. The burly, one-time
Champion-at-anns had made a remarkable recovery from the wound, suffered in the
fight for the throne room, that had cost him his right arm. He was more inward-
turning now. He beckoned Gil aside and pointed to where Captain Brodur took
notes from Springbuck's instructions. "Do you know him?"
"Uh, he's the guy who used to be one of—** Her name came with difficulty, even
now. "One of Dusk-wind's agents, right? Tried to help her save Springbuck, back
when Bey was going to have him killed?"
"Aye, and knows the palace-fortress and the city, and can tell you who reported
to Bey, and carried out his commands. You are so intent on locating the sorcerer
that Fd wondered if you shouldn't speak to him."
Gil checked the idea over, scratching the dark smear of powderburn on his cheek
absentmindedly. "Good thinking. Not here though; Springbuck's already had enough
of my Bey-hunt."
"Brodur drills at the fields every morning, at about the sixth hour. That would,
perhaps, be the place."
"Got it." He yawned, jaw cracking. Things were moving again; maybe he could
sleep. "I'm headed back for the rack. See you tomorrow."
He'd taken less than four steps when a hulking form 17
blocked his way, hissing loudly. The thing, nearly seven feet tall, was
reptilian, covered with a thick, green-scaled hide. Knifelike fangs curved from
its jaws, and its heavy tail was encased in caudal armor of spikes and sharp-
edged flanges. At its back was slung a greatsword even larger than Hightower's.
Gil goggled, then composed himself, "Oh, hey, Kisst-Haa. Hi."
The reptile-man's fearsome head dipped once in reply; he had no speech but his
own sibilant tongue. Gil had forgotten that Kisst-Haa was hi Earthfast, having
come along on the raid on the throne room. That must be one of the reasons
Readier had come, the American concluded—to take his faithful bodyguard home
with him.
Reacher*s keen ears had picked out Kisst-Haa's hiss. The King appeared, Van Duyn
and the Snow Leopardess with him. It occurred to Gil, eyeing the reptile-man
more closely, that the thing that made him more human than animal was his eyes.
They were manlike, expressive, with whites, yellow irises and tiny dots of
pupil. But it was weird to see the diminutive Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach
trade glad hugs with the monster, who rumbled happily.
Gil shook hands perfunctorily with Van Duyn, clasped forearms with Katya, then
with her brother. Reacher became grave. "Duskwind was given every honor," he
assured Gil, "and her ashes lie with her family's. Her kinsmen wished you to
know that—"
The American broke away, shaking his head. "No, Reacher. It's fine, I'm sure,
whatever, but no more, please." He brushed past Kisst-Haa. "I have to go. Got an
early date on the drill field."
The next morning, he put on soft, close-fitting blouse and pants and his
Browning. He also strapped on the sword left behind by his friend Dunstan the
Berserker, who'd been abducted by Yardiff Bey. Just like the Froggy gain'
cowtirf, he thought, settling the weapons. Reacher had inadvertently evoked a
ghost, and Gil had only salvaged a few hours' sleep.
18
Knights and other fighting men sweated and strained in rigorous rehearsal.
They'd left their finery at home, using older armor and accouterments for
practice.
They swung swords at pells, tilted at quintains, hurled javelins, launched
arrows, hefted axes. They feinted slyly with knives and toppled each other with
dented shields. Dust rose, feet shuffled; man-nets were cast, like sinews of
clouds, to bag or miss their quarry. There were wounds and other injuries,
mostly among overzealous younger men.
Gil spotted Ferrian to one side, a distant look in his eyes. Gil bad seen the
rugged Horseblooded fight like a devil during the raid on the throne room. Now
he stood apart, longing to be among the warriors again.
Ferrian noticed him, eyeing the Browning in its shoulder holster, and the sword
of Dunstan. "Why bear a blade, when you have that, ah, gun?"
Gil resettled the holster. "See, there aren't many rounds left for it, or the
Mauser either. High-speed nine-millimeter ammo doesn't grow on trees; I'd better
be ready when the last shot goes."
Fenian, not much older than the American but a veteran of uncounted duels,
agreed wryly, "Wisdom indeed."
"Where's Brodur?"
"I was just watching him. See there, yes, where men are come together to fence
with light blades in the new fashion? Brodur is there, in gray hose."
"Got hun now. Who's he talking to there, Gale-whatshisname?"
"Gale-Baiter, the Mariner envoy, yes. The seaman has been dueling, with lesser
opponents for the most part, and wagering heavily. Brodur*s decided to try his
luck. He is quite the betting man himself, you know; he insists no respectable
gentleman can live on his pay alone."
Gale-Baiter was bigger, burlier than a fencer should be, whipping a heavy
cavalry rapier through the air, expounding swardcraft. Brodur, long hair braided
and fastened out of his way, paid close heed. He was compact, had a short-
cropped beard and was smooth in movement.
19
The two observers couldn't hear what was being said—some difference of opinion
over a fine point. With swords at hand, the theoretical discussion didn't last
long. Gil could picture it, some lofty remark like, "Sir, if you are so very
accomplished, you would perhaps vouchsafe a demonstration?"
Bets were going down right and left as the two squared off. Four judges were
selected, and a president of the match, from the onlookers. The contestants
placed themselves on the piste, held up dulled swords in their right hands to
salute, and began.
They felt one another out, their dialogue of blades sporadic. Brodur showed an
inclination to retreat, so Gale-Baiter tried a sudden fleche. Brodur, with less
skill than Gil would have expected from a money fencer, managed a firm, blocking
parry-in-retreat. But he failed to advance into an attack. He didn't seem to be
toying with the Mariner or taking it easy, but in the next few moments the envoy
pressed him sharply. The bigger man carried Brodur's blade from a high line to a
low in bind, barely failing to hit in opposition to the blade.
The interplay became more rapid. Gale-Baiter indulged in flourishes, stamping
his foot, striking Brodur's weapon with repeated beats and calling for him to
come, fence boldly, show heart. Brodur stayed calm, counterattacked, and the
jury followed the action along the piste. The younger man was quick, but not as
confident as he should have been. Gale-Baiter began using vigorous stop- and
time-thrusts. Brodur made a false attack and his lunge drew the Mariner out hi
parry-riposte. Brodur parried, hit on the counter-riposte so quickly that Gil
missed it. Both judges watching Gale-Baiter spotted it, though. The president
analyzed the phrase and gave the match to Brodur.
Fenian and Gil went over. Gale-Baiter was disputing the decision. "Cams, sir,"
he blustered to the president, "did you not see the man cover his target-parts
with his shoulder? What swordsmanship is in that?"
The president, a dignified master-of-arms, held himself rigidly. "There was no
covering, my Lord. We but officiated the duel as we saw it fought, well and
fairly." The Mariner flushed. He whirled on Brodur, who
20
was toweling his face. "You, sir; admit it! You touched me lucky, and not within
the rules. Let us see who's best two times out of three!"
Brodur regarded the Mariner with a grin. "Bee pardon, mv Lord Envoy, but shall
we go from there to three of five? T should be delighted to teach you how it is
done, but alas, I lack the time." He extended his palm. "Mv winnings, please."
Interesting shade of heliotrope, thought Gil, watching Gale-Baiter's face.
"Pestilence take vour money, Brodur! You fight only for eold. then1' Would it
interest you if the bet were tenfold9 Or did vou beat me by guile and luck
alone? Or are you afraid?"
Brodur balled his hands, compressing the towel. "If I beat you once, my Lord, I
can do it twice. A man who can ignore your jigging and squawking could beat you
every time and, if I may say so, with either hand."
"So? Done! Jury to their places, please. Tenfold's the bet, and if you can
defeat me with either hand, let me see you do it with your left."
Brodur looked around embarrassedly, a sense of error in his face. He stepped
hesitantly to his end of the piste, taking his sword in his left hand.
"I thought Brodur was a sharpie," Gil said to Fenian.
The big Horseblooded laughed. "Nay, now, you are always and ever the one for
private jests, eh? This time you must wait."
Gale-Baiter and Brodur crossed points again. This time there was little
hesitation. The Mariner advanced confidently, saying, "Now 7 shall instruct
you!"
Brodur stopped the attack with a perfect stop-thrust, easily avoiding the
double-hit. Gale-Baiter tried for a bind. Brodur passed his point underneath the
envoy's with surgical precision and met him with arm extended, point still in
line. Gale-Baiter elected to retreat out of fencing distance, to ascertain just
what was happening to him. Brodur attacked-in-advance into scoring range,
pressed, and hit punctually on the redoublement, one fluid moment.
Neither man bothered to glance at the judges. Brodur lowered his weapon. Gale-
Baiter held his up for a mo-
21
ment, staring at the younger man. Then, with a snort, he took his blade through
an exacting salute. He motioned to two men at the sideline, his attendants. One
was a red-bearded bear of a man, the other an apple-cheeked little guy with
sandy curls. The smaller one dashed to hand Brodur a jingling purse. Gale-
Baiter, spinning his heel, left without a word. Gil stopped the aide.
"I heard you used to work for the Lady Duskwind."
Captain Brodur eyed him for a moment. "That is essentially correct. How is it of
interest to you?"
"Do you still have contacts in the city? I want to know about Yardiff Bey, where
he is and how I can get to him."
"A hazardous line of inquiry."
"Didn't ask you that.'* He realized he was being brusque again.
Brodur smiled knowingly. "Vengeance has spurs with sharpest rowels, has it not?
Very well, meet me at the Arborway at the tenth hour this evening." Taking his
cloak, he left
Watching him go, Gil said, "All right, Ferrian, cut me loose. What was the big
joke?'*
The Horseblooded laughed, full and loud. "Brodur, you see, is left-handed. He
fought Gale-Baiter with his right to build his confidence and bump him to higher
stakes for the left-handed match, a sure wager."
The American guffawed. Shaking his head at the departing Brodur, he declared,
"Now that, Ferrian, is what you call a hustler."
Chapter Two
Thou shall not swear falsely, but fulfill thy oaths.
St. Matthew Chapter 5, verse 33
GIL used up the brass-bright afternoon and coral evening prowling Kee-Amaine,
the city spread at the feet of the palace-fortress. He liked hanging out,
voluntarily lost, hi Kee-Amaine's fabulous, twilight labyrinth of a bazaar. He
browsed guardedly past the glitter of copper utensils and stained-glass
lanterns, bolts of rich sUks .and bales of prize furs, the sparkle of jeweled
hilts and the gunt of blue steel blades. There was the omnipresent clink of
vigilantly counted coins and pay-tokens. The place smelled of cheap incense,
avaricious sweat, rare perfumes, old dung, hundreds of pungent foods, and
unhappy livestock of every species.
He kept the heel of his left hand conspicuously on the pommel of his sword. It
was a more certain insurance against trouble than his pistol; few people here
would have heard of firearms, much less been able to recognize one, but all knew
cold steel well. It was a simple, utilitarian blade, belonging to his friend
Duns tan the Berserker. The American was determined that its owner would have it
again.
The confused uproar in the bazaar was constant. Each vendor had a song or call,
and bartering was animated, almost theatrical. Voices and chatter here
interested him. People in the Crescent Lands spoke more rapidly, more vividly
than he was used to. Theirs was a verbal culture, and this, very much, a world
of the ear and the spoken word.
He sampled a skewer of grease-popping cubed meat. He found it—like many foods
here—so highly spiced
23
I that it brought tears. Lacking preservatives, people fought gamey flavor with
a tongue-searing array of seasonings.
He eventually threaded his way through the bazaar to the Arborway, main path
through the rambling commons known as the Tarryinground. Trees of many kinds
arched above, a corridor of the diverse hues and textures of leaves and bark.
At the entrance he met Brodur, just after the tenth hour had resounded. "You
received my message?" the captain asked.
"Yes. I've got the money; I grubbed it off Springbuck."
"Good. The man we want is to meet us in a taproom, the White Tern. I thought a
walk there might be salutary. Too, I shall have to know more in order to be of
assistance to you. Any dealing concerned with Yardiff Bey must be presumed to
have its pitfalls."
Brodur, who wore a hooded cloak, held up a broad-brimmed hat. "I took the
liberty of selecting this for you, apropos of our excursion. The man we go to
see was in the throne room the night you and Springbuck and the others invaded
it. May I point out that the brim can be tilted quite low across the face?"
Gil's respect for Brodur increased. They set off, their way among the strollers
lit by flaming cressets.
Gil began, "When Yardiff Bey bugged out in that airship of his, he had Dunstan
prisoner. I think Bey*ll hang onto him as a hedge or hostage, or for
interrogation." Their boots crunched over the gravel path as he thought out his
next words. "Thing is, I've got this feeling Dun-stan's alive, y'know? So I have
to find Bey to spring Dunstan."
Brodur glanced sidelong at him. "Pardon my saying this, but you are said to
harbor another reason as well. It is rumored you require vengeance."
Gil stopped and faced Brodur. "You knew her too, right?"
"Gil MacDonald, I conspired with the Lady Dusk-wind. I served her, held her in
highest regard and in some measure, I tell you, she was dear to me." "I'm not
sure what you're getting at, here." "That I, too, want requittal for gentle
Duskwind's 24
death. I shall advance your purpose and abet you hi whatever manner you may
need. Whatever manner. I trust I make myself clear?"
"Shake." They clasped hands, then resumed their way.
At the end of the Arborway a fountain played hi the glare of torches. There were
wide playing fields, where children charged back and forth in giggling games of
chase-ball, hampered by darkness. Others played a new favorite, "the Game of
Springbuck," re-enacting the Ku-Mor-MaFs flight and eventual return. Gil could
see their bright clothes intermittently, like Chinese kites on a night breeze.
Farther along, adults congregated to chat, see and be seen, or just linger. Food
and drink were sold, but no other paying enterprise was permitted except
entertainment. Beyond, in a meadow, musicians at the foot of a statue of
Springbuck's father Surehand mingled notes, accompanied occasionally by voices
lifted HI song. Off to one side a puppet show was hi progress.
They passed through groves of trees onto a greensward. Public speakers were free
to address matters of conviction or caprice here, an acclaimed innovation of
Springbuck's, but several pikemen were stationed nearby to squelch the brawls
that often ignited from impassioned debate.
Skirting a quiet lake with a tiny, exquisite chapel of the Bright Mistress on
its rim, they came to another access path, and left the commons for what Gil
knew was a raunchy section of the city, Lowlintel Road.
Lighting was sparser, buildings more tightly packed. There were enclaves crowded
together, of people from the many subdominions of polyglot Coramonde. Here, no
bedding was aired on balconies by day, nor washing hung out at night, for fear
of theft Both loosened swords in their scabbards. Gil made sure his cloak didn't
impede access to the Browning.
There were loiterers, usually outside a hell-raising tavern or dimly lit house
with a red wreath on its door and women beckoning from the windows.
They came to the White Tern. Its ulterior was a scene of faded charms; beautiful
starmolding around the door had been allowed to crack and chip away and the
25
rushes serving as a floor hadn't been changed recently. Ceiling, rafters and
tiny roundel windows were all coated with greasy smoke. Odors reported too many
people, too close, over much too long a time. There was a sweetish thickness in
the air. Gil knew it for the scent of the drug Earnai, the Dreamdrowse.
Boisterous arguments vied with harsh laughter. An arm-wrestling match between a
Teebran archer and an Alebowrenian bravo spurred rabid rooting and wagering. Gil
trailed Brodur into the snug at the back, and they took a booth.
Candles guttered low; customers were solo and silent A harassed-looking girl
brushed a lock of limp hair from her eyes and took their order, a toss of brandy
for Brodur, jack of beer for the American. The aide made an elaborate ceremony
of inhaling the brandy, eyes closed. Gil just drank.
The captain got back to then* errand. "The man is called Wintereye. He is an
Oathbreaker, stripped of sword and status, but I knew him hi the days of his
prosperity. Now he roots out his living as best he may. While Bey was hi power
he often—M
A man had come to their booth. He was unkempt; a stale stink drifting from him.
His eyes darted nervously, reconning the room. At the captain's invitation he
seated himself next to Brodur, refusing a drink. He kept his head lowered,
disheveled hair hiding his face.
"I am glad to see you, Wintereye,," said the aide. "It is some space of time
since last we met You are slimmer now but tired, I venture.'*
Wintereye lifted his gaze. His cheek was branded with a stylized Faith Cup,
broken at the stem, stigma of the Oathbreaker. The man scowled.
"These days, Captain Brodur, living's lean and skittish. In fact, you may know
someone who can use this?** From some inner fold of his ragged shirt his left
hand brought a pellet the size of a pea, of a waxy, kneaded material. Gil
noticed Wintereye wore odd tubes of painted leather on his fingertips.
"Finest Eamai from the sooth, and at a reasonable price. No? What makes two
gallants deny the Dream-drowse? Life is sweet but ah, visions sweeter still!
Open the Doors that lie Between; here is the Key that unlocks
26
fastnesses of the mind. With it, you'll see inward, and Beyond, and find your
Answers."
Brodur refused a second time. "As you will," Winter-eye surrendered. "The
Dreamdrowse always comes to him for whom it is destined." He left the
Dreamdrowse conspicuously on the table.
"Permit me to present my associate,** Brodur went on. The American tilted his
hat brim lower. "My associate's name has no importance, but he is interested in
where he might reasonably seek a former employer of yours."
Wintereye thought a moment. "There are few things, very few, worse than the life
I lead, yet one is the enmity of Yardiff Bey."
"Ah, money could take you even beyond the reach of the Hand of Salama."
Wintereye shuddered. "Nothing can take a man that far!"
Brodur showed his teeth, his suave mask dropping. **You once drank a Faith Cup
with Springbuck's father. Then you betrayed the son, would have murdered him,
given the chance."
He caught Wintereye's right forearm and held it up. The hand had been lopped
off, its wrist bound in leather. "I convinced the Ku-Mor-Mcd you were not worth
executing, traitor. Others were impaled and hung outside the Iron Hook Gate for
less." The angry captain released the arm. "The hour is too late for you to
begin protecting your trusts, Wintereye."
It drove home to Gil just how serious oathbreaking was. In a world with few
written contracts a man was, quite literally, only as good as his word. A
violation of that word placed on him a mark no decent person would wear.
Wintereye, with missing hand and branded cheek, would never know honest
companions, and was ejected from the profession of arms forever. His face
twitched with anger.
Gil looked away, and noticed a bulky man, face cowled and hidden like Brodur's,
enter the snug. The man seated himself, scanning the room.
Wintereye, glowering at Brodur, asked, "You have money?" Gil brought out the
wallet of coins Springbuck had given him without inquiring how the American
27
would use it. Brodur had his hand on his sword, insuring that Wintereye wouldn't
bolt. But when the informer had tucked his fee inside his tattered shirt, he set
his forearms on the table and leaned forward.
"Now, as to my master Yardiff Bey—" He stopped suddenly, lurching at Brodur,
catching the aide's sword-hand. His accomplice must have stolen up very softly;
a leering face and a burlap-wrapped arm and torso appeared around the edge of
the high-backed bench. The man swung a heavy cudgel at Gil.
The American's reflexes were good. If he hadn't been so intent on Wintereye, he
might have dodged. But he only managed to avoid having his head bashed open. The
heavy, knotted cudgel connected glancingly with his outside shoulder, his right.
He screamed in anguish and his arm went numb. The man tried to close on him, but
Gil dragged himself farther into the booth. Whipping his drinking jack at his
attacker, he got his legs up to fend him off, clawing futilery with his left
hand for the Browning that hung beneath his left armpit.
Brodur broke Wintereye's desperate grip and would have thrown him aside and
swept his sword free, but the back room of the White Tern sprouted more enemies.
Most of the patrons, wanting no part of it, stampeded for the doors, but four
others rushed into the fight with daggers and clubs. Three swarmed up behind
Wintereye at Brodur, who had just time to snatch his own dagger. Wintereye
seized the dagger hand, beating the captain with his wrist, but inadvertently
shielded him from the rest
There was more movement, this time from the front wail. The hooded man whom Gil
had noticed entering barreled into the fray, cutlass held high. Gfl squirmed to
avoid another blow, keeping his assailant at bay with kicking feet The cudgel
battered his thigh. Next thing, his opponent dropped to the floor, holding his
side hi a spreading pool of blood. His mouth appeared to work and strain, but no
sound came.
One of the attackers reached around Wintereye, and slashed. His aim was off; the
blade plowed along the flesh of Brodur*s upper chest, stopped by the collarbone
with a nauseating grate. Gil got the Browning with his left hand. Extending it
across the table, he fired point-
28
blank at the informer. In the confinement of the booth, the report was more
concussion than sound, slamming deafness. Brain tissue and bone chips exploded
in a mist of blood. Wintereye crashed hard against the back of the bench and
fell across the table, a hideous exit hole in his skull. His other cheek,
covering the candle, snuffed it
The assassins fell back, yowling. The smell of gunpowder replaced all others in
the snug. Gil wriggled into a sitting position and swung the muzzle to bear on
the man who had stabbed Brodur. His left hand and pistol shook badly. The first
shot had rung a world of silence down around him. With effort, he locked his
elbow steady and shot the man, as Brodur tried to clasp his gushing wound
together with his hands. The second shot battered Gil's ears and began an acute
ache. The man flew backward in a heap, a burbling puncture in his chest
Gil managed to thrust his useless right hand into his shirtfront, crouching to
hold it there, then slid from the booth. A thought occurred to him, and he
groped around the darkened space, searching.
Brodur, in shock, was being helped to his feet by then- benefactor, whose hood
had fallen back. A dark beard of oiled ringlets glistened. It was Gale-Baiter,
envoy of the Mariners. He supported the captain as Gil stumbled after. None of
the other attackers remained. The door swung lazily on rawhide hinges.
The front room of the White Tern was empty. Gil thought dazedly that he'd never
gotten more mileage out of two rounds. Gale-Baiter's coach was waiting outside.
The driver and footman had gotten down to help. Gil recognized them from the
drill field, the towering red-beard and the little guy, the envoy's attendants.
They hoisted Brodur into the coach; all boarded and clattered away quickly.
Gale-Baiter banged the roof of the carriage with the basket hilt of his cutlass.
"Skewerskean, rot you, don't jostle this biscuit box around! This is a wounded
man hi here!" The ride steadied. Gil had scarcely been able to hear the command,
his ears pounded so.
"Wound's not too serious," Gale-Baiter decided, 29
which, Gil supposed, only meant Brodur wouldn't die right away.
"You want to tell me about your being here just now?" the American hollered over
the rumble of the coach and his own deafness. The automatic was still hi his
hand.
"I was trailing this fella here. I thought I had a right to call hun out, after
the way he did me this morning, but the Ku-Mor-Mcd frowns on dueling inside the
city anymore. I reckoned it that we could re-examine the outcome of the match,
hun and me. Still, I could not very well watch the pair of you laid by the heels
and carved up, could I now?"
Gil reflected that Gale-Baiter could very well have done just that; lots of
people would have. The envoy brought a liquor flask from beneath his seat
cushion. He gave Brodur a sip, then he and Gil each took a swig. It was thick,
cordial-tasting stuff Gil wouldn't ordinarily have liked, but welcomed now.
Gilbert A,, old son, he told himself, Brodur was right. Bey sure hasn't lost his
touch.
Brodur was holding his wound, teeth gritted, clinging to consciousness. Gale-
Baiter slipped his scarf off, help-ing stop the seeping blood. It was decided
the aide must go to Earthfast, where Springbuck's physicians could treat him.
"Sony am I," husked Brodur, "that Yardiff Bey's control still extends so far. We
wasted your silver and you are no farther toward the Hand of Salami."
"Don't bet on that." Gil tucked the pistol away, carefully retaining the pellet
of Earnai he'd snatched from the booth with two fingers, just before leaving the
snug. He held the Dreamdrowse up to the fitful light of torches and cressets as
the coach tore along.
"No, don't be too sure of that at all."
30
Chapter Three
So much the rather thou celestial light Shine inward, and the mind through all
her powers Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse,
that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight.
John Milton
Paradise Lost, Book HI
GABRIELLE deCourteney had been installed hi lush rooms, luxury appropriate to
the sovereign's mistress and a pre-eminent sorceress.
The knock surprised her. Springbuck had said he'd be occupied with counsels, and
would see her at breakfast. Her handmaiden opened the door and Gil Mac-Donald
stepped in, right arm in a sling, a limp in his stride. Gabrielle inspected him
coldly; there'd never been much liking between them.
"Can I talk to you alone? Please."
Dismissing the handmaiden, she curtly invited him to sit. "Have you had an
accident? You have seen the cbi-rurgeons?"
He skirted her questions. "IT1 be okay. The arm's numb, and my hook shot's
ruined, but Fm bound up tight, and it'll do."
Gabrielle wore a gown of softest white kid, embroidered in the flowery,
intricate Teebran style. Masses of red curls tumbled around her shoulders, and
the deep, green eyes held him. He'd always felt jumpy around her. Her aloofness
knocked him off stride; she was too good at manipulating people.
He told her what had happened, words tumbling over each other, up to where he'd
left Brodur sitting propped
31
up in bed, wound sutured closed, puffing on an old, deep-bowled pipe, out of
danger. Gil finished by holding up the waxy bead of Earnai. Soliciting his
permission with a lift of an eyebrow, she took the Dream-drowse, and held it up
to a candle.
"Why me? Why not Springbuck or Andre?"
"Springbuck's preoccupied and—no offense—your brother's too cautious. He might
not go for what I've got in mind."
"And I?"
He hesitated. "I figure you'll try anything that sounds interesting. That's the
way you strike me." She didn't reply. He knew he'd have to say it all without
prompting; that much she would demand.
"I was sitting in the White Tern, thinking about what Wintereye was saying. I'm
running around Coramonde like a monkey in a hardware store. You have to
understand, I was brought up to go from 'one' to 'two' to 'and so on.' You've
got necromancy and tiromancy and all those other 'mancies, but I always steered
clear of 'em. But this Earnai, it was like it found me. I thought maybe I could
tap in on whatever, uh, insights I can unlock." He made a vague gesture, hand
dropping to the chair arm. "I want in on those Doors Between and Beyond. I need
the mystical connection. I want to perceive things a different way."
She scrutinized him coolly. It was, she thought, a decision that could as easily
have come from desperation as from reason. "Do you think you would find Dunstan?
Or Yardiff Bey?"
He shrugged. "I've seen you do things a million times weirder. At one time or
another, I've believed in nuclear fusion and Virgin Birth, but I never saw
either one. I admit possibilities. Look, we've never been great pals, but I
thought it might intrigue you."
She rose and glided from the room. He waited. In a moment she returned with a
tarot deck. She held the Earnai up to the candle again and smiled. "And I
thought this would be an idle evening. Come."
She led him to an inner chamber, furbished to suit her, not a sanctum, but a
personal place of solitude. The carpet was deep; the door seemed to shut
airtight She'd arranged lamps, shades and mirrors to decorate
32
with illuminated and shadowed spaces. Gil found himself studying unidentifiable
knickknacks, paintings, and objects that might be musical instruments or,
equally likely, rococo mobile sculptures. Or something utterly else. Nobody
really knew how old she was. What might a finely alert mind, living for
centuries, light upon as curious?
"There are many forms of Earnai." She brought out a tiny brazier carved from a
block of onyx, its basin no larger than a teacup. She lit a flame beneath it.
"It comes from the heart of a plant found throughout the southern reaches, did
you know that? Some Southwaste-landers call it 'mah6nn,' which means 'rescue.'
Among others it is 'k'nual, the visitor.' It is, in different places and climes,
'Vision Flower,' 'God-call,' and 'the Passageway.' But it takes a measure of art
to use it safely. A single mote of the pure substance would slay you, me, and
anyone else in the room. It must be diluted, it must be handled carefully, like
a cunning beast. It is used in countless ways, you see. Effects depend on
concentration and combination."
She dropped the pellet into the brazier. Thin ribbons of smoke curled up into
the air. "It can be a euohoric, or make you giddy. It can banish pain or render
the strongest man unconscious. It has been used in aphrodisiacs, and
inquisitor's compounds."
At her invitation, they arranged themselves on thick pillows on opposite sides
of a low table of old, pleasant-feeling mahogany. "That pellet, that is a thing
of the south, but the Horseblooded sometimes use it. Did Wintereye wear thimbles
or coverings on his fingertips? Ah, then he worked it from the pure himself. The
Dream-drowse is mingled with one of the noropianics. Its color and inner
striations are good, its odor untainted, perfect for what you have in mind. Have
you ever experienced the Other Sides?"
Not certain what she meant, he kept it to the issue at hand. "Guess not. Do we
stick our heads over it, catch it in a bag, or what?"
"What do you taste?"
He rolled his tongue experimentally. "Musk. A little tartlike, I think."
"Dreamdrowse. It entered your pores, and your
33
blood has carried it to your tongue already." She put the tarot deck down
precisely between them. Her fingers stroked and patted the deck slowly, renewing
old ties.
Perhaps the Dreamdrowse was working, or the events of the night had exhausted
his restraint. On impulse, he clapped his hand down on the deck before she could
take it up. She withheld her objections, recognizing inspiration. Gabrielle had
no qualms about subordinating ceremony to revelation.
In a motion he never questioned, he fanned the cards out, faces down, an arc
from one side of the table to the other. She said nothing, but her green eyes
flashed at him again.
He let his hand rove the deck. He felt warmth rising against his palm, and
picked up the card from which it radiated. She took it gently.
"The Ace of Swords. Hmm." She laid it before him. On it, a hand emerging from a
cloud held a greatsword encircled by a crown. In the background, tongues of
flame blazed in the sky like a firmament. Every feature screamed possible
interpretations at him. He sensed an outpouring from himself toward the tarot. A
small part of him saw its resemblance to the regimental crest of his old outfit,
the 32d.
Gabrielle whispered piercingly, "Your card—it is yours now—says 'All power to
the extremes!* Dare to seize your moment, the prize, the victory. Card of
conquest, of excess in love and hatred, love of haunting intensity, but also
hatred of terrible immutability.
"Reversed, it takes on other connotations, proliferation and increase, variety
and, perhaps, tragedy. But you pulled this tarot yourself and I cannot tell
which message is intended. You are not meant to know yet, Gil MacDonald. There
are things especially pertinent to the Ace of Swords; the glow on a lover's
face, and blood on a steel blade."
The tarot rose through his senses. Gabrielle's voice was a narrative faculty for
it. He opened himself to it. It enveloped him.
Then there were quick images, like a slide show. An enormous fortification
spread before him on a level
34
plain facing a gray, wind-chased sea. It stretched in grim angles and martial
tessellations. It was, he intuited, a repository of fear.
From far away, words drifted to him.
Forget the fear.
There is no /ear,
And the fear was gone. The American almost identified the voice, but the scene
shifted. Another view, of a dark, vaulted ceiling in a dank, subterranean room.
It was lit by banked fires. There was the creak and clash of equipment of
torture. In a white-hot universe of agony, the voice returned.
Reject the pain.
There is no pain.
The anguish retreated. Gil knew it as Dunstan's voice, and tried to call, but
had no voice of his own in the eerie pseudo-world of the Ace. He sensed cruel
bindings against wronged flesh. The words persisted.
Banish restraint.
There is no restraint.
But there was a note of doubt to it. The restraint didn't disappear.
A last vision came, of a fluttering banner. Its device was a flaming wheel, half
black, half white, on a black-and-white field, so that each half of the wheel
was against the opposite color. Then the world faded before his eyes.
He was at Gabrielle's table, had never left it. She watched him with an attitude
very much like pity. From stellar distances he heard her say, "You are no
thaumaturge, yet rarely, rarely have I seen the Cards do that for anyone. The
Sudden Enlightenment, it was. We are very much alike, you and I."
His eyes were still drifting. His brain overloaded with speculation, mystical
synapses, cognitive spasm-shocks. Ideas strobing in his head left tantalizing
residues of after-image.
But one fact was manifest. He knew whose banner he'd seen through Dunstan's
eyes, without himself ever having seen or heard of it before. Gabrielle watched
the lips form a single word under vacant, murderous eyes.
Bey.
35
Springbuck was alone in his cavernous throne room, without crown or pageantry,
steps clacking hollowly. '
It was the first time he'd ever been in the chamber without anyone else. He
could feel echoes of the past pressing in; it was for that reason he'd come. He
saw the darker spot on the floor where, months before, the younger Hightower,
the old hero's son, had been beheaded by the ogre Archog. Peering hard to
accommodate weak vision, he could see places where Gil's and Van Duyn's shots
had blasted chips of stone from the walls.
He climbed the dais where he and Strongblade had fought. In the ornate wood of
the throne was a deep penetration where the Ku-Mor-Mai had left his knife when
he'd chosen to face the usurper with only his sword Bar.
There was a bare spot where Strongblade's portrait had been. Throughout
Earthfast and the city, statues, paintings, busts and plaques of him had, hi
fear or anger, been unceremoniously removed. Traditionalists had wanted to
strike the name from history; Springbuck had forbidden that. Strongblade's name,
deeds and fate would be an infamous lesson for posterity.
Gil entered, the only person besides Gabrielle and Hightower whom the door
warders would let interrupt the Ku-Mor-Mai's musings. He saw that the young
monarch was lost in introspection. "Hey, I could catch you later."
"No, come in. I hungered for early-morning silence before the day's obligations.
They are bringing Midwis before me today, a thorny problem, one of the Legjon-
Marshals who went against me. He's been decorated half a hundred times, and his
battle standard's heavy with ribbons of valor. His family's influential as well,
and at the very last he renounced the conspiracy. I can neither deny him some
measure of clemency, nor let him go unpunished. A twisty dilemma."
"You'll think of something."
"May it be so. Tonight will be little less busy. A famous poet will be here.
Court will be crowded and last late." He sat on the top step of the dais. "Gil,
do you remember Freegate, in my exile? Readier brought in that prestigious
harper, but you and Duskwind were
36
tipsy. You insisted the poor man come with the two of you to the kitchens, and
teach the scullions to dance? What music was that?"
"A slide. A Kerry slide."
"Oh yes, slide." Springbuck chuckled. "The courtiers were quite astonished."
"Yeah, but Katya liked it. And it was the only time I ever saw Readier dance."
Gil, too, chortled.
"And in the end, didn't that harper add it to his repertoire? Aha, and offer you
both places with his company?" He burst into mirth again.
Gil sobered, nodding to himself, speaking so the other could hardly hear. "We
had ourselves some times, then."
He went up the dais and plopped down on the throne, one leg dangling
nonchalantly over its arm. Springbuck was no longer shocked at such irreverence.
"Gil, I should like to hear your version of what happened last night with
Brodur. He's mending nicely, by the way."
Recounting the incident at the White Tern and the stance, the other became
strained and brittle. There was anger, curbed violence, just beneath the surface
of him. As he spoke, he felt with his forefinger the scar on his forehead.
When he'd heard it all, Springbuck said, "A foolish idea. You could have died,
you idiot!"
"Sue me. I just tried for a lead on Bey. How was I supposed to know we'd be set
up?"
"I did not mean going to the White Tern, though that was no stroke of genius
either. I meant using the Dreamdrowse. It could easily have been poisoned; Bey's
traps are subtletv itself."
"Gabe would have spotted it if it had been a hotshot Besides, I figure it was
worth it."
"Ah, marvelous epitaph! 'He figured it was worth it* Splendid!"
"Hey, take it easy. Don't be such a hardcase," There was a tray of food and a
pitcher set out on a small table. Gil poured them each a stone mug of lager.
"Here, put some money in your meter. What I did doesn't matter. Bey does." He
drew breath for the big question. "How many men can you spare me?"
37
Springbuck took a long bowie knife from beneath Ms robes and toyed with it. It
had been a gift from Gil, a genuine Hibben, and had left that mark in the wood
of the throne.
"Have you considered this hi detail?" he finally
asked.
"What's to consider? I got through to Dunstan. Gabe felt it too. She thinks he's
at a place called Death's Hold, an old hangout of Bey's." He pointed vaguely
southwest. "It's thataway, on the coast of the Outer Sea. I'm going. Do I get
men, or not?"
Springbuck put the tips of his fingers together and pressed them to his lips. He
avoided the American's glance, racked between commitment to his friend and duty
to the suzerainty.
He spoke into the little steeple of fingers, resenting what he must say. "Had I
left that Legion under ypu, when first you returned from the Dark Rampart, you
would have taken it back into the mountains, would you not? Hearing Van Duyn's
news, you'd have had us all depart for the Highlands Province, is that not true
also? But this morning you are of the persuasion that Death's Hold is the place.
Gil, my very hold on Coramonde is in jeopardy. Subject-states threaten to fall,
not one by one but in rows. Where you would have been wrong the first time, and
the second, how can you ask me to squander a Legion I need so badly? Every man
under arms is crucial." He faltered, then met the American's glare. "Had you not
returned with that Legion when you did, Td have dispatched orders to its
Marshal." .
Gil whitened, the scar and powderbura standing out vividly. "AH right,
Coramonde's in trouble; so are you. Where do you think it's coming from? Bey,
where else? Nail him and you settle all your hassles right there and then. Are
you too dumb to see we have to get him for
your sake too?"
"Which Yardiff Bey?" the Ku-Mor-Mai shouted back. "The one in the Dark Rampart?
In the Highlands Province? Death's Hold? I dare not be prodigal with what loyal
units are left me. If you were in command you'd say the same."
The American lost hold of his bitterness. "You're going to do nothing while Bey
and his people chip away
38
at you? When are you going to learn to take the first swing? Are you scared to
go after him for a change?" Both knew they were on their way to irrevocable
words. Springbuck was first to avert it.
"Yes, I am afraid. I fear for Coramonde, and myself as well. Everything I ever
learned about the sorcerer makes me wary. He can do more damage with a lie than
most men could with a regiment at their back. He draws out that ductile
gullibility in all of us. You've deceived him, because you used tricks of war
altogether new here, but he never makes the same error twice. Never. I am afraid
this fresh spoor is one more trick. There are uncounted lives hinging on this; I
cannot divert Coramonde's remaining manpower, not on such tenuous grounds."
Gil,1 too, pulled back, ashamed. The Ku-Mor-Mai was right; in his place Gil
would have been just as cautious; the man in charge had to be. He scratched his
cheek, and thought.
"Springbuck, I'm sorry. You had it straight, I had it garbled. I never meant
you're, y'know, a coward." He sat down alongside the other. They knocked mugs.
"It's funny about Dunstan, he was so full of contradictions. He'd be so placid,
introverted really, until he flew into one of those berserkergangs. I took it
into my head that somehow he was like a key to the Crescent Lands; if I could
understand him, it would clarify everything for me here. And when he began
hanging out with us, when he'd learned how to laugh, I felt this Chinese
Obligation."
Gil drew himself back to the present. "Springbuck, it was so clear, Dunstan in
Death's Hold. You'd have believed it too."
The son of Surehand shook his head. "I believe you as much as myself. I trust
not my own senses either, where the Hand of Salami is involved. What's needed is
proof."
Gil jumped up, pacing the thick carpet. "Proof? All right, now we're clicking.
You want hard evidence, I'll get it"
He broke off. "Do you still think you'll have to go south, against Shardishku-
Salama?"
39
"I am uncertain. The question is whether or not I will be able to. Coramonde's
upheavals continue."
"But if we take Bey out of the picture, it'll take pressure off you."
"Past all question.**
"So when I find Bey, be set to move fast. The next problem's how to get to
Death's Hold. What's the normal route?"
The Ku-Mor-Mai rubbed his jaw. "Most trading fell off during the thronal war,
but the Western Tangent is open. I would be dubious of traveling with merchant
convoys, though; insecure. An alternative suggests itself. You might go south
with Andre deCourteney."
"Andre? Why's Andre going south?"
"To bring the sword Blazetongue back to its rightful owner, as I told you he
would. He insists Blazetongue has important consequences in the struggle against
Salami. He and a small party are leaving within days."
"How many?"
"A minimal number. He, too, knows no men can be spared, but requires few. There
are a number of borders between here and Vegana, where he's going. Foreign
governments would respect Coramonde's letter of transit, but they're hardly
likely to permit a large armed force to enter then- territories. Andre wants no
regular soldiers; he could not take enough to guarantee safety, only enough to
insure conspicuousness."
Gil had missed that angle. He saw now that any large group would make travel
harder. "Smart. But would Andre go out of his way and check out Death's Hold?"
"Not before he delivers Blazetongue. He is adamant But he is as eager to break
and hinder Bey as you are. If you accompany him, he will probably be more than
ready to investigate Death's Hold afterward."
Gil sorted it out. If he couldn't use a large escort, the next best thing was
Andre deCourteney. No one in the Crescent Lands had a more formidable
constellation of skills and experience.
"Okay, quit shoveling. It's a deal. Where's Andre? I'll give him the pitch."
Andre deCourteney had appropriated Yardiff Bey's abandoned sanctum sanctorum, at
the summit of Earth-40
fast, to examine its contents and learn what he could from them. He still hadn't
replaced the door that had been bent back on its hinges by the reptile-man
Kisst-Haa.
Gil knocked on the frame, and went in to find the wizard at a puzzling piece of
apparatus. The American sat on a bench to watch. The room was filled with jars,
bottles, scrolls, astrolabes and star charts. Blazetongue, the huge onetime
Sword of the Ku-Mor-Mai, rested against the bench.
"I have plumbed a riddle here, I think," Andre said, "but it has generated
another. Behold."
He lit a flame under each of two retorts. The liquids hi them boiled, one
forming a yellow gas, the other a red. Opening two petcocks, he let them blend.
A faint orange mist rose from a nozzle at the top of the equipment.
"Now, see," He held a piece of parchment into the orange flow. It was old, with
a ragged edge as if it had been ripped from a book.
Andre fanned the sheet in the orange vapor, which began to peel a covering from
the parchment in flakes. Soon there was a little snowdrift of them on the work-
table, and a page-within-a-page was revealed. Andre held it up proudly. Gil
politely applauded.
"Andre, I thought science projects are Van Duyn's line."
"This is of interest to me because it was important to Yardiff Bey.*' He held up
the binding from which the page had come. It was richly embossed, encircled by a
wide metallic strip. A thick, raised seal was impressed on the strip, filled
with runes and sigils, hi wax the color of burgundy. Bey had apparently removed
the pages somehow without disturbing it
"This is the cover from Rydolomo's Arrivals Macabre" Andre explained. "It
survived the Great Blow. There are not more than two or three copies in
existence; Rydolomo was an arch-mage and premier thinker. Bey is, by
appearances, under the impression Rydolomo left some in one of his books. The
sorcerer circumvented its guardian seal somehow."
The page he held was blank, but Gil understood. 41
Somewhere, a book of Rydolomo's had something Bey coveted, hidden within.
A servant appeared at the door frame. Andre went, and accepted a blanket-wrapped
bundle. It was a baby, a chubby girl.
"Recognize her? She's the one we brought back from the Infernal Plane, the one
the demon Amon had been holding."
Gil inspected her from a distance, not used to children. Andre began tickling
and chucking her under the chin, making senseless, happy sounds. "Isn't she the
charmer? Oh, come on, Gil; say something to her."
"Goo," offered the American solemnly. "Why's she here?"
"Readier brought her from Freegate. I believe she's tied in with all this, the
endeavors of Bey and the Masters. I wanted her here while I go through Yardiff
Bey's things, to see if there are correlations." He put her in a makeshift
bassinet, a dry-sink. "But now, what brings you up here?"
Gil jabbed a thumb at Blazetongue. It was a long, imperial-looking weapon, its
blade chased with inscriptions and enchantment. "I've been elected. I'm going to
Death's Hold, but first I'm going with you to Vegana."
"Your company will be welcome; we share common goals beside Vegana. As to
Blazetongue, there are some things I could tell, and one thing for certain I
cannot. I do not have the spell that makes the blade bum, as Bey and Strongblade
did."
"Well, Springbuck told me the rest. Too bad; that would be a handy trick to
have." His eye fell on Arrivals Macabre.
"Delivering Blazetongue is a job that has wanted doing for a long time," the
wizard assured him. He went back to playing with the child, chuckling at her
giggles,
"Your sister and I both think Bey is in Death's Hold. Arc you interested in
seeing?"
"After delivering Blazetongue? Hmm, yes, if evidence points to it. First, I must
think it through. Speaking of the Hand of Salama, Bey's sword Dirge is there on
the chest."
Gil spied it, a shorter sword than Blazetongue, with a vicious, runcinate blade.
The sorcerer had dropped it in
42
his fight with Dunstan. Terrible properties were attributed to it. It occurred
to Gil that it might be linked to Bey's magic; weapons and owners had strange
affinities here.
Andre was still fussing over the baby. Gil picked up the binder of Arrivals
Macabre, feeling its ancient weight.
"Andre, do you think we'll find Bey?"
The wizard didn't turn. He bounced the child, answering, "You will have your
moment with Bey. The hatred is mutual, and in both your destinies."
Hearing it cut Gil to the bone. His hand closed angrily on the binder. The rough
edges of the seal rested under his fingertips.
"What kind of crack's that, Andre?" His nails had detected a slight give hi the
seal's edge. Unthinkingly, framing bis next words, he dug at it. The outermost
corner gave way with a minute pop, but Andre somehow heard.
The wizard spun, consternation on his face, shouting "No!"
Gil was blown back off the bench with enormous force by something that had
suddenly come into the room. He twisted to avoid landing on his injured side,
but was still jarred by shooting pain. He sat up awkwardly to a hair-raising
scene, with those feelings so characteristic of his Coramonde experience, utter
astonishment mixed with stark terror.
Between Andre and Gil a ball of swirling transplen-dcnce hung, a miniature sun.
Andre had taken in the situation—which Gil hadn't sorted out yet—and acted.
Putting the baby back in the dry-sink he began mystic passes, uttering words
from a dead language. As he did, he backed away, deliberately shoving the dry-
sink toward the door with his legs and plump buttocks, wishing he hadn't left
the occult jewel Calundronius with his sister.
Gil found time to think, He's such a Homey little guy, balding and fat. You
forget he's the man of action.
Andre's spell had been hasty or incomplete. The entity sizzled, and lashed out
at him, knocking him sideways. The baby began wailing, attracting the thing's
attention. It floated in that direction.
43
Gfl grabbed for his pistol, then stopped. It wasn't likely to do much good.
Andre was still groggy. As a tendril of energy edged into the dry-sink, the
child's complaint shifted register from dismay to rage
Blazetongue, still lying against the bench, flared incandescent Flame licked up
and down its glowing blade.
The being instantly pulled back, compressing into an alarmed ball. Gil snatched
up Blazetongue, leaping sparks singeing his hands. The bench had begun to burn,
where the sword had rested against it.
Gil circled, the short-hairs of his neck on end with electricity, trying to get
between the child and the thing that hovered near it. Instead, the thing floated
over the dry-sink and retreated to the far wall, dangerously at bay, gathering
itself to strike out. He followed, waving the weapon dubiously. Putting himself
to block the baby from immediate harm, he tried to decide what to do.
A hand on his shoulder; Andre. The hand was steady as stone, its grip
imperatively strong. Gil gave him room. Andre moved nearer the being, pointed
his index finger at it. It swelled tor attack. He roared a string of syllables
that meant nothing, to the American, and the intruder was rent like smoke in the
wind. It pulled itself together again, radiating its perturbation. Gil waved
Blazetongue, cheering. "Eat him up, deCourteneyP*
Wrath, usually a stranger to Andre's face, had transformed it. His lips
quivered, his eyes slitted, but the finger was unswerving. He loosed the string
of syllables again. This time the being was dissipated beyond its ability to
recover, dismissed.
It was the old, unscary Andre who took the baby to his shoulder, to soothe her.
Gil watched fire die along Blazetongue.
"What—what was that thing?" he got out finally. The wizard ignored him. "Vknow,
Andre, you could have just said you didn't want to give out the burning spell.
You didn't have to lie."
The thaumaturge came to him, bouncing up and down a fraction, which the baby
enjoyed. "What in Ihe world are you talking about?"
"The goddam sword's what I'm talking about, man! You did one helluva job just
now, but you were still
44
jazzing me about not knowing the spell of the sword."
Andre stopped bouncing. Gil tensed.
"Let me inform you of two facts," the wizard said. "The first is that what you
saw was a guardian entity. It appeared when you meddled with Rydolomo's seal; it
was to avoid just such an accident that I forebore to wear Calundronius today.
Next time you go poking about such perils, I should be grateful if you would
arrange to deal with whatever problems arise by yourself."
Gil eyed the disturbed seal of Rydolomo guiltily. Andre plodded on. "And the
second item is that, as I said, I do not know the conjuration for the fire of
Blazetongue. Do I make myself quite lucid?"
"So, who lit it up? 'Cause / sure as hell didn't."
Andre smiled smugly and patted the baby's back. She burped softly. Gil stared in
disbelief from wizard to child and back.
"You're kidding. Aren't you? Kidding?"
The other sighed. "I am not certain how, yet it was indisputably she. Now, I
presume you have no objections to my cleaning up here. You have, I take it,
other things to which you should be attending?" "
"I'm going. I've gone."
In the stairwell, he blew thoughtfully on his blistering hands. One other item's
for damn sure; the next thing I unseal's going to have a drink inside it.
45
Chapter Four
Thorfrt slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men.
John Donne
"Death, Be Not Proud"
ON his way to Springbuck's study the next day Gil met VanDuyn,
"MacDonald, I, ah—"
"You craved my presence?"
The scholar agreed wryly. "There're things you and I should clear up; it may be
awhile before we see one another again."
They found a window seat. Gil sat gingerly, protecting his shoulder. His occult
contact with Dunstan, and the belief that he was on the right track, had calmed
him. He'd been able to sleep, a dreamless rest that had refreshed him. The
lacerating feeling of futility was gone.
Van Duyn rubbed his hands. He wasn't sure he credited his countryman's alleged
ramorf/w'-experience, his Enlightenment. "Katya is going back to Freegate. With
her country on a wartime footing she has little option. I've decided to go with
her. The Highlands Province will be untenable so long as Shardishku-Salam£
engages in Fabian policies. I will do what I can for Katya and Reacher. I am
taking the contiguity device. I was separated from it once, to my sorrow. I
won't risk leaving it here. But before we part, it's only fair to offer you one
last opportunity to leave the Crescent Lands."
Van Duyn's machine was the only certain way back to their home Reality. The
deCourteneys' spells might suffice, but would be hazardous. Gil considered for a
moment.
46
"I can't, just now. I'll have to take a raincheck."
"The choice is yours."
"Thanks for asking though. I remember, before I returned to Coramonde, I threw
together the stuff I was bringing here with me. My brother Ralph wandered in
when I had it all laid out, the traveling gear, guns and all. Right away he
flashed on it that I was heading 'way out into the tall timber someplace. I
almost told him how far short that fell, but he'd never have bought it. He knew
me though; I had nothing to keep me back there. Oh, Til go back one day, but
there's no rush."
"I see. By the way, you shouldn't have gone off so quickly the other day. Not
all Reacher's news was so unfortunate. He brought General Stuart back from
Freegate with him."
"Jeb? Outstanding!" Jeb Stuart was the name Gil had given the war-horse assigned
him from the stables of Freegate. Jeb had borne up well under travails of the
thronal war.
"The Kong thought you'd want him. Now, I suggest we join the others."
They assembled in Springbuck's airy, high-windowed study, where long slants of
sunlight irradiated the stained-glass scenes and breathed life into the
tapestries and selected pieces of sculpture.
Hightower and the deCourteneys were present, with the Ku-Mor-Mcd, Katya and
Reacher. Gil settled into a chair, making his shoulder comfortable, and Van Duyn
sat and riddled with his glasses. The last participant arrived, Angorman, Saint-
Commander of the Order of the Axe.
Gil had been introduced to him earlier. The Order was one of two rival sects of
warrior-priests sworn in worship and errantry to the female deity called the
Bright Lady. The Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, the other sect, was an older
organization whose Divine Vicar Balagon was at odds with Angorman on a running
basis. Outright violence between the two groups was absolutely prohibited, and
so occurred only rarely. But there was an ongoing, pious antagonism.
Angorman greeted them all and eased himself with a grunt into the~last vacant
seat. He was dressed in his usual brown forager's cloak, an old man bald as an
egg
47
except for thick, flaring white eyebrows. He retained his wide-brimmed slouch
hat with the brassard of the Order on its high crown, an axehead superimposed on
a cresent moon, worked in heavy silver. The Saint-Commander rested his famous
greataxe against his chair. Gil recalled its name, Red Pilgrim. Six feet of
wooden haft, braced with iron langets, held a double-flanged bit, gracefully
curved to lend cutting power and leverage.
Springbuck had shucked the hated robes of state. Barefoot among the furs and
pelts, he wore loose, soft trousers and sash, and a wraparound jacket. The hilt
of the Hibben bowie nosed from his waistband.
Gabrielle sat at the Ku-Mor-MaFs right, in deep conversation with Andre. Seeing
her, Gil unconsciously put a finger to the chain around his neck. After the
tarot seance, she'd taken the Ace of Swords from the deck, put it on a fine
chain and given it to him, saying it was truly his. He'd accepted it
reluctantly, committing himself to something he didn't understand. It was not
made of paper or parchment, but a flexible material he couldn't identify.
Andre was sitting tailor-fashion on Springbuck's tall writing table. Gil saw
that the protector-suyerain had been working again on The Antechamber Ballads, a
collection of poetry, essays and autobiographical writings.
Angorman spoke. "Blazetongue is our subject first, is it not? It belongs in
Vegana, we know. It is therefore an object of the Bright Lady, for they follow
the Blessed Way down there. It is hence of interest to my Order to see the
sword—and the child—safely back where they belong."
Gil sat up. "Child? You mean you want the kid to go? How can I—"
"We!" Angorman interjected. "We will accomplish this. The baby did conjure the
fire of Blazetongue. By that we know she must be of the royal house of Vegana;
only they command the sword's enchantment by inherent right.**
So, Angorman was in the party. Gil turned to Springbuck. "What d'you say? How'd
you like to pack a kid around with you?"
48
"Have you forgotten? I have already traveled with her."
"Oh. Yeah, but that was 'way before, when there was no choice. This is now, and
this is me."
"I shall be responsible for the inf ant," Angorman declared, "and so you need
not fear for her." His gnarled, sinewy hands played along the length of Red
Pilgrim like some musician exercising before concert. "She shall be safe."
Gil slumped. If he backed out now he'd lose his best crack at finding Bey and
Duns tan. It was a simple go/no-go.
He lost the floor to Andre. "Gil, is it not clear, after all she has been
through, held captive along with Gabrielle in Amon's halls, that she will never
be safe anywhere but with her own people? There are impetuses at work here that
are not to be questioned. Attempts to harm or recapture her may be foiled simply
by dint of quick, quiet departure. Does that alter your attitude?**
"Dunno." He thought of Dunstan. He couldn't afford to debate, or delay. "I
suppose so."
Angorman said, "Andre and I envision a small party, several members and no more.
Going quickly, inconspicuously, we go safest.**
"That would be okay.** Without enough men to insure safety, there was no point
overburdening themselves.
"Then,'* Gabrielle cut in with her lovely, mocking smile, "you have accepted
your first two-bard commission."
"My what? My too-what?"
Angorman cracked a vestigial smile of his own. MA *two-bard commission' is
something of an insider's jest in my Order. It denotes an errand of service so
arduous that one poet alone could never recount it all. But of course, the Lady
deCourteney was speaking humorously."
Gil let it pass. "Who would be in charge? There's only one Walking Boss."
"Andre," Springbuck answered, before Angorman could speak. The Saint-Commander
considered the Ku-Mor-Mai from beneath bushy brows, then the American, then
concurred.
49
The wizard coughed. "Well of course, I should be happy for both Gil's advice and
the counsel of Lord Angorman."
Gil looked glum, but knew he would have made even more concessions.
Andre was tolling the fingers of his left hand. "We shall need maps and extra
clothing, since we won't be far enough south soon enough to avoid cold weather.
Food, weapons, medicines and general provisions. My Lord Angorman, how does this
sound: Gil, yourself, me, the child and one or two others, with two pack-horses
besides our own mounts?"
"Quite sufficient. Gil?"
"Okay. What about the rest of you?"
The Snow Leopardess responded, "Coramonde and Freegate may still have to go to
war against Salama, in two lines of advance. We of the Free City would thrust
south along the eastern coast of the Central Sea, while Coramonde takes to the
ocean, perhaps in league with the Mariners."
"When?"
"We are not certain," Springbuck admitted. "Soon, we think. Every day the writ
of Earthfast erodes a little more. Preparations have already begun." He tugged a
bell cord.
A servant entered, bearing a Faith Cup. The Ku-Mor-Mai took the deep, ornamented
chalice with two hands, drank, and passed it to Gabrielle. She sipped and passed
it to her brother, her green eyes never leaving Springbuck's.
Gil watched the Faith Cup make its ritualistic way around their circle. Andre
was earnest and sober in drinking, but Katya took a flamboyant hoist. Reacher
contemplated for a moment, then drank. Van Duyn took his draught indifferently,
and handed it to Gil.
For a moment, the former sergeant had the daunting image of Wintereye before
him. He'd come too far, though; swallowing the traditionally thick, bitter wine,
he made himself a part of this Faith Cup. He gave it to Angorman, and his hand
went again to the Ace of Swords lying against his chest. He suddenly felt
optimistic.
Angorman, eyes closed, moved his lips in prayer be-50
fore taking his part. Hightower, the last, raised the bulky chalice in one hand.
"Confusion and death to Salama'!" He drained it as Angorman and Katya echoed
him. Upturning the Faith Cup. he licked the last droplets from its rim and gave
it to the servant.
Gil soon left, to find some time alone. He was intercepted m the corridor by
Gale-Baiter. With the Mariner captain were his two crew members whose names Gil
caught this time. The hulking redbeard was Wave-watcher the Harpootier, the
smaller one Skewerskean the Chanteyman, whatever that meant.
Gale-Baiter began, "I have heard it privily that you wish to go to Death's
Hold."
"What if I do?"
"Then you may come there with me, if you wish it Our course should take us that
way."
"Are you sure you'll be going there?"
"Not positive, but in prosecuting war on the seas against Salama, we will in all
likelihood come to it at last. Some vassals of the Masters are still said to
linger there."
"And better a full sail above you," Wavewatcher rumbled, "than a stinking horse
beneath." Skewerskean snickered. But Gil saw that any number of things could
happen to screw up the sea voyage. He had no desire to be involved in an ocean
battle, or get sidetracked on blockade duty or some such. Besides, he'd drunk
the Faith Cup. He shook his head.
"Sorry, no. Thanks anyway for thinking of me.**
Gale-Baiter waved his hand. "Not at all. We leave this evening for Boldbaven and
our ship. If our courses ever cross again, you've always the offer of passage
aboard the Long-Dock Gal"
Gil said good-bye to him, and to Wavewatcher and Skewerskean. "Fair winds to
you," the harpooner boomed. "Until our courses cross again," added the
chanteyman.
Springbuck had traveling arrangements quietly completed by morning. His
seneschal made life miserable for many people in Earthfast that night. No one,
aside from partakers in the Faith Cup, knew what it all
51
meant. Springbuck's orders included a good deal of misdirection. He'd taken to
wearing Bar once more.
The rising sun found them in a deserted comer of the bafley, puttering with the
last-minute incidentals preceding any trip. Readier, Katya and Van Duyn had come
out to see them off. The three would depart a day later.
Gil had decided to abandon his suit of woven mesh armor. It had an insignia on
its breast, copied from the 32d*s crest, that Duskwind had put there; he
preferred not to see it again. Instead, he wore a light, short-sleeved bymie
under his shirt. The sword of Dunstan the Berserker knocked at his left hip, the
Mauser pistol at his right hi a canvas holster. The Browning was in its shoulder
holster. He'd prudently worn a steel cap, but had tucked the hat given him by
Captain Brodur into his saddlebag. At the back of his belt was the trench knife
he'd carried from home, with brass knuckles on its grip. He patted the neck of
the waiting Jeb Stuart, a sturdy chestnut he trusted as much as he could
anything with hooves. He had Dirge cased and slung at the side of his saddle,
partly hidden by the chapelets, hoping Yardiff Bey's sword would be of use in
tracing the sorcerer. Andre had agreed it might be so.
Angorman, wrapped against the cold, moved stiffly. Blazetongue, concealed in
wrappings, was fastened to Andrews other gear. The wizard had his own ancient
sword, sheathed, in hand, and another belted on over his coarse clothing. He
also carried a powerful Horse-blooded composite bow and quiver of arrows.
He opened the pommel-knob of his old sword. Removing Calundronius from around
his neck, he dropped it into the compartment there. Gil knew that the mystic
jewel's influence was confined in that manner. The wizard was leaving it in
Gabrielle's care, deeming that she might have greater need of it if war erupted.
Another companion appeared, whom Gil greeted with mixed reactions. It was
Fenian. The Horseblooded had a scimitar secured to his cantle, by his left hand,
his cloak covering the pinned-up right sleeve. Gil wasn't so sure he was a good
choice. The American couldn't very well object, however, and assumed Andre had
reasons for picking him.
Gil was about to ask where the baby was when a last
52
traveler rode up. The newcomer was a woman in conservative road clothes, riding
sidesaddle on a speckled mare whose trappings were decorated with swatches of
bright red bunting. She was erect in a way suggesting discipline, bearing
harness supporting some burden on her back. She had a kindly, rounded face, so
fair that her eyebrows and lashes were nearly invisible. Her hair, free of its
hood, was touched with much gray.
Gil, curious, walked to one side to see what cargo she carried. He cursed when
he saw the infant there, in a sort of papoose rig.
He spun on Andre. "What the hell's she doing here with that?"
She answered for herself. "My name is Woodsinger, young man; I am to carry the
child. Did you expect me to bear her on my hip for our entire journey?"
"Our journey? No way; that's out, hear? Out!"
"Ahem," Springbuck intervened. "Gil, there is the matter of the baby's care and
feeding."
"Then," the American roared, pointing at Andre, "let him do it. It's all his
idea anyway."
"Not mine entirely," protested the wizard.
"And," added Woodsinger, "can he lactate?"
Gil spat on the cobbles and glared at the Ku-Mor-Mai. At last he said, "We're
wasting time."
"I am sure things will work out well," Springbuck soothed. "She brought the
child from Freegate."
"Fust it was the kid, now a nursie. This is giving me a lot of grief, pal."
With injured dignity, Woodsinger proclaimed, **I have been on farings to wear
down better men than you, with the heirs of Kings at my paps! Furthermore, I—"
Gil stopped her with a forefinger. "Save it! Just pull your own weight."
He left her gaping, outraged, and said farewell to Springbuck, who obviously
envied him a bit, tired of being chanceried at Court.
Suddenly there came a furor of growling, barking and baying. A pack of dogs
burst from the distant kennels and swarmed toward them, bristling in hatred,
bellies low to the ground. The dogs were big, wolfish-looking hounds, giving a
confused impression of glinting eyes,
53
red tongues behind white, killing teeth and salivary foam.
The pack, eleven in all, threw themselves at Wood-singer's mount. The leader
sprang for the nurse while the others caught the terrified horse's legs and
flanks, sinking fangs in deep. Woodsinger kept the presence of mind to yank on
her rein, though, and spoiled the lead dog's first attack, slashing at it with
her riding crop as her horse fought madly to break free. She twisted her body to
shield the child from the dog's jaws, fighting the horse at the same time.
Then Readier was in among the pack. He avoided the snapping hounds and tore
then" leader away from Woodsinger, closing his fierce grip on its neck. Katya
was behind him, sword flashing in the morning light, downing a dog with her
first stroke, driving the others back for an instant. Readier flung the body of
the leader at two of its fellows, but another landed on his shoulders from
behind. He went down, rolling over and over while it bit at the chain-mail
collar of his armor.
Springbuck had drawn Bar and leapt in after the royal siblings. Woodsinger's
horse was being dragged to the ground despite her efforts to keep it upright.
Growls and shrill whinnies added to the total chaos.
Gil was afraid to risk a shot with Springbuck and the others intermingled with
the pack. For the same reason Van Duyn held fire, and Angorman and Andre
hesitated to strike. Gil took Jeb Stuart into the savagery. The war-horse,
practiced combatant with hooves and teeth, instantly took a dog out of the
fight, trampling it to bleeding shapelessness. Gil slipped bis right hand from
its sling.
Springbuck took another hound out of midair with Bar. The sword's enchantment of
unfailing keenness was as effective as ever; the canine head and body fell away
in different directions. Readier had grappled the dog that had knocked him down
into a bear hug. He applied his remarkable strength; the dog howled as its spine
splintered.
Katya had lost her sword and now had a long combat knife in each hand. She
dropped to one knee to evade a leaping hound. Her right-hand knife darted up to
gut it as it passed overhead.
54
Two dogs had Woodsinger's horse by its nose and neck, another its tail, pulling
it down. Ferrian's left hand blurred. A whirling metal loop struck down the
tail-end dog in a welter of blood.
Gil, -gripping his saddle tightly, leaned far over with the Browning in his
hand. One dog had stopped pulling the nurse's horse, gathering itself to spring.
The American stiffened his elbow and wrist, fired at a range of five feet. The
dog somersaulted and fell dead.
Andre and Angorman had gotten to Woodsinger's side, pulling her from her
floundering horse, keeping her safe between broadsword and greataxe. Reacher had
plucked up another dog and raised it above his head. Now he flung it down
against the cobbles with all his strength. It lay in death spasms, many of its
bones shattered.
The two remaining hounds were still at the horse, pulling its tack, chewing at
the red bunting with maniacal hatred. Springbuck smote the first down, while
Reacher wrestled the second to the ground and held it immobile, arms locked
around its throat, legs around its body. Guards had come to investigate; at
Springbuck's command they took ropes and tied the dog, binding its muzzle.
"What the hell was all that about?" Gil demanded, shaken. Gabrielle, examining
the baby, was satisfied she hadn't been harmed.
"I cannot say," the Ku-Mor-Med answered, wiping Bar on a dog's coat. "These
animals were all trained, and none had ever set upon a human being."
"They may not simply have attacked Woodsinger," Andre countered. "They were at
her horse too. When we pulled her from her mount, the pack did not pursue her."
Katya, returning her cleaned knives to their sheaths strapped to her thighs,
asked, "How now, then; did they go mad?"
"It is more to be suspected that they were driven to it." The wizard tore a
strip of the red bunting from Woodsinger's saddle. He held it close to the bound
dog; it growled, straining to tear into him.
"This, then, prompted the attack."
Gabrielle examined it. "There are procedures," she
55
agreed, "spells of no difficulty to Bey or his more adept followers. Yes, the
dogs would assail anyone bearing this cloth. From whence did it come?"
The nurse was mystified. "I became impatient at awaiting my mount, so I went and
found it myself, saddled and decked out so. I do not know who draped it, and
thought it some good-fortune wish or send-off decoration."
Van Duyn had taken the bunting, sniffing it. "Your impatience saved you. The
horse would probably have been brought around to the main steps, and the hounds
released. You would have been killed before we could have gotten to you. Whoever
planned this had no choice, after you'd taken your horse, but to set the dogs on
you here."
The Ku-Mor-Mai dispatched a detail to search the kennels and stables for the one
responsible, but doubted the person would still be close by. Gil now held the
strip of bunting. He wadded it up and tucked it down into his saddlebag, one
more piece of the sorcerer's trail.
Fenian was holding the war-quoit he'd thrown, a Horseblooded weapon much like a
Sikh chakram. Springbuck inquired whether Wbodsinger would resume the trip or
prefer to be relieved of her duty.
"We can switch her stuff to another horse and be oo our way in a quarter of an
hour," Gil broke in. Wood-singer stared at him. "Uh, right?"
Her round face showed a small, lopsided smile. "Quite so. Are we to be deterred
by a dogfight?"
Gabrielle chuckled, one hand on Ferrian's shoulder, the other on Woodsinger's.
"So, the Ace of 5words goes forth in suit."
"Gung ho," commented Gil MacDonald sourly.
56
Chapter Five
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast
state . , .
William Shakespeare
THE Ku-Mor-Mai considered life, considered death.
Over his throne hung the snarling crimson tiger banner of Coramonde. Before him
knelt Midwis, a Legion-Marshal.
"What mitigation can you offer,** Springbuck demanded, "that you should not be
hung from the Iron Hook Gate, and your family evicted from their lands?"
Midwis licked his lips and cast about for an answer. "Sire, I broke my ties with
your enemies at the last, lifted the siege on your allies at Freegate, yea, and
at the Hightower too."
"Yes, after you'd heard I had taken Earthfast"
"I concede it. Please, ask of me no merit; I have none, except some martial
aptitude. Do as you will with me."
Which was precisely the problem. Midwis was a much-admired officer, his battle
standard weighted with campaign streamers won in service of Coramonde. His
family was wealthy, ancient and influential. And, as the Marshal had said, he
was a talented commander with a hardened Legion. Every resource was vital now,
but Springbuck could no more let Midwis go unpunished than impose death upon
him. He had a middle road in mind.
"Legion-Marshal, you and your men fought unjustly against me. Yet you may win
back your honor by reverting to the sworn duty that is yours."
Midwis looked up hopefully. Springbuck went on,
57
"The Highlands Province suffers from depredations of the wildmen and the Druids.
They are undermanned in the Highlands; it is hi my mind to dispatch a Legion
there. It will be a long, cold, perilous task. If the Druids use their polar
magic again, despite the enchanters I've sent against them at Andre
deCourteney's suggestion, it may come a disaster. But there must be armed units
to check the wildmen."
Midwis was on his feet. "Give me your let to go there! Naive and wrongful in
statecraft though I have been, no man can say Midwis is unschooled in conflict."
The solution had advantages. Springbuck hadn't enough loyal men to reinforce the
Highlands Province and, left near Earthfast, Midwis' host was potentially
dangerous. If he would renew his allegiance in truth, he would be a great help,
and his powerful family and friends would be well disposed toward the Ku-Mor-
Mai.
"You are dispatched with these provisos. Your host goes with its colors cased,
and all blazonry covered. Until you reach the Highlands Province you march with
arms reversed, without trump, drum or cymbal. Silent will be your route. When
you unfurl your standard in combat it will show the bar sinister. If you do well
by Coramonde, that will be revoked when you are come again to Earthfast Do you
agree?"
"Without qualm, Ku-Mor-Mai." Midwis bowed, then squared his shoulders, and
retreated from the throne room.
It had been a long morning, beginning with the departure of Andre and his
companions. Springbuck decided to take his midday meal. Courtiers rose, and
servitors. He waved them away; having foregone his formal robes of state and
taken to wearing Bar at his side again, he wasn't inclined to be pestered and
indulged like a wealthy aunt.
Passing alone through an empty gallery, he heard low voices to one side, in a
window-seat booth. Its curtains had been drawn, but had fallen back a bit. He
squinted, crinkling his face, and made out a glimpse of brilliant red hair and
milky skin. He went over, thinking to speak to Gabrielle. Then something blocked
his partial
58
view of her pale, perfect face. It was a mass of white hair and a black, chain-
mailed shoulder.
The shoulder moved away. Gabrielle's eye, fluttering open from what could only
have been a kiss, fell on him. She said something softly; the curtain was thrown
back. There stood Hightower, hand on his broadsword hilt.
The Warlord stopped in surprise. His hand instantly dropped from the weapon.
Springbuck, too, was immobilized; only Gabrielle's calm was unfailing.
"Yes, Springbuck?" Her eyes didn't avoid his.
He condemned himself for not having seen it sooner. On several occasions now,
she and Hightower had been absent at the same tune. She'd always made it quite
clear that she was her own woman.
"You did not bid good-bye to Andre," he reminded her lamely.
"We made our farewells last evening. I mislike partings."
He turned to go. "My Lord," called the old warrior, halting Springbuck, "for
what it may mean, Gabrielle and I had been—close, hi times far back. We never
did this to wound your feelings, and indeed, denied one another so long as we
could. But there are ties that may not be gainsaid."
Springbuck resolved to be as ungrudging as Van Duyn had been when the scholar
had lost Gabrielle to him. "Neither of you owe me explanations, my Lord. We are
all free souls." Gabrielle's expression, hearing that, was satisfied. It made
him feel no better.
"There are matters of policy that need advice from both of you," he continued,
drawing a shaky breath. "Until later, then, good day."
He went his solitary way. She faced the Warlord. "I said as much; he is an older
man hi a young one's skin. He understands."
Hightower disagreed. "He accepts, "doubt he understands. Be that as it may, all
courses turn toward Salama, as in days long gone. Will they hold as much tragedy
as they did then?" His arm went around her. "It begins anew."
Within the ironclad circle, she leaned against his chest. "For us, it never
ceased."
59
On an occasion of rare self-indulgence, in the Hour of the Drug, Yardiff Bey,
satisfied with his revivified plans, drifted hi reverie back across the
centuries.
He saw a small boy squatting in the dust of a teeming marketplace, scene of
variegated color, bewildering sounds. A wandering illusionist was playing with
tongues of flame and momentary flowers plucked from the air. The watching boy's
father was the Bey, regional governor, Prince in his own right, but the boy had
crept away from his manor house and teachers to watch this small magic.
The boy was fine-featured, destined to be aristocratically handsome. His
cheekbones were high, lips full and dark. His eyes, watching minor enchantments
with consuming interest—though he knew these were barely magics at all—were
black, liquid with fascination.
It had been his misfortune or accidental lot to be born under ominous stars. The
portents had spoken of disorder, ruin, cataclysm. His name would dominate the
mightiest struggles. His mother had grieved for that, but the boy found it
intriguing. His father discounted any words that didn't lend themselves to his
own will. It was to occur to the boy, Yardiff, later in life, to speculate
whether he'd made those prophesies come true by accepting them.
The boy, being groomed for his father's lofty station, had already decided he
would never assume it. There were no magicians in his background, so it was hard
to say from whence his preoccupation had come. His forebears and father were
lordly, arrogant men, subtle warriors, merciless in battle. But in this
generation, hi this boy, under dire signs, the union of cold intellect and
imperial pride had taken a new bent.
The nomadic magician was leaping and capering, half the fool, half the
prestidigitator. He skipped around the circle of watching people, offering
flowers that faded instantly away. He extended his fingers with tiny spits of
flame that didn't burn. Most onlookers were afraid to touch them; those brave
souls who did found that the flames evaporated at once.
Until he came to the boy.
A hand extended, and the clown-magician waited, scoffing. YardifFs wide eyes
shifted from the man to his
60
pyrotechnic fingers, and back to the man. He put his hand forth calmly;
uncertainty and apprehension had long since been driven out of him,
Tongues of fire were somehow transferred; it wasn't clear to the crowd just how.
Now he held them, but the fires didn't disappear as they had for others. Instead
they burned high, higher than for the magician himself. They flickered brightly
in colors, then Yardiff waved his hand, dismissing them with a gesture of
impatience. The crowd murmured. Some few dropped corns in the dust. Others
covertly thrust forefinger and little finger at the wanderer, to fend off any
evil he might harbor.
The magician scrambled in unseemly haste again, to gather meager pickings.
People went their various ways, except the boy. When they were alone, the
wanderer came to him. There was, in his features, the joy of a miner who's found
a rich gemstone. He took the small hand that had so recently accepted his fire,
pressed it for a moment, left something there. Then he twirled to go, once more
the capering fool.
Yardiff didn't move, watching him until he was out of sight. Only then did he
open dark, delicate fingers to see what was there. It was a plaque of malachite;
picked out on it hi silvery material was a flaming wheel, a mandala. The thing
he'd so vaguely longed for had now found him. He tucked the token into his
safest inner pocket and set out for his father's manor house. There were
deceptions to work, lip service to pay, eventual disengagement to be made from
the career being forced upon him. His destiny had made itself known; he embraced
it fervently.
Centuries before the Great Blow, Yardiffs thin brown legs carried him home
tiredly through sun-baked streets.
Sorcery was his contagion.
His delights were the coruscating spells that bent men and the world to his
will. He rejoiced hi them as viands, as he thought, for some inner hunger.
It was inevitable from the start that he should enter the service of the darker
influences, the more terrible forces.
As journeyman, he'd roamed the world, contesting, 61
learning, along the hidden orbits of enchanters. He faced spells, demons,
strange beasts, and hostile men and women. He grew from each incident.
He heard of a mountain bandit who'd devised a clever means of binding men to
him. Disguised, he went to spy it out for himself. The outlaw would slip a
prospective follower food drugged with Eamai, then have him borne into a secret
garden. There the initiate would awaken, in seeming paradise, to eat and drink
his fill and take his way with compliant women. Drugged again, he'd be returned
to the "mortal plane" and made the simple offer of eternal joy in exchange for
unquestioning loyalty. The technique seldom failed to produce a fanatically
willing vassal
Revealing his puissance to the bandit, Yardiff Bey showed him true sorcery: The
bandit—Ibn-al-Yed, who later became Bey's mask-slave—threw himself at the
magician's feet. His burgeoning realm of criminals and murderers became a
keystone in Yardiff Bey's own concealed empire.
Bey had gone from task to task, always climbing in the dangerous favors of his
Liege, the demon Amon, until the mighty attempt of the Great Blow. Then, the
Masters had uprooted the Lifetree and made thek fearsome effort to open the way
between mortal plane and infernal, to summon up hordes from Hell. But it had
been despoiled, though the world had been transformed forever in the disaster,
and the Unity ended.
In the wake of that failure, with the darker forces harried closely by their
opponents, Yardiff Bey had risen in perilous, opportunistic service; he'd kept
the Orescent Lands from driving out every vestige of the Masters' influence.
Eventually, the Five had solidified their power, and foremost among their agents
stood Yardifl Bey. They'd revealed to"him a fragment of his destiny, that his
hope for ultimate success lay hi three children he would beget, the first a
girl, the second a boychild, and the third both, yet neither.
He'd subverted the many Southwasteland tribes, forging them into True Believers
for his Masters. He'd brought down the vengeance of the Bright Lady on Glyffa by
encouraging its king in the suppression of women. He'd distorted matters to
Springbuck's great-
62
grandfather, so that Blazetoneue was wronelv taken from Vegand in a battle that
should never have been fought. In disguise, he'd prompted Hiehtower into t^at
defiance that had left him blinded, hateful and disillusioned for decades. Bey
had raised the great fortress at Death's Hold, on the westernmost shore of the
Crescent Lands, and filled it with vicious armsmen, only to see it fall once it
had served its purpose.
A great challenge had come, when the Deep-Rock Folk, the clans of tiny
subterraneans, had cried out for protection. His name had long gone abroad; he'd
answered their plea, for few heroes had survived.
The Deep-Rock Folk had been set upon by a creature from the lower Depths. Bey
fought it in a lone combat through the strata of the earth, he and his adversary
stalking and attacking one another in a series of duels that had lasted weeks.
Yardiff Bey's hand came up to the silver-and-malachite ocular he wore where his
own left eye had been. The price of victory had been that eye. As replacement,
he'd taken the single eye of his monstrous antagonist, confining its terrible
energies and making it his own with the eyepiece he'd fashioned.
Then he'd stated his price. The Deep-Rock Folk had labored for twelve years to
build a vessel, an adamantine shell in which he could imprison a fire-elemental
and harness it. In the end he'd had Cloud Ruler, his flying ship.
He'd insinuated his way into the confidence of generations of the Ku-Mor-Mai. At
last, he put his own bastard son, Strongblade, on the throne.
Then things had begun to go wrong. First the madman Van Duyn had appeared. Next,
Springbuck had escaped house arrest at Earthfast. The Five had lifted their
attention from darkling meditations to a premonition of divergence. But Bey had
convinced them he still controlled events, and thought he did.
Gil MacDonald had come, summoned by the de-Courteneys and Van Duyn, to shake the
whole network of ordinations. Bey's plans had been destroyed before his eyes in
Court at Earthfast, by magic and force of arms. Compelled to flee, he had seen
his world unravel.
Yardiff Bey thought about that, in the Hour of the 63
Drug. He recalled those last moments, striking down Dunstan and abducting him,
escaping in Cloud Ruler, seeking sanctuary among his remaining supporters. At
last he'd sought refuge in Death's Hold, gathering a few loyal adherents. But
exile had held no fulfillment; he literally would rather have been dead. He'd
come at last to SaiamS, to the Five, and been granted another chance, a
reprieve. Who else but Yardiff Bey was suited to ferret out the secret of the
ancient mage Rydolomo?
His plans were meshing again. It had been unfortunate that the deCourteneys
hadn't been lured north together, but at least they were separated; their whole
was greater than the sum of its parts.
Better, the Heir of Vegana and the sword Blaze-tongue were on the move,
occupying the attention of Andre .deCourteney, permitting Bey to hunt out the
secret he needed so badly. Once he'd secured it, no opposition would matter.
Let child and sword come south. In time they, too, would fall into his fist. He
thought with special, shuddering savor of how good it would be to have the
wizard, the baby, the sword and MacDonald in hand.
An eternally lucid part of him told him the Hour of the Dreamdrowse was drawing
to a close. His last indulgence was a pulse of satisfaction. The endless effort
would soon yield a final product.
He rose to go. There was an incredible amount to do yet, in order to become as a
god among the new Masters of Reality.
Jeopardies of a Two-Bard Commission
64
Chapter Six
I struck the board, and cried "No more; I will abroad!"
George Herbert "The Collar*'
AT first, the going was pleasant.
Springbuck's letter of transit, bearing false names and authentic seals, let the
party go without interference, barely noticed. The silver brassard of Angorman's
Order opened many doors', to busy inns, lonely huts and spartan outposts. Gil
got used to seeing caps doffed to the Saint-Commander and the badge of his
Order, but remained suspicious of everyone. Angorman was sometimes asked for a
special benediction, which he never failed to impart. Andre, too, usually seemed
to know a good stopping place not too far away. Gil never knew whether the
evening would give him a straw mattress in a priory cell, a hard, narrow bench
before a tavern hearth, or a comfortable bed in a local Lord's keep. Wherever
they stopped, one of the four men would sleep near Woodsinger, or stretch out
with his back to her door. Despite Angorman's prestige and Andre's providence,
they were sometimes compelled to bivouac under the sky, with Woodsinger and her
charge inside the one small tent they'd brought.
Andre, Fenian and Angorman relieved Woodsinger of her burden from tone to time,
quieting the baby if she woke by night but wasn't hungry.
Gil didn't. He shared any other chore or problem, but flatly refused to become
involved with the infant herself. No one pressed him to do differently. To make
up for it, he always bore the carry-rack when Woodsinger rode with the baby held
inside her cloak; it was his
66
tacit apology. The child took the trip well. Woodsinger was extremely capable,
looking after her well-being, keeping her healthy, clean and fed without
commotion.
Thev rode with Angorman at their head, leading one packhorse's rein, Red Pilgrim
usually propped burt-in-rest like a lance. Gil followed, with Woodsinger and the
baby behind. Ferrian was next, leading the other pack-horse, guiding his own
mount with bis knees, Horse-blooded style. Andre brought up the rear, bow in
hand, watchful at then1 backs.
Coramonde's diversity amazed the American. He met dashing, egotistical bravoes
from Alebowrene, in the Fifty Lakes Territory, and reserved, puritanical men of
Matloo, patrolling their flat, grassy province in huge, armored war-drays.
Passing through the Fens of Hinn, marshes abundant with fish and game, he kept
sharp watch, but saw few of the elusive, cantankerous people who inhabited them.
Then, for eight solid days, they passed under the tangled, gloomv forest canopy
of Tee-bra, famous for its eagle-eyed archers.
The Tangent frequently held some traffic: a trapper with furs, a fanner with
produce, wary shepherds with their flocks or a boisterous column of Free
Mercenaries off to their next job. Now and then a wealthy man or Lord would go
by hi a polished coach drawn by a matched team of six or eight horses. They
encountered bands of tinkers, bangled and sly, who offered goods of dubious
origin and mules and horses with cleverly doctored markings. Every so often the
party was forced to make way for a military dispatch rider, his straining mount
throwing off flecks of foam. They overtook ponderous convoys of merchants'
wains, leaving them behind quickly. These were guarded, but Gil still thought
they were a fat, inviting target. Springbuck had been right; joining one would
have been a mistake.
There were roadside shrines, most of them the Bright Lady's, and no two images
of Her were quite alike. One statue embodied Her as highborn, hair arranged
painstakingly, with a haughty tilt to her chin and a patronizing smile; the next
represented Her as a big-boned peasant woman, bobbed hair gathered in a
kerchief, skirts rucked up for field labor, barefoot and laughing heart-
67
ily. But all Her many personae were quite clearly one, the ever-changing,
omnipresent Lady.
The party stayed, by and large, to the Western Tangent. Its straight,
unobstructed course made the going far easier than any local road could have.
Gil had been worried that the Tangent's hard, tractive surface would harm the
horses* hooves, but the others reassured him there was nothing to fear, and were
right. Apparently, that was one of the qualities of the Tangent, a highway
predating the Great Blow, the Unity's most visible single artifact, certainly
its most useful one.
Everywhere were signs of doubt or discontent The corrosion of Springbuck's
authority was more advanced on the fringes of Coramonde. Twice, nearing the Dark
Rampart, the travelers left the Tangent to skirt areas where, they'd been
warned, warfare had erupted. They saw thick, dark smoke smudge the sky, from
battle and siege. Once, a distant fire lit the night, a burning village.
People were storing food frantically; this promised to be a severe winter. The
American became used to eating as his companions did, with the left hand. The
right stayed free, theirs near hilts and helve, and his close to the grip of the
Mauser, his holster flap left open.
They were even more cautious traversing the Dark Rampart range. There, the
Tangent cut between sheer mountain walls or spanned stomach-wrenching chasms on
delicate-looking arches. Refugees, fugitives and deserters had fled up here
during the war to hide and live as they must. The party came across graves from
which the bodies had been stolen by the starving. When they camped at night,
they picked as defensible a spot as they could, even if they had to stop early
or go on in dusk. Three times, it took the flash of swords and great-axe to
discourage small bands of shabby, sunken-cheeked men who blocked their way. They
saw no other women or children, and Gil assumed none had survived up here.
Armored, mounted, the party wasn't pursued or molested.
All hospitality had ended, and any amenity they hadn't brought with them. They
all began to reek, their clothes and gambesons stained and itchy.
Their stocks grew low. Soon, they had only a dwin-68
dling supply of dried fruit and rock-hard travelers' loaves that reminded Gil of
Logan Bread. They cut consumption drastically, except Woodsinger, who must nurse
the baby. All game had disappeared, prey and predator alike. Angorman and Andre
were adept at gathering edible roots and plants, but even these were scarce.
Thev came on a hermit's cabin, high in the chilly peaks. Andre managed to
barter, at scandalous price, a supply of the only meat the old recluse had, dog.
It was salty, chewv and greasy, but far from the worst thing Gil or the others
had ever eaten. By the time the last of it was gone, Gil found that he missed
it, thinking of their shrunken stock of fruit and stony loaves.
They came down out of the mountains the next day, just as the first snows
threatened the heights. At the merestone that marked the boundary of Coramonde,
they came to the first foreign border.
They were met with suspicion. The lesser states and kingdoms had turned back
virtually everyone, but the letters of transit and Angorman's badge got the
party past.
Gil saw Andre's wisdom in not taking more men. Four, with a woman and child,
were enough to guard and provide. There was an inner resonance to two pairs of
armed men, the implied capacity to defend at all points. Still, they were few
enough so that border guards were inclined to permit them by. A military escort,
in this climate, could have proceeded only by force.
They sold one packhorse, no longer needing it. The wide, straight Western
Tangent took them quickly south, sometimes passing through an entire lesser
kingdom in a day. They were able to buy food, particularly the proteins
Woodsinger needed. The nurse allowed as how the child was old enough to begin
taking small samples of regular foods, and began feeding her mushed bits of egg,
cheese and fruit.
Morale improved; conversation became more lively. One afternoon Ferrian brought
down a pheasant with his war-quoit, the first fresh game they'd had in weeks. It
only afforded each a small portion, but put them in an exceptional mood.
"How come," Gil asked Andre that night, tossing a bone into the fire, "you do
that? When you were talking
69
about your sister just now, you said 'sorcery.* But you always call your stuff
'wizardry,' and they always say Bey's a sorcerer."
Andre leaned back against his saddle. "All those terms denote diverse methods of
dealing with the same thing. They are different paths of approach. Never would I
make a living sacrifice."
"You mean human beings?"
"I mean any life." The wizard stretched his legs out. Woodsinger, halfway
through a feeding, burped the baby. "I am no newcomer to strife, Gil. I have
laid more than one man low in open battle. But I will not use up life as an
ingredient in conjuration."
"But Gabe's a sorceress. She has?"
"Of that you must ask her. I will only say there are times when the life of an
enemy, a malefactor, can be used to save the life of a friend, by mystic
procedure. It has been known for such an exchange to bejnade, and for the person
who did it to be acclaimed. Few object to the loss of an evil life if it saves a
good one. Yet that operation is sorcery, and there is no disguising it. Beyond
this, you will have to query Gabrielle."
Angorman spoke, firelight shadowing his face under his big slouch hat. "You will
hear it said that Andre deCourteney is too meek for transcendent magics, not
hardhearted enough to cope with them. It is not so; he never swayed from any
trial or test, nor failed any. If you want the long and short of it, Gil
MacDonald, there are boundaries over which a wizard will not step, things he
will not do, to make enchantments work, however puissant he is. But if man or
woman overstep, it is sorcery, however slight the trespass."
The talk was getting to Andre. "There is little more to the topic than that."
Throwing another piece of wood on their fire, he huddled down hi his cloak.
The baby was full. Woodsinger inserted her finger gently at the side of the
child's mouth to break suction. She laved her nipple with a cloth, closed her
voluminous robes and retired to her cramped tent.
The first watch was Gil's. He stared into the fire, the Mauser under his hand.
It was all well and good that Andre was principled, but what if that meant Bey
had him outclassed? It would be best, the American de-
70
tided, if the wizard finally faced his age-old enemy with his sister by his
side. No one could afford to grant any advantage to the Hand of Salami
They were hi a country of fields and vineyards. Though the nights had been cold
the days were warm here. Jeb Stuart's breath would shoot jets of steam from his
nostrils when he was being saddled, but later he'd be hi danger of overheating,
and Gil would feel sweat trickling under his byrnie.
One afternoon a wind came up, an angry storm on its heels. Andre had some
weather cantatkms but didn't want to use them, to avoid attracting any notice.
The land was fairly flat, with few trees and no apparent shelter. Angorman left
the road, carefully examining the face of a low rock wall, the only prominent
feature in the area. He announced that they could sit out the storm in the lee
of the cliff. It looked just like more ground to Gil, but Andre and Ferrian
accepted the Saint-Commander's word. They moved rubble and crowded a close
little camp against the rock wall.
The storm broke. Just as Angorman had promised, they huddled, riders and
animals, hi a dry margin six feet wide, while rain soaked the ground just
beyond.
The rain stopped and started all night, refusing to go or break. But it had
slackened by the time they were breaking camp. Andre said they'd reach the
border of Glyffa in two days.
The companions rode stretching, working their muscles to drive out the chill.
Woodsinger held the baby inside her robes, as she sometimes did to warm her. Gil
took the rack from her and slipped it on his back. They made no effort to hurry,
watching droplets make their way down leaves and grasses. The pitched Tangent,
already drained, was drying slowly.
Gil was swaying along, fitting himself unconsciously to Jeb Stuart's gait. He
had nothing in particular in mind, even the distance to Death's Hold and Bey.
An unexpected blow to his back sent him against his saddle bow as his head was
buffeted on either side. There was less pain than astonishment; he thought for a
moment that Andre or Ferrian had ridden by to slap him, but he'd heard no
hoofbeats. He pushed himself
71
upright as Jeb gave a disturbed whicker. A screech sounded overhead and a shadow
crossed quickly, alarmingly, in semaphore on the edge of his vision.
Gil spotted his attacker looping in the air for another pass. He had difficulty
telling what it was—some large hawk or eagle, or something else. His immediate
impulse was to let it go; it had done bi™ no damage. But a note of unmixed
hatred in its call warned him.
He yanked the Mauser out, led his target and squeezed off a round. The other
horses jumped at the shot; Jeb took it stolidly.
It was a miss; the flier had selected that instant to wheel in midair for
another run. Gil cursed. Sumbitch can turn like he has one wingtip nailed down.
It veered at him. His aim wavered overhastily. There was a hiss of fietching in
heavy air, and an eerie piping. The bird spun toward the ground, the tension of
its flight changing to helpless fluttering, feathers gyrating free.
It hit the Tangent with a limp roll, eyes still lit with the intensity of the
unalloyed hunter. It was no species they'd ever seen. Andre's arrow stood from
its breast, a Horseblooded shaft that had made its piping moan by a trick of
carving the Wild Riders used. Gil bolstered the handgun, musing that reflexes
and coordination were more important than instrumentality.
He shrugged off the carrying rack to check It Diamond-hard talons had scored
long, deep tears in the tough hide and torn splinters from the wooden frame. An
extra blanket, rolled and stored inside, had been slashed in strips.
"The bird's target was the rack.** Andre surmised. They looked to Woodsinger,
who drew her cloak more closely around herself and her charge.
Hearing a wave of trilling sound, they craned their heads upward. Then they were
surrounded by small birds who rushed past and hovered around them, a
multicolored tempest of feathers, a gale of small wings. Tiny beaks ripped at
them in passing; wings stung their faces.
Gil yelped and slapped at them, his hand coming away bloody. Woodsinger swatted
with her crop, pulling her head down among the folds of her collar. They all
fought to master their horses, realizing they were under
72
no natural attack. Gil fired two rounds into the ah", not counting on hitting
anything, to scatter the tiny furies. They exploded away in every direction, but
circled and swarmed like bees, and drew closer again.
Ferrian let the packhorse's rein fall. He pulled Wood-singer's hood down close
to her face and swirled her cloak around her tightly. Taking her mount's reins
in his teeth, the Horseblooded drew his scimitar, guiding his horse with his
knees.
Andre had put away his bow. He, too, pulled his sword. With no time for
spellcasting, they had to get out of the open.
Gil, the Browning Hi-Power hi his right hand now, also took his reins in his
teeth, as Dunstan the Berserker had taught him. He peered around for any sort of
cover, a cave, trees, anything. There was none. It was the perfect spot for
ambush.
The flock swept around in unison and came back in their direction. More birds
were joining them every moment. 'The cliff face," Ferrian called. " *Tis better
protection than none!"
They galloped back, knowing they couldn't outrun their pursuers. The birds
ignored the riderless pack-horse and were on them in seconds, many species
commingled. Streaking by, they blotted all sounds with their calls and wounded
men and horses. Gil fired twice from each handgun. The birds peeled off from the
blasts, then gathered again, more rapidly this time.
In the shelter of the cliff face, they fastened up their cloaks for what little
protection it meant. The horses whinnied, tossing then* heads and showing the
whites of their rolling eyes. Ferrian pinned Woodsinger's mount up against the
rock with his own and waited, light racing up and down his scimitar. "Is there a
conjuration that would help?" he shouted.
Andre's brow creased. "It is difficult to say. These are no supernatural foes,
only living creatures following some imposed will. I have no ready spell for it.
It must be a thorough enchantment." Given time, he could disperse it, but he had
no time.
Gil watched the flock come in again. "Andre, it's with you now. This cliff won't
protect us from anything but rain."
73
"Rain!" echoed Fenian. "Andre, bring a downpour!"
The squat mage looked up dubiously. The clouds were still overburdened with
moisture, but he wasn't sure mere rain would stop the attackers.
He dismounted, as Angorman took his horse's bridle. His mystic passes began; the
sky rumbled.
The birds hit them again, landing and clinging to whatever skin or clothing they
could grasp. Even Wood-singer was hurt, as beaks found her legs and feet.
Another salvo drove some off, but the rest hovered and pecked and clung. The
companions slapped at themselves and each other. Faces and hands were wounded,
and the plunging horses were near insanity.
Ducking and thrashing, Andre completed his spell with a syllable of Command.
Rain came in sheets, battering the fliers but not deterring them, though it
struck with driving force.
Covered with them, Andre opened his palm. A brilliant flash of light broke
forth, scattering them. It was a spell of sight more than substance; they sensed
it, and resumed.
Andre was reduced to despair. Harnessing his arts, he might fell individual
birds hi large numbers, but they would eliminate him long before he could finish
them.
Woodsinger screamed and began slapping at a starling that had fixed its claws
near an opening hi her cloak, stabbing its beak at the child's struggling arm.
Wincing in pain, the baby began to bawl. The nurse brushed the starling away and
covered her charge again, but the wails continued.
Gil heard. He slid from Jeb and lurched to Andre's horse, hoping the wrapped
Blazetongue would show signs of its fire. He couldn't get to it; the bucking,
terrified animal wouldn't allow it, though Angorman held its bridle. The
American heard Fenian shout for him to beware. Batting at the unavoidable birds,
he got out of the way. The Horseblooded leaned over, slicing with his scimitar.
Thongs parted as one; Blazetongue dropped to the ground.
Another round, fired into the air, won Gil more space and time. He snatched the
sword and sprinted to
74
Andre. The wizard was stumbling toward the cliff, covered with feathered
attackers. One of his wounds, over his temple, had blinded his left eye with his
own blood. Gil helped him beat himself free.
"Andre, the baby's scared. Can you get the sword working?"
The wizard shielded his face and tore the coverings from the weapon, while birds
whirled, pecking. "I know not; its fire is not nigh, so far as I can detect."
He unsheathed the greatsword and tried to hold it up in both hands, the phrases
of a conjuration tumbling from his lips. He was soon buried under the fliers,
his spell stopped cold. He jabbed the blade's point into the ground and stumbled
back.
Gil dropped to his knees. Together they punched and pounded at maddened
jackdaws, sparrows, linnets and jays. There was a crackle from Blazetongue. Blue
effulgence whooshed up its blade like smoke up a flue, leaping off its pommel,
disappearing.
The splashing rain threw up a curtain of steam. As if poured from a kettle it
came, boiling hot. The flock's wrath became mortal pain. Humans and horses
cowered against the cliff. Birds dropped, slaughtered in thousands. Those that
found clear space by the cliff rebounded from the rock, blundering back to their
deaths.
Gil pressed his face to the cool stone, fearing his lungs would be cooked. White
steam filled the world, but the birds* cacophony dropped away. Only the hissing
of superheated rain remained.
Andre gasped his foremost spell of Dismissal. Within seconds the torrent
subsided. The horses began to quiet. The travelers uncovered their red,
glistening faces.
Hot curls of vapor rose from soaked ground. Remains of plants and fallen birds
floated in a muddy, foul-smelling soup. Dazed, the party hunkered in the lee of
the cliff, staring at the scalded landscape.
"Andre, you far surpassed my expectations," Angorman confessed.
The wizard, watching the ground drain, waved the remark away. "I called the rain
down, but our survival may be laid to Blazetongue. I did not release its force."
"The kid, then?" Gil asked. 75
"You saw the weapon's energies fly up out of it. Blazetongue itself is
responsible; I did not activate it, and neither did the child."
He picked himself up, dabbing at his wounds, and rummaged through his
saddlebags. "I have ointments somewhere, albeit none of us seems too badly
burned or injured."
"But what about the rain?" Angorman persisted. Andre stopped. "My Lord, I
informed you in Earth-fast; there are more than mere nations in opposition.
Blazetongue is the Bright Lady's instrument. Those birds, bloodlusting on the
wing, reeked of Amon, and the Five. The sword put forth its energies to advance
its ends. Two primal forces clashed on this heath; the Perfect Mistress carried
the day."
The Saint-Commander made a sign of thanksgiving. Andre observed, "This party is
of enormous consequence, we have seen. I profess to understand little, just
now." He scanned the steamy distance. "Our packhorse is gone, or dead perhaps;
her burden was nothing we cannot replace, if needs be."
Gil blew his breath out wearily. "You mean you want
to go on? What if we're walking into another ambush?"
"Going on is safer than going back. Ahead, in Glyffa,
where the Divine Mistress' sway is greatest. Behind, it is
less."
Gil, hand to his eyes, shook his head slowly. "How much longer will we have the
option?"
Angorman's chin came up, harshly. "When one accepts a commission of service, one
is past the point of no return. Or have you forgotten the Faith Cup?"
Instead of answering, the American got up to make sure Jeb was all right. A cool
breeze was carrying away wreaths of steam and stench. The water had receded and
the ground had cooled considerably.
Gil concluded that his only hope was that pressure would be off the party once
they'd delivered the child. They rapidly prepared to leave this area, blighted
by the confrontation of the gods.
76
Chapter Seven
/ gave the day to Angorman, and showed to him my
heel,
and prayed he would forego the chase (and vowed me nevermore to face his bright,
moon-bitted Pilgrim, poet-cleaving Red ordeal) . . .
from "The Lay of the Axe and the Rose,'* by the hedge-robber and self-styled
poet, Kidsheerer
TOWARD evening of the next day, they came to a towering cedar next to the
Tangent. On its face an area was roughly planed off. Graven there was an
intertwined rose and double-bitted axehead. The carving was old, but the tree's
growth hadn't obliterated it.
Angorman ran a hand over the aged scars. Gil assumed the tree had been planed by
Red Pilgrim. They left the Tangent for a well-used side road, on the warrior-
priest's assurances of good accommodations.
The vineyards here boasted an exotic strain of oversized grapes nearly as big as
figs. The workers had no guards or weapons, and weren't too surprised at the
sight of wayfarers. The road ran past an old manor house, more or less a
stronghold. Angorman entered its gate. They followed him into a pleasant
courtyard that hadn't seen military activity in years. The house had plainly
been grand in its day.
Their arrival had been signaled ahead somehow. An elderly woman waited on the
front steps to greet them. She was slender and stately, with white hair caught
in a bun. Her unadorned robes were as cheerless as a nun's habit. There was a
ring of large keys at her belt, a pair of scissors and a little capped jar, the
kind scholars used
77
as a portable inkwell. She held a writing quill. Her features were lined with
humor; a glint in her eve said she'd laugh readily. She seemed frail, but
healthy and active. Dismounting, Angorman laid his axe down—the first time Gil
had ever seen him do that—and bent knee to her stiffly.
"Welcome," the woman proclaimed to him alone. "My heart is happy you are here,
and remembers much that makes it glad." She turned to the others. "Thank you,
all, for the joy of your arrival. All that is here is yours to use."
Angorman made introductions, telling the others that their hostess* name was the
Ladv Dulcet. A footman showed up to take their horses. Dulcet apologized for
their wait, saying her chief servitor was nowhere to be found. The travelers
carried their own sparse luggage. Gil took Dirge along, and his saddlebags.
Andre tucked the bundle of Blazetongue under his arm.
Dulcet led them to a high-ceilinged dining chamber floored with walnut, gleaming
in age. In a hearth that must be twenty feet long, whole logs burned. In the
middle of the hall was a dining table where thirty people could sit to eat with
room left over. Candelabra lit the place, and close by the fire plush, pewlike
benches sat on carpets of subtle weave.
"You have done well by your fief, Dulcet," Angorman told her.
"It is my nephew's now. Property hi these parts is kept by those who can defend
it. I steward it for him." The Saint-Commander frowned. "It should be yours, and
vour heirs'."
"But I've none, and never shall have, shall I? That was fated long ago, the day
you saved me from Kid-sheerer. If I cannot have the mate I chose, I will have
none."
The old man looked away, his features a doleful monument. Gil knew the Order,
like the Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, swore celibacy. That tenet must have
come under stress here, with Dulcet wanting Angorman and no one else. Having
seen what life was like for an Oathbreaker like Wintereye, Gil wasn't surprised
by the tragedy he saw.
The Lady Dulcet called for food, then insisted on
78
seeing the baby. She and Woodsinger agreed the child was a perfect treasure. Her
questions were few; it was enough to know that they were bound for Veganl
"My nephew Newshield should be back soon," Dulcet was saying. "He went out
hunting this afternoon, all at once. He's something of a scholar lately. A
terror in his younger days, but he has come along nicely, I think. He has even
had men of learning here, to consult with hyn."
They took seats together at one end of the long table. White wine was brought in
fluted goblets of lavender glass, a vintage from the giant grapes of the local
vineyards. Then they were served hot bowls of stuff like thick bouillabaisse,
which they scooped up with crisp shells of breadcrust.
It was dark when they settled at the hearthside benches, telling of late
developments on the far side of the Dark Ramparts. Woodsinger began to yawn, the
baby asleep on her lap. When Dulcet had her shown to a room, Ferrian and Andre
went with her, saying they were tired, meaning they'd be on guard.
Gil had removed guns, sword and byrnie, stacking them with his gear and
Angorman's along with Red Pilgrim in a corner. He relaxed, ecstatic at being
able to scratch his chest and back at last.
Angorman had always confined his conversation to matters of travel and stories
of his Order, tales of errantry with moral overtones. Now he made an effort to
be breezy, witty, to entertain Dulcet Their talk kept turning down old, private
paths. To keep Gil involved, she inquired, "Has Lord Angorman told you how he
came to be here in the warmlands? Few are the times he has told that story.
Come, Saint-Commander; give us that rare treat."
Only because it was Dulcet who asked, Angorman settled himself deeper in his
seat, to conjure the story. "Where I come from, it is dark for months of the
year. In spiked boots we crossed the ice fields, hunting the white bear, the
seal and breaching whale-fish. Of ten children, perhaps four lived to the
graying of their hair. There, the wildmen of your northern isles were what we
called warmlanders.
"In due time, at seventeen, I inherited the axe of my 79
father. He had died battling the white bear, and the weapon's helve was snapped
in two. I fared out to seek a new one, but became lost in a blizzard. Then the
weather broke, and I happened upon a ship stuck in the ice, her crew in embossed
armor and silken remnants, frozen in the yards and rime-fastened to her deck.
How far she had come I cannot imagine, but she had been there a long, long time.
"On her bow sprit was a figurehead. Its shape was the Bright Lady. The bowsprit
had struck the ice, and the figurehead was cracked along its length. One great
splinter stood out, straight and sharp in its rime jacket. I had found my axe-
haft. I broke it off with much effort; the wood was tough as metal. I had my
bearings, so I went to find my people, to share my incredible
find.
"But the blizzard settled in again. We could not stir out of our ice-lodges for
a day and a night. I passed the time mounting Red Pilgrim's new helve. It was
another day before we could start for the ship. We had no trouble finding her; a
column of smoke marked where she had struck the ice. My tribesmen halted,
wondering how many enemies must be there; in the far north fire means men, and
men are most often adversaries. I left the others behind, bellowing a war
challenge. In my mind was the ethereal face on the bowsprit, that must come to
no harm. But I was too late.
"There were raiders, wildmen from the Isles who go abroad to steal and slay.
They follow the Druids, hating the Bright Lady and all Her works. They had lit
fire all round the ship, fed with oil. Craftsmanship that had survived for—
perhaps centuries—was blackened, withered in coils of flame." Angorman's
thoughts were far away, holding some of the anguish he'd felt that day.
"I do not know how many there were. They had a 'large, outrigged sea-canoe drawn
up, outfitted for winter voyaging. I went among the lot with my axe. I was young
then, coming into my strength, faster with the greataxe than anyone. Many died.
"The rest, fearing a trap, or maybe my madness, launched their canoe and dug
their paddles with vim. I saw the ship was past saving, a framework of fire.
That proud, holy figurehead was consumed, the ice sizzling
80
under the hull. The ship burned for an hour more, then slid down into the sea,
the ice around her melted through. Her chains and metal fittings, molten hot,
hissed like dragons at combat as they hit the water.
"But my heart revived. Here was a reason to live, and not just eke out
existence. I would find that Lady, whoever she was, and put myself at Her
disposal. I set out with my axe and little else, having come upon my Destiny."
His face creased in a moment's introspection. "I came at last to join the
Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, which Balagon led, and leads still. They all
agreed I was worthy, but they numbered one hundred, and are allowed no more
members under their bylaws. This inadequate patience of mine soon wore out, so
off I went to found the Order of the Axe. You will hear them curse me as a
heretic or call on me for miracles, Gil MacDon-ald, but I am nothing more than a
man who, like most, needed a dream. Finding it, I have held fast to it, grateful
that She chose me."
Dulcet had lain a hand on his arm. He covered it with his. The" candles burned
low.
Gil came back from the story, uncomfortable. He shifted uneasily, studying
weapons, shields, trophies and paintings hung on the walls. On a huge disk over
the hearth was the device of Dulcet's family, a single rose.
Dulcet said, "Perhaps you would care to see my nephew's study? He is a collector
of rare books and scrolls. You will find it at the top of those stairs there.
Shall I have a servant show you?"
"No. Thanks, 111 find it." They wanted to be alone. He decided he'd find a place
to rack out after he'd looked in on the study.
It was an odd place, more given to discarded clothing and empty cups than to
books. He wandered through it lackadaisically, by candlelight A few of the
scrolls there were very old indeed.
There was a clatter of hooves and baying of hounds in the courtyard. Figuring it
would be Newshield, Dulcet's nephew, he laid down the codex he'd been skimming.
His glance crossed the table where he put the codex, went beyond, then back to
the loose page lying there. He held it up to the light.
81
It was the title page from Arrivals Macabre. He made a fast search, yanking
curtains aside, open-hag chests and cabinets. He pulled up the lid on an ornate
oaken box and saw what he'd sought, a glass apparatus of twin retorts like the
one in Yardiff Bey's sanctum at Earthfast. There were voices, loudly, from
downstairs. He wished he hadn't taken off his pistols. He went back down
hesitantly. His first impulse was to get to his guns, and warn Angorman.
Moreover, he had to pass through the dining hall to get to Andre and the others.
Drawing a deep breath, he re-entered the hall.
Newshield—it must be he—was a young man with pouchy eyes too old for him. He
wore mud-caked boots and a fine, ermine-bordered cloak of embroidered silk over
a gilt cuirass. Behind him, men hung around the main doors, hands close to
swords. Two of them held straining, leashed hounds with either hand. The dogs'
slaver stained the carpet; their muddy paws left tracks. Precipitous tension
hung in the air.
"These premises are not my aunt's, Lord Angorman, but mine.** Newshield's tone
was unreasoning. "I do not like my hospitality extended without my let."
The Saint-Commander's effort to control his temper was visible. "I knew your
aunt in days gone by. Surely her kindness can be1 no great transgression,"
Gil came to their notice. "Where has this fellow been?" Newshield snapped. "My
study? Oh, that is beyond the beyonds!"
"Then," answered Angorman, "we will get us gone. Our apologies." Gil, hoping
Newshield would buy it, headed for his guns. But Dulcet's nephew raised his
hand, and swords were drawn.
"No, Lord Angorman. Having come, you must stay." The heavies at the door ranged
themselves frankly around the room, waiting. Gil's stomach clenched, but he
hesitated to make a long move for the pistols; Dulcet and Newshield were both hi
his way. There were just too many men, too near, with bared blades. Newshield
shed his cloak and loosened his own weapon.
"The rest of this party will doubtless be in guest quarters," he said, picking
six of his men with a sweep of his arm. "You come with me." He selected four
82
more. "And you others make your way round, through the garden. Post yourselves
beneath their window, against escape."
Dulcet was stunned. "You . . . you knew they would be here?"
"He's got pages from Arrivals Macabre upstairs," Gil told Angorman. Newshield
appraised the American.
"Yes, I harbored a very important patron when he was in need. He did not find
what he sought hi the loose pages he brought, and so left them behind." He
smirked. "We would have taken you when you first came, but my aunt's chief
servitor got wind of it somehow. He fled, and would have betrayed me. It took us
all afternoon to track him down in the marshes. He perished with the Bright
Lady's name on his lips, stupid zealot."
He turned back to his men. "You know what is expected. Bear up; within the hour,
the Flaming Wheel will be on the whig to .the Hand of Salama. In one hundred
heartbeats we will go in at thejn. Harrowfoot, you will stay here with the
remaining men and guard these three."
They took torches and moved out, six to the staircase •that led to the guest
quarters, behind Newshield, and four more for the garden. That left eight in the
dining hall. They waited with unsheathed swords, leaving no doubt what would
happen if someone shouted a warning. Gil felt sick to his stomach, angry at
himself, very much afraid.
Perhaps the other servants would help? No, not against so many men-at-arms. He
felt a split second's pity for the hapless chief servitor, driven to desperate
courage by faith in the Bright Lady, run to ground by horsemen and baying dogs.
Something clicked. Short on time, he didn't even stop to look for flaws.
"Harrowfoot, you look like a reasonable guy to me." The man, hard-bitten ugly
whose mid-section had gone to paunch, glared suspiciously.
"I mean, who doesn't want to turn an honest profit?" Gil hastened. Angorman eyed
him noncommittally, but Harrowfoot's interest had been piqued.
"What profit is that, witling?"
"Hey, listen, I'm not with these people. Why can't you S3
just let me walk? It'd be worthwhile for you; there're a hundred gold bits hi my
saddlebag. You take 'em and I'll take off, how's that? Newshield won't care;
he's got what he wants."
Harrowfoot plucked the saddlebags out of the pile of gear in the corner, set
them on the table and rummaged through them. Gil tried to estimate how much time
he had. Hurry! "The right bag, the one that's tied off. They're at the bottom."
He bit his lip, trying to tell An-gonnan with eye contact, Ifs coming, get set.
The Saint-Commander only displayed contempt.
Harrowfoot, tearing things out of the bag, grinned to himself. If there were
money, he'd take it, but the out-lander would never leave the room alive. He
pulled items out and tossed them aside: a spare shirt, socks, a whetstone, a
wadded swatch of red cloth.
Gil saw that, and gathered himself. The dogs growled, showed fangs and fought to
break free with insane ferocity. One handler was dragged headlong, losing his
hold. His two dogs flung themselves directly at Harrowfoot and the strip of red
bunting Gil had saved from the attack on Woodsinger at Earthfast.
Harrowfoot went down with a scream. Everyone in the room was shouting. The
armsman nearest Gil was distracted. The American took a long step inside his
guard to knee him. He jumped the next man, whose sword pointed at Dulcet's
heart. The man was iust turning, having heard the thud of the kneeing and the
first guard's moan. Gil clamped an arm around his throat and, kicking the back
of his knee, hauled him back off balance. He bellowed to Andre and Ferrian,
wherever they were, to watch out. To Angorman he screamed, "Go for it!"
The Saint-Commander wrestled the sword from the second man, thrust Dulcet over
to the wall, and wove through confused foemen toward his axe.
The second handler's animals had turned on him and savaged him. They, too, now
threw themselves at Harrowfoot. Two guards were trying to beat them off him with
the flats of their blades. Men and hounds stabbed, bit, growled, cursed and
fought.
Gil put his second man away with a hammer blow to the base of the skull, but the
first was stumbling to his
84
feet. The American damned himself for not having nailed him right. Another guard
came around the table. Caught between them, Gil dove under the long, wide diinmg
board, strawberrying his hands and forearms.
Angorman had eluded one opponent. The melee of dogs and men diverted most
attention from him. Another foe closed with him. They flailed at each other,
using their broadswords two-handed. Angorman, used to his axe, was forced on the
defensive. He managed to draw his adversary around until their positions were
reversed. Cautiously withdrawing out of dueling distance, he threw his weapon at
the man, pivoted, and seized his greataxe.
The swordsman stepped back. One of his comrades, chasing Gil, broke off and came
around the table to his aid. Red Pilgrim was in the old man's hands. He nodded
to himself.
"Now, we shall see," he told them.
Gil, scuttling along between the table's ornate legs as blades whistled past him
blindly, heard a new sound, an ululating war' cry. He realized it was Angorman,
and spotted the swirl of the old man's robes and the snuffle of feet as the
fight resumed. There was the metal-to-metal clash of the duel. A man hit the
floor, blood running from his side.
Gil took a quick survey of stamping feet and running boots, rolled past polished
wooden griffin's limbs, and came up where he thought he'd be least noticed.
The hall was filled with turmoil. Harrowfoot was wheezing out his life, and the
dogs were dead or dying. Several of the opposition were down; as he watched,
Angorman dropped another.
Gil saw no stiffness in the Saint-Commander now. There was only lethal
precision, a facility with the six-foot axe that was nearly gymnastic. It
whipped through the air, taking red stains coming and going. It changed
direction in midair, hitting from any arc and every quarter, as if Angorman had
transcended gravity and velocity, ignoring or employing them at his pleasure.
Sheer dexterity was at work.
He advanced up the hall, his flickering shadow thrown huge on the walls by light
from the hearth. Red Pilgrim spun through loops and angles of its own fatal
85
geometries. Another armsman jumped forward, broadsword raised. The crescent
axehead eluded him, flew through his rib cage. Blood spurted and he toppled
sideways. Gil, ignored, back to a wall, caught his bearings. Angorman stopped
his advance, having reached Dul-cet's side. She was white-faced, hands gripped
together, but her gaze never left the Saint-Commander. He swept her behind him.
Newshield and his men swarmed back into the room, recalled by the fracas.
"Surrender," ordered Newshield, "or I will surely kfll you.**
Angorman, holding his eye, took the legendary great-axe around in a flourish
that left an arc of light hi the air.
The men with Newshield set their torches aside and advanced. The old man flicked
Red Pilgrim through a dazzling figure eight and came on again like a nimble,
deadly machine. One adroit change-vector and a man was down, his leg sliced
open. The rest became more cautious, spreading to encircle him. He laughed, a
wild gleam in his eye, and tossed his weapon into the air one-handed. It spun
quickly, its center of gravity just below its head, and returned to his hands.
He feinted in one direction, shifted his grip, and struck in another so fast
that Gil lost track of it. Angorman met sword cuts with the axe's head or
langets, or eluded them completely. He'd insert a flourish for love of it, but
the bewildering ellipses were always murderous.
Two men had pulled bucklers from the wall, coming at him from the sides. He
drove one back with an eager attack, then planted his feet firmly and swung on
the other. The buckler split; the arm beneath was nearly halved, its ulna and
radius both parted. The Saint-Commander had the axe back instantly as if, Gil
thought, it were made of bamboo and aluminum foil.
Another man had skirted the table, having spotted the American. Gil chucked a
footstool at him. Seeing his way was clear, he dashed to the corner and burrowed
for his holster. He fished the Browning out and cocked it, but when he turned
around again, the situation had changed. His pursuer had stopped and gone back,
Angorman having driven the other men off; but
86
Newshield had slipped around the Saint-Commander and now held his swordpoint up
under Dulcet's chin.
Red Pilgrim froze. Angorman's shoulders slumped as defeat came into his
carriage. Gil took up a stance, right shoulder to his target, feet planted
solidly. He set his left hand on his hip and brought the Browning up, straight
and steady, with his right. He inhaled, exhaled half a breath and held it.
Sighting, he squeezed the trigger slowly. A fierce delight swept through him. He
wanted to get the Mauser too, and empty both pistols, then take Dunstan's sword
and swing it until he was exhausted. His blood coursed tike electricity. He
fought the feeling down, needing composure.
He eased tension off his forefinger, lowering the barrel. The room was too dim,
and Dulcet and Newshield, in the shadows, too close together. Gil wasn't expert
enough to be sure he'd make the shot. Angorman was about to lay his weapon down
again.
Gil pointed the pistol's muzzle to the ceiling and let go twice. Everyone was
startled, but Angorman recovered almost at once. Changing his grasp, he whisked
the greataxe around, deep into Newshield's shoulder. The swordpoint, already
away from Dulcet's throat, fell. The younger man tottered, eyes bulging. A
second stroke opened his gullet. He collapsed. Dulcet sank her head into her
hands, weeping.
The others, terrified at the gunshots, jammed the door. Gil let them go, more as
a denial of his bloodlust than an act of mercy. Andre and Ferrian appeared, the
Horseblooded bearing his scimitar, the wizard with bow strung and arrow nocked.
Gil picked up a discarded torch and relit it from the hearth. Angorman awkwardly
tried to comfort Dulcet.
She shook him off, sobbing. "It is as it has always been. Death abides in you!"
He winced and withdrew his hand.
Frightened servants returned and worked to remove signs of the carnage. In time,
the story was pieced together. Newshield had sheltered Yardiff Bey after the
sorcerer had fled Earthfast. He had been one of the "Scholars" guested in the
manor house. The Hand of Salama had foreseen that the baby and Blazetongue would
come this way.
87
"Who would be better for Bey to recruit," Angorman asked Dulcet, "than a member
of your household?"
"That would be in character," Andre seconded. "Angorman would be bound to stop
here on the way south, but Newshield would have come after us had we not come to
him."
'There's something else," Gil maintained. "New-shield was talking to his crew
about how word would be winging to Bey. Within the hour, he said. What'd he
mean?"
Wrapped hi grief, Dulcet managed, "He keeps—kept, birds, pigeons of the message-
bearing kind. Perhaps that is it."
More questions led Gil and Andre to a tower room where cages held a half-dozen
carrier pigeons. They searched by torchlight, and discovered a wooden chest. The
wizard smashed the lock off it with one blow of his pommel.
Inside they found leg bands, hollow metal capsules and strips of foil with
characters written on them.
"Prearranged messages," Gil said. "Does one of those strips have a flaming
wheel?"
There were three strips with the mandala of Yardiff Bey.
"Which strip do we send, Andre?"
"All, for one or even two may be lost along the way."
"How do we know they'll fly to the right place?"
Andre deftly drew one bird from the cage. "They are all cooped together; it is
unlikely any would home to a different spot." He secured a band, with its
capsule, to the bird's leg and slipped in a strip with the mandala on it.
Throwing a heavy shutter open to the night, he let the pigeon fly. "A great pity
we cannot trace its route." The bird circled the tower twice then flew
southward. "But at least Bey should be deceived for a tune."
"We could wait for him," Gil whispered, fingering the Ace of Swords on its
chain. "When he shows to collect us, we could take him out." The simmering rage
he'd felt down in the hall washed through him again.
Andre tut-tutted. "He might arrive with enough men to take us out, despite your
weapons and my enchantments. Again, he may send someone else to do this errand,
or it may have been agreed Newshield was to
88
bring his captives south himself. We shall have to warn Dulcet to engage new
guardsmen."
He'd readied another bird. It joined the first. "Be content that, in all this,
we salvaged a respite from Yardiff Bey's traps. We shall soon be in Glyffa,
where his influence will be far less."
Gil yielded the point. Andre banded a third pigeon. Looking southward, the
American gripped the tarot around his neck. Andre was glad for the American that
sheer hatred did not bestow wings.
Chapter Eight
What has there been, to this Man's life of yours, but war upon Woman?
Anonymous Kasara's Plea
THEY left Dulcet's under a gunmetal sky. Sleep, food, baths and clean clothing
hadn't dispelled the gloom mat had settled over them. Dulcet had been restrained
with Angorman, pitying him; the incident had underscored an earlier rift in
their lives. She said her good-byes with determined reserve, and went to see to
the burial of her nephew, and the summoning of the justiciary.
Going south, the party ran into increased traffic, commercial and military. They
threaded their way past carriages and around boat-bodied wagons, and saw a
column of light cavalry that had halted while its rittmas-ter bartered with a
food vendor for rations. The brassard of the Order and transit letters got them
by unimpeded. A wide river valley brought them to the borders of Glyffa where,
as Gil had heard it, women ruled.
The frontier guardpost contained only two sentinels. They were helmeted women in
ringmail hauberks cov-
89
ered by blue tabbards. They carried cross-hilted hand-and-a-half swords, and one
held a glave, the other a bow. Both bore themselves in martial fashion with a
succinct, no-nonsense air. There was a wooden gate blocking the road, but the
women made no move to lift it. Gil had expected Andre to parley, but the pudgy
wizard hung back.
"This border is closed to all," announced the glave carrier.
"And might one inquire why?" asked Angorman. "War. It has overrun Vegand, and
come into Glvffa. The men of that nation were driven into our territories by
invaders from the Southwastelands." "And what will Glyffa do?"
"My own opinion, you mean? Make common cause with them, most likely. As may be,
this border is sealed."
"It'd be a cakewalk to sneak in or out by staving off the road," Gil pointed
out.
"Those who attempt it will find it risky business. We have our safeguards. But
enough; you cannot pass, and must perforce turn back."
"Our avowed way lies ahead, to Vegana," Angorman replied.
The bow was drawn, the polearm raised. "Your chosen path has led you on
hazardous ground, stranger," said the archer softly.
Gil broke in, "Hold it, whoa. Isn't there somebody we can talk to? It's really
important."
It was enough like concession to placate them. The arrowhead lowered a degree.
"Our High Constable, administrator of-the region, is due here later today. You
may make your plea to her if you will. But heed: On that side of the barrier
must you remain."
The travelers tree-hitched their horses, then made themselves comfortable on the
grass at the side of the road. The guardswomen re-entered their station house,
peeking out often to check up on them.
As the party passed waterskins around, Gil noticed autumn hadn't touched here
yet. Angorman sat cross-legged, drawing a hone across his axe blade with the
patience of years. The wizard sat like a Buddha, staring
90
out over Glyffa. Ferrian went aside a few paces to lie down and study clouds,
head pillowed on his arm. Woodsinger took the child and suckled her.
"How's it happen to be women in charge here?" Gil asked Andre. The honing
stopped a second, while Angorman gazed at the wizard. GU hadn't caught what had
passed between them.
Andre was a storyteller, always enjoying it, but now he had a distracted,
unwilling look. Gil had heard that Andre's mother was from Glyffa, but he'd
never asked either of the deCourteneys about it. Glyffa was fust one more
obstacle between GU MacDonald and Yardiff Bey.
Andre got started. "This was a place not much worse or better than most, over a
century ago. Its king paramount was young and headstrong, named Sunfavor.
Handsome, vain, doughty fighter, he thought himself irresistible to women. His
fancy lit on a courtier. Promised to another, she refused him. Her name was
Kasara.
"He grew wroth. To his own end, he instituted legal sanctions against the rights
of her sex. To him rallied men who concurred with him, or stood to gain by his
new laws. Soon, a woman couldn't own property, choose her own mate or cite any
birthright. To travel required consent of father, husband or brother. She was
forbidden reading, writing and numbers. Aye, and speaking out in public, too;
that pleased many men.
"Women who resisted and men who objected were squelched. Kasara escaped with her
fiance", who was a resourceful fellow, I suppose. She might have changed things
with a word and a brief surrender, but did not. Well, she was hi love, you see,
and her lover could not bear the thought any more than she.
"From her exile she reviled Sunfavor; that provoked even greater excesses.
Suppression became slavery outright. Two aborted insurrections led to mass
arrest and wholesale slaughter. Women were chattels, as cattle would be. Old
evils appeared, the piercing Virtue Ring, the locked chastity belt, whispered
moronisms about women's cycles and life-change. Punishment was meted for the
simple misfortune of infertility.
91
"Worship of the Bright Lady was, of course, outlawed. Even the Brotherhood could
not alter that. Sun-favor left his mark forever, making his name and country an
obscenity on the lips of any sane person.
"Late in life Kasara reappeared at the direction of dreams sent by the Goddess.
She declared that neither sex could rule the other, any more than the right hand
could chain the left. Kasara went unhindered, protected by unseen powers. A day
came when she entered Sunf avor's courtroom.
"She bade him end his crimes. He blanched with fright, and struck her down with
his scepter. A funeral pyre was built. The King lit it himself. Her husband lay
in chains, proscribed from interfering, though it might have been within his
ability.
"Flame blossomed. The final wrong was done.
"When it was finished, the Bright Lady made herself manifest to all of Glyffa.
They shrank from her in sudden anguish. All her glory was made into blinding
fury.
"Sunfavor's mind snapped. He threw himself on the pyre and was consumed. The
Bright Lady mandated that for one hundred years, men of Glyffa were to meditate
on what they had done. They would bear no arms, hunt no game, eat no meat, own
no property and do no harm to anyone. They were never to ride, nor take a wife.
They could engender children, but never know them.
"So that is the Mandate of Glyffa, and why its men are monkish and withdrawn.
But when the Mandate ends, and men have searched their consciences, they will
reveal what form they think life here should take. That is called the
Reconciliation. Until then, women conduct the country's affairs."
Something occurred to Gil. "Wait, you're from Glyffa, aren't you? How's it
you're not under that Mandate?"
The wizard's face closed up. "My sister and I have our own destinies to follow,
given long ago."
Gil rolled over on his back, sucking at a blade of grass. How much of that was
legend, how much verbatim truth? In the Crescent Lands, bald-faced lies and
unlaundered gospel were equally likely.
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Ferrian correctly saw the dust cloud to be cavalry. A troop came at the trot,
drawing up to the checkpoint. Its leader alighted.
She was taller than her two sentinels. Like them, she wore a long hauberk, but
her helmet was a brightly polished bascinet with white, spread wings fixed to
its sides. Throwing back her billowing sky-blue cape, she uncovered a wide belt
of tooled leather with bronze filigree. From it hung a hand-and-a-half sword and
gleaming dagger sheath. Removing her helmet, she asked her guardswomen questions
while they pointed to the party from Coramonde. Her skin was a light olive, her
face open and high-cheeked. A dark birthmark spilled down from the hairline over
her right ear to her collarbone.
She gave her women permission to dismount and rest, then came to the travelers.
Her blue-black hair was pinned hi mounds to pad her bascinet, Gil saw, and as
she scrutinized them her face creased, flashing white teeth. Her brown eyes had
a heavy-lidded look, but her posture was unsparingly correct.
"What is your business in Glyffa?" she asked.
Once more it was Angorman to the barrier. "Our endeavor enjoys the auspices of
the Crescent Moon."
She inspected the brassard on his slouch hat. Her mouth pursed hi thought, lips
fuller ^han when she'd narrowed her eyes at them. She tugged off mailed
gauntlets and leaned her elbows on the gate. Her hands were graceful, and slim.
"What bona fides do you offer?"
"May I ask to whom I speak?"
"I am High Constable of Region Blue, this Region. Yourself?"
A deep bow from the Saint-Commander. "Angorman, of the Order of the Axe."
Her eyes widened. "I thought you might be. We have only had tales of you here.
Is that Red Pilgrim then? The original one?"
He smiled benignly. "There is only one. But I am unused to your warm clime. If
we might continue our conversation inside—?"
She straightened and gave a thumbs-up behind her. The gate swung away. They all
trailed her into the
93
checkpoint building. Andre had Blazetongue, wrapped, on his shoulder.
There was a spare sort of mess hall there, built for more troops than used it
now. She seated herself at a bench, inviting them to do the same, keeping her
dark birthmark to the wall.
"We have spread ourselves thinly along the border. I suppose that much is
evident. Most of my troop strength had been reassigned southward. I am going
there myself, directly."
Gil spoke for the first time. "Your—your guards-women said there's been some
kind of invasion."
She checked him over frankly. "The men of Vegan£ have been thrown back over our
border by Southwaste-landers. We have made common cause with Vegana, not a
moment early. Now, what errand takes you through Glyffa? I must have the tale."
"We are on our way," Angorman said, "to bring this child back where she
belongs."
"And why is she so important?"
"Because she's connected to this," Gil answered, taking Blazetongue from Andre.
He unwrapped it and held it out. Andre had assured them they could trust the
women of Glyffa; they might as well find out.
She didn't try to take Blazetongue, but ran her fingertips down the rune-written
blade, perhaps seeing if it would burn at her touch. She whispered the sword's
name.
Gil nodded. "They used to call H Flarecore hi Cora-monde. This goes home too."
She looked from weapon to child. "We had heard the last survivor of the Royal
House of Vegan£ had been spirited away months ago. A baby girl, she was. This is
the same?"
"Without question," Angorman stated.
"Then, there will be jubilation in that beaten army." Her brow furrowed in
thought. "But this transcends my authority. You cannot be turned back, and I
certainly shan't allow you to go unaccompanied with Southwaste-landers abroad.
Ah, Red Pilgrim and Blazetongue side by side, when they are most needed. What a
goddess-sending! I live to see interesting times."
"The way to VeganA is closed?" 94
"VeganA is occupied soil. Still, the tide of battle will ebb after it carves its
sea-marks. We Sisters of the Line have withdrawn and withdrawn, beckoning the
South-wastelanders onto ground we chose. The battle will begin soon; I go there
with my contingent."
"Do the Southwastelanders not overextend themselves?" Angorman asked.
"We think so, for they have moved up every man for this coming fight."
"What about Death's Hold?" Gil interrupted.
She shrugged. "What of it?"
"We heard it was reoccupied, that Yardiff Bey was there."
"No. Or rather, not now. Death's Hold had been cleared of enemies in years long
gone by. Months ago, activity began there again, but we were too busy to go in
and dig the troublemakers out. Then, less than a week ago, the Mariners landed
in strength. Our news is that they cleaned it up, dispersing the evil there."
So, the Mariners had made good their promise to pursue their enemies wherever
they had to. Gil wondered if that meant Dunstan had been taken somewhere else;
it didn't sound as if Yardiff Bey had been located. The High Constable knew
nothing of his whereabouts nor had anyone sighted his demon-ship, Cloud Rider.
Gil pondered. Did it mean Bey had never been in Death's Hold? He'd hidden out
with Newshield after his flight from Barthfast, failing to find the secret he'd
hoped to uncover in his copy of Arrivals Macabre. Where had he gone from there,
back to Salama? But what about the insights of the Dreamdrowse? Muddled, the
American tried to rearrange the new data to make some sense.
The High Constable was saying, "You must continue your commission under my
protection. Whatever is left of the government of Vegani will be with my Liege,
the Trustee. Thus our two paths are one." She stood, tucking her gauntlets
through her belt. "We leave in short order."
Everyone concurred, glad for escort. Gil thought about going off on his own to
Death's Hold, but she'd sounded definite, telling him it was now empty. Besides,
there was the Faith Cup.
95
Andre was watching him, knowing what he was thinking. "If Bey is hidden, should
you not look for him where his minions are most numerous? If a Southwaste-lander
army is assembled, his attention must bear on it somehow. Your direction still
lies with ours."
Woodsinger and Ferrian were puttering around the child's rack, talking about
rigging a dustcover for her* since she'd be in the cavalry column. The High
Constable gauged the light as her troops scurried to their horses.
"We have another three hours' light before we must stop," she judged. To the two
sentinels she commanded, "This border's clear to the west; do your duty here as
best vou can. Do not throw your lives away foolishly if numbers are against you;
you are a watching detail only."
They lifted their hilts in salute. She turned, slipping an arm through
Angorman's elbow on one side and Woodsinger's on the other. "By the Lady, but
the men of Vegana will be delirious with these tidings!"
The travelers got their horses, joining her at the head of her column.
"Excuse me,'* Gil remembered to ask as they moved out, "what do we call you?"
"I am Swan," she threw back over her blue-caped shoulder.
The ride was punctuated with clinking accouter-ments, tintinnabulation of bits,
beating hooves on the Tangent and the slap of scabbards. It was interspersed
with walks to rest the horses, and occasional stops for water. Swan had a
single-minded approach to her job.
They camped as the sun was setting. Swan stood to one side, hands clasped behind
her back, to insure that her troops were fed and squared away to her
satisfaction. The Sisters of the Line, regular soldiery of Glyffa, were as
proficient as any Gil had seen in the Crescent Lands, but made less banter than
most.
That night, Angorman conducted a ritual of worship to the Bright Lady.
Woodsinger joined Swan and most Sisters of the Line. Against his habit, Gil
lingered near, watching along with Ferrian and Andre. The service
96
was subdued, much given to silent prayer and meditation, but there were sweet
songs too.
It ended with each worshiper going off to spend time alone. Gil went to check
Jeb Stuart and found Swan standing by the picket line, blue cape pulled around
her. Memories jumped up in his face of the Lady Duskwind, whom he*d met under
similar circumstances. Where he'd been about to talk to Swan, he turned away,
propelled by recollections and brooding.
Their breakfast was hard biscuit and strips of dry, plastic-tasting jerky. Gil
used a stiff little pig-bristled brush he carried to clean his teeth, but the
brackish taste remained in his mouth. He decided not to shave; he usually let
his beard go for a few days before using the sliver of a straight razor he had.
But he never let his beard hide the powderburn on his cheek, and kept his hair
trimmed back from the scar on his forehead. Seeing them in his reflection was a
regular reminder he wished to maintain.
He knuckled his eyes, and saddled Jeb, yawning. Rubbing the scar, he tried to
estimate how much closer he was to Yardiff Bey today than yesterday.
"Which way's Death's Hold?" he asked Andre.
The wizard pointed westward. "There, along the shore of the Outer Sea. We'll be
going away from it soon.*'
Gil gnawed his lip. Andre added, "If Bey's at Death's Hold, he will be there for
a time to come. But if he is behind enemy lines, he may not be there for long.
You have set the most likely course."
"Why should he be with the army? Why wouldn't he sneak through in one of his
disguises or use magic? Or even fly in, in Cloud Ruler?"
Andre averted his glance, muttering. "His arts are less efficacious here. Rely
upon it; he will not use his demon-ship, nor wish to employ spells."
Swan came to them. "We link up with my Liege in four days, but there is a
stretch of ground to cover."
Gil watched the sunrise. Time and distance from home, hanging over him from the
service of the preceding night, descended without warning. His parents* faces
were hard to summon up, his brother's impossible. Had
97
the transition to this Reality deadened him down inside, where his feelings
lived? Or did it have to do with his single-mindedness, hunting Bey? He fingered
the chain that held the Ace, shook the mood off and mounted.
The day's ride took them down through a forest of venerable old lindens that
hadn't heard an axe in generations, then across a dry, arid plain of red earth
and brown scrub. Toward evening they came into a string of shallow valleys where
narrow streams moved quickly. They saw lumbering supply trains bound southward,
weighted with supplies for the war effort. It was odd to see a sweating teamster
cuss out her horses, and have a broken strap on Jeb's headstall repaired by a
handy-woman quartermaster sergeant.
He drew no conclusions about the men of Glyffa, because he met none. They were
there to be seen, usually in groups, cowled and cloaked, walking silently along
the side of the road, but they eschewed contact with anyone but themselves.
They moved hard again, all through the next day. Terrain became drier and
weather hotter. On the third day they passed once more into lands that were well
watered. They pitched camp in a stand of pine where beds of dead brown needles
muffled hoofbeats, their mounts kicking up clots of them packed with black
humus.
The American had seen to Jeb. Passing a large boulder up-cropping in the middle
of the bivouac, he noticed a man sitting on it. Gil was sure the guy hadn't been
there when they'd stopped, but couldn't understand how he'd gotten through the
sentry cordons.
A young man, the stranger sat on the rock, slightly above the American's head,
resting buttocks on heels with hands on knees, like a judoka waiting for a
match. He wore a simple green robe and toque of weighty, twisted gold cable
around his neck. He was lean, with the olive skin and straight, coal-black hair
of Glyffa, trimmed at his shoulders. His feet were bare, used to constant
walking. He was somehow familiar, but not in a wav Gil could pin down. He exuded
inner calm.
Gil found the Browning had gotten into his hand. He put it away with chagrin.
Though others had noticed the man now, there wasn't any outcry. Presently, Swan
ar-
98
rived. The visitor slipped down to sneak to her. Gil figured out what that vague
familiaritv had been.
"Jade," she said, "brother, how good in my heart to see vou."
"Sister, it is good."
"What brings you here. Jade?" Swan's brother was the first Glyffan male Gil had
seen up close, aside from Andre. whn was obviously the all-around exception. He
stuck around.
"I saw your troop as I meditated in the hills, and came <^own, thinking it might
be you. What has come to pass1* Your aura is of battle."
"You know that is not for you to ask, brother. The hour for men to enter
everydav affairs is not yet."
"Yet we may think. Swan. What will we find?"
She answered, "When the Mandate is done and vou men have made your decision,
what shall we women discover?"
His eves were veiled. "The last of the old have died, or will soon. The Mandate
will be complete, and you will know our minds."
His glance caught the American. Gil had been puz-zling over his last remark,
thinking it might have something to do with Andre; now he held himself
carefully, watching Jade.
"You move in rarefied circles now. Swan," her brother told her. "Here I see a
restless Seeker, who outdoes us all." He backed away, onlv half talking to Gil.
**You have come a far way, and have even farther to go." His right hand went
through a rapid, intricate Sign. Then he went to Swan, who presented her cheek
for his chaste kiss. He strode from camp.
"Odd dude," Gil remarked to fill the silence.
She made a sound, neither agreement nor objection. She had half-turned from him,
used to keeping her birthmark from the sight of others. He moved casually to
stand to her left; she relaxed perceptibly.
"Not like vourself at the verv least, eh?" she replied. 4<We are permitted
little contact with male siblings in Glyffa, but Jade searched me out from
curiosity about our mother. She died birthing him. when I was young, but I
remember her well. He and I have spoken, oh, five times or more now. A very
close relationship, in
99
Glyffa." She clasped her hands behind her back, head tilted down, debating
whether she wished to finish. She did.
"I brought the column by this route, some small measure from its way, because,
for some reason, I wished to see him. I knew he would probably be up among the
hillsides; his favorite places are there.'*
"What was that hand-signal thing he did to me before he went?"
"It was a blessing of sorts, but—" She hesitated. "It means he wishes the pity
of the Bright Lady for you."
He looked to where Jade had disappeared into the gloaming. "I'd like to know
what they're coming up with, Jade and the others."
"I, too. Whatever their decision, it is Mandated that we abide by it. We hold
the country in trust, until that tune comes. That is our learning Trial." Her
face shone, but Gil retained his conviction that all final solutions were
suspect.
"Are they all as remote as Jade?"
"Many. Their paths lie deep within themselves. Others are not, doing what they
can to aid and sustain their fellows. Some are formed in mendicant or praying
orders, but many operate vast retreats where they care for anyone who is sick or
injured. They set aside chambers where a woman may come and conceive a child,
but she must depart when it is accomplished, and never see the man again."
Gil chewed that one over. "The population's down since a hundred years ago,
right?"
She confirmed it. "But not dangerously so." Mischief crept into her face. "That
will change with the Reconciliation."
Sadness retook her. Gil wanted to ask why, with a battle looming, she'd detoured
to have a word with her brother. To see him a last time? He dismissed the
question; her own affair. As he often did with profundities, he changed the
subject
"We get to your boss' camp tomorrow?"
"Aye. There may already be fighting. The Southwaste-landers are in great array."
"Who're they anyway, these Southwastelanders?"
"How can you not know? They are enlisted of
100
Shardishku-Salam£, a broad term for many tribes from lands south of the Central
Sea. They ward the Masters against invasion, and used to make the occasional
raid into Vegana. But now they aggress in hordes, mustering a mighty corps for
this enterprise."
"Wait a minute; Salama's mounting major campaigns in the Crescent Lands?"
"You are not the least perceptive of listeners."
*Tm a dipstick." He'd never thought the Masters could mass that much manpower,
or whv would Bey have spent decades weaseling control of Coramonde? Apparently
they'd just wanted to save their best shot for the main event. Gil knew he was
spitballing. His attention went back to Swan. "You, however, aren't. You're
about a pure talent."
She inclined her head in mocking gratitude. He colored in embarrassment. She
laughed. "And what uncommon fellow are you? Old Sir Angorman, with his far-
northern accent, still speaks with less novelty than you. You are altogether
odder than your companions."
He couldn't think of a pat way to explain alternate Realities. He swiped a line
from Van Duyn. "I, uh, I hail from different probabilities than you."
She shrugged, "As you like."
"Hey, no offense. It's tough to run down for you. I'm outside my own place and
time. Yeah, I guess that's it."
"Seeking what?" He didn't get it. "Jade said it; what are you seeking, seeker?"
He thought hidden thoughts feeling the Ace against his chest. She stretched and
vawned. "You are a mystery, open and yet closed. Do not speak from social grace,
but I should be interested in hearing what you have to say, when you are
truthing."
She made prompt departure. He went to find his campfire. Angorman and Andre were
gone; they'd been spending time off on their own in earnest conversation since
they'd hit Glyffa. Woodsinger and the baby had been allocated a bigger tent,
rineed bv guards, close to where Swan bunked. That left Ferrian reclining by the
fire. Gil eased himself down.
"We have gone from skirmish to battle," Ferrian said, not turning from
contemplation of the flames. "Shall we then go from battle to war?"
101
"Looks like."
The disquiet in Ferrian was finding its way out "When I was Champion-at-arms of
the Wild Riders, always I counseled against war. I thought, If I am strongest,
no man dare deride my rede; the Horseblooded will stay at peace." He put his
hand to his empty sleeve, "No man has that strength. I grow to hate the sword
and spear, Gil MacDonald."
Gil said nothing. Ferrian rolled over to sleep, but his despondency was
infectious. The American pulled the chain up, held the Ace. He tilted the tarot
and watched firelight lick across the sword, the firmament. It was as if a
universe were burning.
Chapter Nine
7 am nearer home today
Than 1 have ever been before . . .
Phoebe Cary "Nearer Home"
"THE outlanders, your Grace." The travelers entered the tent on cue.
When they'd arrived at the camp of the Trustee of Glyffa, spread over a high
saddle of land above a broad river, Swan had been admitted immediately to the
pavilion that was her Liege's headquarters. Gil, beating dust off himself, saw
many wounded around him and concluded that the Sisters of the Line had been
mauled. There were about seven thousand of them, not counting however many were
farther downslope in the camp of the ousted army of occupied VeganA.
The Trustee turned out to be a slender old woman with an oval face, green eyes,
and gray hair shot through with white. She wore no armor, though the women
clustered around her did. She was seated,
102
dressed hi flowing vestments of springtime colors, gathered _at her waist by a
broad yellow sash set with lapis lazuli. She held a tall shepherdess' crook
which, Swan had said, was her staff of office. It was inscribed with cursive
spell-phrases and curlicued sigils.
She swept them with her gaze. It paused on Angor-man and his cockaded hat, but
when the Trustee rose, it was to Woodsinger she went, asking to see the baby.
Her voice was reedy, but measured. After she'd looked at the child and heard her
laugh, she addressed the others.
"Please pardon me. So much strife have I seen these last weeks that I had to
take myself a moment to focus on life." She looked around again. "But, did Swan
not say you were five besides the infant?"
Andre wasn't with them. He'd hung back, at the entrance. The Trustee's glance
found him, and her face lost animation. Swan was as mystified as anyone.
The wizard came slowly into the room and stood before the Trustee. "Greetings,
Andre," she said at last. There was emotional weight to it. "You could not be
more desperately needed. You have my gratitude."
His voice strained. "Phases end, lives converge. This reunion was due . . .
Mother."
She reached out, and he put his hand in hers. Gil saw now how closely the green
of her eyes matched Ga-brielle's. He'd heard the deCourteneys' mother was a
famous enchantress, but it had never occurred to him she'd be Trustee. Chairs
were brought, and Andre seated to her right. His plump, stubbled face was at
peace for the first time in days.
The Trustee turned to her son's companions. "Pardon us; we have not had one
another's company for— how long, Andre?" Her eyes fell away from his. "Since
your Kasara was taken from you." She sighed. "Foolish anger of the moment, and
my fault, I acknowledge it."
Gil was fitting hi the pieces. So Andre had been Ka-sara's lover, later her
husband. When she'd been executed, when the Bright Lady had imposed her Mandate
on Glyffa, Andre must have defied it, exempted himself. The falling-out with his
mother had lasted nearly a century.
103
"And your sister, Andre? I have word from her only very infrequently. Is she
well?"
"Quite. And happy, I believe."
"Then I am content. I worried when she went with you from Glyffa, but knew you
two would need one another."
Angorman cleared his throat; they were all feeling uncomfortable. "The campaign
has gone ill, madam?'*
"Not well, say rather. Would you not all take somewhat to drink?" They accepted
tots of brandy. Swan performed introductions as chairs were brought
"Your bringing Blazetongue and the heiress is- good hearing," the Trustee
declared. "The Veganan commander is due for council. I know he will find this
more to his liking."
Gil was worried about Salama's manpower. "How bad are you outnumbered?"
"Badly enough, though we have pruned down the odds a bit since the beginning.
Many landings were made on Vegana's southern coasts. They lost several ports,
and the Masters poured hi more men. They swept VeganS and hold most of it, if
uneasily."
"Which Southwastelanders are these?" Angorman inquired.
"They are of the Occhlon, once a peaceful race. The Five recruited them through
Yardiff Bey; now they are truest fanatics, avid to lay down their lives for the
Masters, foremost in the favor of Salama.
'They took Vegana in four pitched battles. We have fought them twice within our
borders, drawing them on. They are eager for us though; I suspect they would
relish an opportunity to trounce us rowdy bitches who have emptied so many of
their saddles, pour souls." She shifted her shepherdess' crook. "This war must
be resolved; the Reconciliation is not far off, eh, Swan?"
The High Constable of Region Blue agreed. Hands clasped behind her back, she
went to the pavilion's entrance, her thoughts on her many ideas to improve life
in Glyffa for all. "Your legacy will be human weal," she said to the Trustee at
length, "and fulfillment. Your name will live forever."
Swan stepped back from the entrance, seeing someone coming. A man marched into
the tent, the Corn-104
mander of Vegana, Lord Blacktarget. He was barrel-chested, with eyes ringed with
proclamations of fatigue. He doffed his helmet, holding it in his left arm. His
head was shaved smooth, gleaming in the light. His hand went up to touch back
his long mustachios, which were waxed stiff. He wore an unusual blazonry, a red
circle with a heart done in jet, like a fencing mark. His broadsword hilt was
set with a carnelian-eyed basilisk, and his cloak was stained and muddy from the
campaign.
The Trustee rose. "Please welcome new friends, my Lord Blacktarget. They bear
best tidings to us all." The travelers were quickly named.
"What tidmgs are they?" Blacktarget asked curtly. Andre took the wrappings from
Blazetongue. He handed it to the astonished general.
"But—the Sword of Kings. This is past belief! I know it from old songs, but I
never thought I—" His gaze caressed the blade, then suspicion showed on his
face. "From whence comes it?"
"Sword and owner found their way to one another," Andre said, "in a time of
convergences."
"Yes, but how?" Andre's words suddenly penetrated. "Owner, did you say? The
Princess has been found?"
Woodsinger came forward. In the middle of the drama the baby had fallen asleep.
Blacktarget's shock was visible. "Stolen the night her parents were killed," he
recalled, "but I have held the. Princess Cynosure myself, and I know her. Note
the shape of her ear. It is indisputably Cynosure. How many prayers entreated
for our sovereign and our symbol of fortune at war?"
He took a seat, unsettled, even while he exulted. "These are the things I need,
at the moment I need them. Now will Vegana triumph." He jumped up again, his
arms wide over Cynosure, so the shadow of Blaze-tongue fell across her.
"Blacktarget the fool! The fates have thrown back the night, just when I
despaired most!" He swung around, laughing, impetuous enough in that moment to
catch up the Trustee and give her a hug; they'd had their share of disagreements
during the campaign. She stopped him with a little ahem!, and he sobered.
"Stories are to be told, I think," she said. 105
There was jubilation in the camp of Vegana. Lord Blacktarget had gone before
them holding the baby and Blazetongue, basking in their hurrahs. But the South-
wastelanders were moving up, and the next day would bring battle.
While the Veganans were cheering Blacktarget, the Trustee was telling Swan and
the company. "They shall need all their fervor tomorrow. The enemy has more
horse than we, some of it heavily armored warriors like knights of Coramonde. I
pray we will see Sword and Princess in their appointed place. Andre is right;
there are vast forces moving those two toward Vegana, for reasons that we do not
fully understand.'*
Angorman averred, "The Order of the Axe will work to that, and you may rely upon
my help tomorrow." Andre and Ferrian seconded him.
Gil was smoothing uo a diplomatic way to steer clear of the impending battle.
"What if it's a decoy? Bey's used sorcery trying to get at the baby and sword.
Why not again?"
Andre, Swan and the Trustee became grave. The High Constable beckoned him,
saying, "Come, I shall show you the disposition of the camp, and where you may
shelter."
She led him to the northern face of the hill. He waited, knowing he'd committed
a gaffe, but not seeing how. She began, "You know of Gabrielle, Andre's sister?
Good, and you are familiar with the details of her parentage?"
"Springbuck told me something about it, the Ku-Mor-Mai, that is. Her father was
Yardiff Bey, right?"
"Before the Mandate, long before she was Trustee, the deCourteneys' mother was
an enchantress, an aristocrat of Glyffa. She took for husband the man whose name
Gabrielle and Andre bear, the first deCourteney, who came from Outside, a
different place and time, as you did. He had some talent in magic. To make the
tale quick, he grew jealous; he was the lesser magician and she the enchantress
paramount.
"Dissatisfied, he closed an infernal contract. He was deluded, and his
forfeiture was to be his soul. But an alternative was granted, that he could
escape if he yielded his wife and her favors for a night. Her love
106
must have been strong; she agreed. Gabrielle was begat. As you say, it was
discovered later that the succubus who fathered Gabrielle was Yardiff Bey in a
borrowed shape, furthering his plans.
"Gabrielle has been in communication with her mother. The Trustee is aware now
that it was the Hand of Salami who ill-used her."
Gil interrupted, "I got all that. Tm sorry I brought it up to her, but the
question remains. How do we know Bey's not moving around Glyffa already?"
"Do you not see? During that poisoned union the Trustee listened and observed
the inner workings of his sorcery. She heard his oaths, the Powers he invoked.
She learned the concealed lines of promise and commitment. In a contest of spell
and counterspell, she would have a weighty advantage by that, for she has
penetrated her enemy's most guarded activities. Bey would not much care to face
her here, I am certain, or even come nigh hi Cloud Ruler. This is Glyffa, where
all hearts and minds serve the Bright Lady, and his might is less here."
Gil digested that. "What about someplace else? Could she beat him outside
Glyffa?"
"That is moot. They would be close-matched, but the Trustee is old, old beyond
anyone's reckoning, and weary. In Glyffa no foe could stand against her, but
outside—well, I pray it is not tested."
"Swan, d'you think Bey is with the Southwasteland-ers?"
"It might be so. There is such a stench of the Masters hanging over them that
the Hand could be among them and not be detected even by the Trustee. It mav be
that he directs them, to retake the sword and the child and break asunder the
focal point of the Bright Lady's influence, at once."
The former sergeant saw he'd have to hang on with the Glyffans. Cynosure and
Blazetongue were important to Bey, and now the Southwastelanders had suddenly
driven deep into the Crescent Lands. What could that mean, except that Yardiff
Bey was out to recover them? Could that mean Dunstan the Berserker was being
held somewhere close by?
Staring, thinking, Gil spied a motley collection of 107
shabby tents to the north. A constant trickle of people was coming up from the
plain below the camp, adding to the makeshift village. He asked who they were.
"Displaced persons, flying before the Occhlon," Swan explained.
"Have they been checked out?"
"Lord Blacktarget has men posted on the plain, and hi the mountains. He says no
Southwastelander could masquerade and fool Crescent Landers; their accents are
too barbarous and their stink too conspicuous."
"Do you feel like betting on it?"
"We cannot leave them on the plain; when the sun rises it will be a
battleground. See, there is even a troupe of wandering entertainers among them."
There was a ludicrous clown, a red-clad acrobat, and a fire-eater. A fat brown
bear danced, and a tall, skele-tally lean juggler kept a fountain of knives and
apples going.
"Worry not, they will be watched tonight. By tomorrow they will have decamped.
None of them want to be near the encounter that will come with the sun."
Yeah, he told himself, resigned that he had to stick around, neither do I.
Since the army was short on horses, Gil was requested to serve as a courier. He
was no expert rider, but it suited him better than direct involvement. Angor-man
and Woodsinger yielded their horses to others, she to remain under guard with
little Cynosure in the Ve-gan£n camp, he to command a company of infantry from
Vegana" whose captain had been killed. Fenian, for reasons of his own, declined
to follow any banner, but would serve with the orderlies whose job was to drag
the wounded from battle and get them to medical stations at the rear. It was
risky work; orderlies were themselves often cut down in the heat of the
struggle.
Andre was another question, the only living Glyffan male who'd seen combat. He
was a seasoned leader, aside from talents of magic. Reconsidering the Mandate,
the Trustee admitted Andre had always been exempt from its bans. He was placed
over a squadron of heavy cavalry, to ride before a Glyffan flag for the first
time in nearly a century.
108
Dawn came chilly and hazy. Gil reported to the Trustee's pavilion after a
restless night. It was swarming with officers and functionaries, - and High
Constables with capes colored for then- Regions hi red, yellow, brown and gray.
The Trustee sat across a little table from Swan, both of them ignoring the
hubbub, playing chess as if they were alone, and this an idle day. The
chesspieces were large and topped by little lighted candles. The game was going
rapidly, moves coming with unusual haste, with little or no lag between. Swan's
hair was pinned up, to fit her bascinet; her armor glinted from diligent
polishing.
An aide stepped in Gil's way, demanding his business. The Trustee looked up,
saying he could be admitted. She asked if Woodsinger and Cynosure were guarded;
he said they were, in the tent of Blacktarget himself. "What are the candles
for?"
Sunrise wasn't far off. The two women began snuffing out the flames. Swan
explained. "It is a variation developed by the Trustee. When a candle goes out,
its piece is eliminated from the game. Wicks are of assorted duration, and we
pick which pieces get which lifespans at random, except that the king goes
untuned."
"Sounds like a fast game."
"Verily," she replied, moving her chair back, "and a martial one. It has the
merciless pressure of time, an uncaring randomness and rude unpredictability."
The Trustee was on her feet now. "I enjoyed that, my dear; it is helpful to put
one's concerns aside. You are becoming good at this wildcard game. How much do
you owe me?"
"More than I can pay. But this time I shall win."
The Trustee patted her arm. "I shall checkmate you in three moves when we
return, you have my promise. If not, consider us even."
"Done."
The old woman took up the crook of her office. People in the tent became totally
attentive. "Each of you has her particular instructions," she saidt "and if you
but keep them hi mind, all will be well." She lifted the crook. Everybody but
Gil bowed to receive her benedic-
109
tion. As she recited the blessing her eye caught the American's. He dipped his
head to her once, politely. Gravely, she winked in return.
Then everyone was moving. Swan went past, bidding him good fortune hastily.
Someone shoved an armload of hardware into his hands. He found himself holding a
lance of polished ebony and a shield of brightly painted leather, rimmed and
studded with iron, bearing the Trustee's device of a green unicorn. There was
also a pair of greaves, rusty ones whose dark stains suggested their previous
owner hadn't been very lucky.
He was about to protest; he'd be no match for an experienced opponent. Then he
saw that he could throw the stuff away if he wanted, and—who knew?—he might need
it. Outside, he buckled the greaves on clumsily, took the lance and tested its
balance. His muscles tensed unconsciously, ready for impact. He felt a twinge of
the ferocity that had filled him hi Dulcet's hall.
The conjoined armies were drawn up, waiting. There was movement far out across
the plain, the Occhlon leaving their camp and taking up positions.
Lord Blacktarget and the men of Vegand were to take the right flank, stretching
down to the river's side. The general could be seen haranguing his men, waving
Blazetongue, though he intended to leave the sword behind.
The left flank, to be anchored at the foot of the slopes, was under Swan. She
had two thousand troops, mostly light cavalry and archers, backed by four
companies of pikewomen.
Gil watched the Occhlon assembly writhing its way into order. He couldn't see
much, except that there seemed to be an awful lot of them. The Trustee called
for her horse; she would command the center herself. The women closest to her
repeated the call. They were all veteran commanders, wily fighters.
He mounted Jeb Stuart and trailed the Trustee and her knot of advisors and aides
to her position at the center. They passed through ranks of waiting soldiers of
both sexes, who resembled those he'd known in his own world, hi a way. Young,
worried, they were examining their feelings, thinking ten thousand thoughts of
how the day would go. He caught snatches of conversation.
110
"What should I do if—"; "Suppose my enemy comes at me so—"; "The grip of the
lance is the thing, remember it and you will be—."
He passed squatting pike-bearers and straight-backed lancers, and ranks of
nervous sword-and-buckler infantry anticipating the order to shield-lock. The
Trustee was greeted with some cheers, but more silence. This army had lost
before and might again today, portents or no portents. These were all people who
would die if it did.
The Trustee took her place on slightly higher ground, her green unicorn banner
nearby. She took one last look right, left and behind, then raised her crook.
Trumpets blared around him, and Gil's belly twisted. The entire army began a
slow walking pace across the plain. Early-morning stillness left battle pennons
limp on staffs and spears. He wiggled the lance to seat it in its rest. His
hands were damp; his heart banged in his chest. He hated the idea of a large-
scale clash, where he could get himself wasted from any direction.
The enemy stepped off with crashing cymbals and thundering drums. Gil noticed
that the point of his lance was bobbing around and realized he'd crouched in the
saddle and clamped it to his side in anticioation. If he actually had to use it,
a rigid grip would spoil his aim. He sat erect again. His fingers flexed at the
en-armes of his shield.
The enemy stopped when their right flank, facing Swan and her Sisters of the
Line along the slope, came to high ground of its own. Then the Occhlon center
advanced to stand and form a salient point. The men at the river bank, fronting
Lord Blacktarget, staved put The river ran swiftly, deeply at this point,
offering no fording place for miles, and that was one of the reasons for which
the Trustee had chosen this spot.
Both sides halted. They exchanged challenges of a sort, soaring horn blasts of
the Crescent Lands and cymbals and drums of the Southwastelanders. Then there
was silence, and for the next ten minutes nothing happened at all.
Gil knew this was common in the Crescent Lands; these were people who trusted in
defense, fortification, armor, shields. They preferred to let their opponents
111
make the first move. He fidgeted as sweat ran down from the padded brim of his
cap.
The Trustee conferred with her privy councilors. Finally, she ordered: "Archers
forward." There was no need for riders to carry the word this early, when
trumpets could be heard and movements clearly seen. All along the lines of the
North, bowmen and bowwomen stepped out, limbering strings, drawing shafts. The
battle's first phase had started.
Chapter Ten
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking . . .
Sir Walter Scott
The Lady of the Lake
THE archers stopped about ten paces out, taking maul-hammers from their backs.
Sharpened stakes were pounded into the ground at a forward cant as defense
against cavalry. Lengthy pavise shields, protection from enemy missiles, were
held by assistants while the archers shook out their quivers, arranging their
arrows at their feet.
The Sisters of the Line were armed with slightly lighter bows; few had the
height and length of arm to pull the heavyweights some men preferred. The range
was extreme. The archers began lofting long flight arrows in high arcs, saving
their livery shafts for closer combat. Gil could hear bowstrings snapping on
leather bracers up and down the line, and the whizz of pile-headed arrows. They
flew beyond the wall of enemy shields, but he couldn't tell how much effect they
had. The shooting went on for a minute, then bowmen emerged from the Occhlon
ranks, set themselves up hi much the same way and returned fire. The Southwaste-
112
landers' bows were giant recurve weapons, over six feet long, but simple "self"
bows, not composite; they lacked the range of the Crescent Landers'. Moreover,
the Occhlon used a pinch-draw in their release, less effective than the northern
two- and three-fingered draws. Only a few of their shots found their way among
the Crescent Landers. Gil raised his shield whenever he saw a salvo coming, but
no shaft dropped near bun.
As the Trustee had hoped, the uneven archery duel tweaked the Southwastelanders
to move. A sally of fleet horsemen swept up the river bank, their places hi the
ranks taken immediately by reserves. Some of the southerners wore mottled armor
with bizarre patterns of decoration. Swan had told Gil that there were warriors
among the enemy who fashioned their panoply from skins of the huge snakes and
lizards of their desert.
Lord Blacktarget and his men swept their swords out Their war-horses, hearing
the sound, danced and reared in anticipation. The men of Vegana rode out to meet
the foe before the Occhlon could get in among the stakes and take a toll of
archers. The two sides hit with scores of individual collisions. A dust cloud
went up in the hazy light while cries and chants mixed with the horns and
cymbals. Gil expected to see the Trustee rush reinforcements in, but it didn't
happen. The ruler of Glyffa regarded this as an early probe and held back from
committing herself. The Occhlon pressed hard, but Gil heard a thousand throats
hollering Vegand! above the melee. The attempt to roll up the Trustee's right
flank faltered, reduced to maddened charge and countercharge over short
distances, with swords, maces and axes in sharp opposition at close quarters.
Off to the left an attack was launched against Swan's command, but because the
land dipped and rose that way, Gil couldn't see clearly. He began to appreciate
the importance of gonfalons and banners. Everyone in the armies—himself
included—depended on the battle flags to tell if then- side was moving forward,
making a stand or being driven back. The Trustee told him to go tell a
particular cavalry unit to stand ready. He spurred away, trying to keep some
speed and still not gallop over massed soldiers in his way. He found the correct
outfit and relayed the order. The Sisters of the Line
113
were already in their files, nervously adjusting helmets, lances and shields.
Finding his way back, he went along the seam of the two armies on the right
flank, where men of Vegan£ marked time next to Glyffan women, Gil was amazed
again at their youth. They called to him for news but he couldn't stop. He knew,
though, that in their place he'd have ripped a bypasser out of the saddle and
clubbed the latest reports out of him.
The leader of the reserve element came up and awaited orders to move. The
Trustee instructed her to go hi either direction when the next probe came, but
to wait toward the left flank. Then she ordered Gil to see how things were going
on the Vegandn flank.
He barrel-rode off again, cutting deeply behind his own lines. The front might
shift down there, and he was a messenger, not a grunt. The arrow showers had
stopped nearer the river, the sides being too intermingled.
The fighting had overflowed into the river. The clay bank and bed were too
treacherous to maneuver on with a horse; men were clashing on foot, the river
running around their legs, muddy-red. Then he spotted Lord Blacktarget.
The general had dismounted and waded out chest-deep, holding the extreme end of
his flank himself. A rope around his waist ran back and slightly upstream,
belaved by two husky squires. He was jubilant, sure that the battle would go his
way. He'd called for his piper, who stood on the river bank blowing a lusty war-
song. Lord Blacktarget would occasionally bellow a snatch of the lyrics, waiting
for the next adversary. •
His two-handed broadsword whirled and chopped, throwing back every opponent.
Further downstream, Gil could see corpses of men and horses being whisked away
in the current. The Occhlon had lost an ambitious gambit, trying to outflank
through the river itself. As he watched, Blacktarget lost his footing and was
yanked up again by the two squires.
The river bank was in the firm control of Vegand again, so the general had
himself hauled in. Dripping and wounded, he accepted his wineskin from an aide
114
and drank deeply, while his injuries were being bound. His pink skull gleamed
with sweat and muddy water.
In response to the Trustee's inquiry, he leaned on his broadsword and studied
the front "This may have been the feint, or may be a feint-in-deception. We will
hold here against any attack, but I will retain my reserves. Tell her Vegand
needs no succor." Forgetting Gil completely, he called for his horse. The piper
struck up another song.
The Trustee heard the reply while monitoring her worrisome left flank. "Needs no
succor, eh?" she repeated, as her aides muttered among themselves. "That was not
his claim a fortnight ago. He hates subordinating himself to me, but if he holds
his end of things I am content." She peered more closely to the left. "The
Southwastelanders do not like it there, by the water with Blacktarget; he is
secure. Send the first reserve element to Swan." It wasn't Gil's turn yet, so
another rider galloped off.
The sky had become overcast. Gil looked down to the center where Andre should be
and saw the heavy cavalry was no longer there, replaced by a new unit. He asked
one of the aides about it.
"There was a quick, impudent sally while you were gone," she said. She
disapproved of his inquisitiveness, but knew he was somehow favored by the
Trustee. "Andre deCourteney was hurt, taken back in one of the wagons, his
contingent replaced." Gil fought the impulse to rein around and go see how the
wizard was, unsure that he could even find him.
More commanders were coming up now, as units were rotated in gradual attrition.
The Trustee still hesitated to group her main strength. Gil viewed the fitful
migrations of the banners, forward in conquest or backward in disarray. This
wasn't his kind of military action, chafing on an open field while slow,
sometimes hours-long maneuvers took shape. He'd served in an army of tactical
radios, ah" observers, choppers, artillery and personnel carriers. Operations
had been mobile, fast-breaking. Sitting on a horse marking time had worn his
patience out quickly.
He noticed the Trustee was unoccupied. "Any word on Andre?" he asked. Aides
glowered.
115
"None," she said, having forgotten her son in the absorptions of the day. "If
you would do me a service, go rear and inquire," Her mind reverted at once to
the bat-tie.
He threaded his way back through waiting soldiers, cavalry who stood hi their
stirrups and infantry who held one another on their shoulders, craning for a
view. Further to the rear, those waiting were more relaxed, passing time. At the
very edge of the plain .the chirur-geons had set up their crude field operations
hi an open tent with wooden slabs on which they performed desperate surgery. A
constant flow of wounded was the engagement's yield.
Gil spotted Ferrian. Answering to his name, the Horseblooded didn't stop his
work. He carried men and women groaning and screaming their pain to where they
must wait until they could be attended to. Gil finally halted him by grabbing
his shoulder over an empty sleeve. There was a vacant look in the brawny Horse-
blooded's eyes. He motioned to the wounded, "So many, so very many.'*
Gil shook him. "Forget that. Where's deCourteney?"
The left hand pointed; Gil released him.
The wizard was sitting beside a water barrel, rewrap-ping his wounded side more
to his liking. Seeing Gil, he achieved a wan grin. "I shall live, it seems," he
conceded. Gil heard sounds of the wounded being treated with measures nearly as
sanguinary as the battle itself. He avoided looking into the tent.
"Where's your horse?"
"Appropriated as soon as ever I fell. Ferrian was first to my side, and carried
me to safety."
"Ferrian better be cool. He's losing his grip."
Andre stood up angrily. "Do you know what he has dealt with today? Then go,
behind the tent."
Training his eyes to the ground, he did as Andre bid him, unwillingly. In the
area behind the tent were rows of the dead, butchered and savaged in a hundred
ways, darkening the earth with blood. To the side was a pile of what he thought
at first to be wood, or discarded armor. Closer, he saw they were human limbs,
blackening as they lay, arms and legs and hands and feet too ruined to salvage.
White bone poked from bloated flesh;
116
clouds of big, shiny black flies covered the piles. The steamy reek drove him
back.
He caught shaky balance with one hand on a tent post and fought his compulsion
to retch until his stomach inverted. Andre pulled him away. He was breathing
harder, heart racing. "I'm clearing out of here; let's go." When Gil had
remounted, the wizard climbed up on Jeb's croup. Gil caught a last look at
Ferrian, assisting a stumbling lancer who was pressing her intestines back hi
and crying like a lost child. The American kicked hard. With a peevish snort,
Jeb Stuart bolted away.
"Why don't you and your mother use magic?" he called, as they cantered along.
The wind of their passage took away much of the reply.
"Too close . . . preparation ... on their side too."
It began to drizzle. Gil reined hi to find he'd drifted too far left. There was
intense fighting along the foot of the slopes. He could see Swan's banner, with
her white-winged namesake. He decided things were going to go the way they were
going to go, no matter where Gilbert A. MacDonald was, and wanted to see if the
High Constable was all right. Andre made no objection.
Others were going that way. The two rode past a detachment of infantry with
Angorman at its head, and swapped news.
The assault on Lord Blacktarget had indeed been a feint, the light sally at Swan
a screen for the advance of a larger force. The whole left flank could be rolled
back if it wasn't stopped. Angorman was bringing up his sword-and-shield men to
protect the archers. Gil hurried on.
The Sisters of the Line must have repelled the attack and gamed ground; there
were trampled Occhlon corpses at the rear of their position. It was Gil's first
sight of them close up. They weren't unusual, just men who were dead. They were
a taller race than the Ve-ganans, with slightly darker skin and hair. These wore
armor of cuir bolli, faced and shaped with metal. Their weapons looked light,
slender swords both curved and straight, and shorter lances. But. Gil
remembered, there were supposed to be more heavily armed and armored
Southwastelanders somewhere.
117
He worked forward, Andre clinging to him, past groups of archers and strings of
pikewomen crouching behind mantlets. Dust swirled thickly; they heard the
ringing of swords and yells of combatants. A captain rode by, not noticing they
weren't part of her unit. "Up! Up to the line and 'ware. Their knights come
against us now. We broke their last onset, but another will come soon."
The wounded were being dragged away from a point in the line where it had
thinned. Swan was there, dismounted for a rest. She'd taken off her helmet, and
an aide dashed a bucket of water on her face, cooling her in her stifling armor.
She waved wearily. "How goes the day?" Gil told her as much as he knew. She
listened, again turning her head to hold her birthmark away. "Those clanking
ironclads will be down on us again," she admitted. "I had never dealt with plate
armor before. It seems rather clumsy. We shall stop them."
Gil, who'd seen knights of Coramonde in full career, wasn't so sure. He couldn't
see many of them, though; maybe two hundred had drawn up on a rise a quarter-
mile away and formed a wedge, probably to be followed by the more numerous heavy
cavalry.
"And what of your pikeworaen?" Andre asked.
She motioned rearward with a thumb. "There. I thought they stood no chance
against those behemoths in plate."
"How long are their pikes?"
"Ten, or perhaps eleven feet."
"Mmm, not good, but perhaps sufficient. I advise you to bring them up in
support, High Constable. Let the enemy through your center, stop the knights
with pikewomen and try carving them up from their flanks."
She ordered the infantry up, then looked to Gil. "What do you think, Seeker?"
He shrugged. "Ask me tonight." He was still in turmoil, angry at what he'd seen
and heard through the morning.
"I will. They say fighting on the river bank has gotten sharper, but the men of
Vegana" are happy for that. I believe the day will be decided here."
Angorman arrived and dispersed his       swordsmen
118
among the pikewomen, placing himself at the head of their formation. Someone
shouted; the enemy knights were moving out at a trot. Swan mounted at once, and
Gil let Andre down.
That vicious something that had been hovering at the outer circle of his
thoughts began to take form. Seeing the charge, Gil felt his pulse hammer. It
was as if the Occhlon advance was the final affront, obscene provocation.
Ignoring Andre's call, he fell in at the end of Swan's riders, wanting to see
what would happen.
They moved forward at a walk, then a canter. A horn winded. Dressed and aligned,
they broke into the charge, Swan in the van. The High Constable of Region Blue
hunkered down behind spear and shield and met her antagonist, who led the
Occhlon. She downed him at first impact, her point skillfully catching his
helmet on its crest, bursting its retaining laces and carrying him backward off
his horse. He landed with a clang.
The two sides rammed into each other while Swan stopped to recover her own
balance. Gil raced bv, all restraint gone, hunting an opponent, calling out,
"Nice lick!" She shouted something, but he didn't catch it.
He sported an enemy on a roan charger. They bore in on each other by unspoken
consent. The man crouched behind his triangular shield. Jeb's mane was stiff as
a flag hi Gil's face. He knew he should have been scared, but wasn't. The new
thing on the rim of his awareness was overriding fear with volcanic anger.
As trained, they came in on each other's left side, shield to shield, lances
held loosely until the last instant. The American kept his point more or less
aligned, knowing he'd have to target in the last moment before meeting. The
drizzle had made the lance slippery. Jeb, more experienced than his rider,
gathered himself for collision just before it happened. The two men clamped
knees to their horses' sides, clutched their weapons and threw all their weight
forward. The Occhlon let go a battle cry that the American, in his emotional
transport, never heard.
Their spears transversed into shields. Gil's skidded; the Occhlon's didn't. The
jolt was like being clothes-lined, blind-sided and body-blocked at the same
time. The man felt Gil going and gave his point a clever twist,
119
to kill him right then. Jeb did a kind of change-step, and Gil almost found his
balance. Then he toppled sideways and backward as the Southwastelander came
around to finish him.
The fall released that thing that had waited in the American. He ignored the
pain of the fall and came up in a fit of virulence so vivid he felt he could
murder with his will alone. He'd dropped his shield and lance, and took no
notice of Jeb, who stood waiting for him. He drew the Browning, raised it in
sidelong stance and shot the Occhlon. It gave him an awful elation he'd never
known before.
There were outcries all around him. Horses screamed, panic-stricken from the
shot and smell. The heavy knights had cut a swath through the Sisters of the
Line, and he was surrounded by foemen. It suited him well. He emptied the
Browning a shot at a time, with a feral care that he kill as many as he could.
He barely noticed the autoloader's buck, greeting its explosions, a form of
malign homecoming.
Swan came up, having lost her spear, to engage an Occhlon with sword and shield.
She slashed, striking sparks from the other's blade, their horses whistling
angrily and battering one another. Her shield was dented and her sword notched,
and it seemed the knight would win. Gil hardly noticed it was the High Constable
hi jeopardy when he smoked her opponent He was in a separate world of misted
ebullition.
Angorman dashed up with swordsmen and pike-women at his heels, the trap ruined
by Gil's madness. The Saint-Commander made do as best he could, bringing the
fight out to them. A knight charged; Angorman dodged to one side, chopping with
Red Pilgrim. The Occhlon's leg was severed, and the chausse that covered it. The
leg topoled to one side of his horse, the knight to the other. Angorman was
already busy with his next antagonist
Swan's banner went forward. Assorted elements under her scrambled to fill the
gap and close up after the cavalry. The Occhlon had been stopped by the
countercharge and the terror effect of the Browning. Now they drew back. Gil ran
after them, forgetting Jeb. He'd reloaded, and began howling, firing as he went.
120
Glyffan cavalry pounded past him. Swan might not know exactly what had happened,
but she'd seen the opening and knew how to use that Enemy archers and infantry
had followed in the wake of the knights. Now they were milling around. The
Sisters of the Line came down on them like harpies, driving them back into each
other in a rain of sword strokes.
Some Southwasteland halberdiers made a stand. The High Constable dismounted with
a troop of her riders and, with swords and parrying daggers, slipped in among
the flashing polearms. Several of them fell, but once the Glyffans were past the
halberd heads, the Oc-chlons were defenseless. Many dropped their weapons and
fled. The remnant was quickly overrun.
Gil ran to join, dropping his empty pistol. He'd nearly forgotten what the
conflict was about, but wanted passionately to be part of it. But as he ran he
felt an ebbing. It became more difficult to think. He slowed to a walk, then
stopped. The rain dripped from his face.
His sense of equilibrium waffled. He caught his balance with a sidestep. It
seemed extremely hot and bright, as if the sun were out, filling the sky. His
legs gave, and he found himself sitting on the ground. Then he keeled over. In
his state, it was a relief.
Chapter Eleven
A book may be as great a thing as a battle. Benjamin Disraeli Memoir of Isaac
D'lsraeli
His head was propped against a rock, its graininess scraping the skin beneath
his hair. He opened his eyes, expecting a dizzy spin to start, but none did. His
steel cap had been removed, the Browning placed by his side,
121
The field was cluttered with bodies of allies and enemies, and wounded of both
sides. The victors were doing what they could for all.
Swan, the Trustee and Angorman were near. The High Constable went down on one
knee to study him with untelling brown eyes.
"The Saint-Commander explained your weapons to us," she said. "They helped break
the charge. But why did you not tell us you are Berserker?"
Who, me? he thought, as Andre appeared. "All it was, was I lost my head. I'm not
berserk, I know, 'cause I have this friend Dunstan who—"
He stopped and gaped. Andre had found a disk of polished metal, a trapping of
some kind. He held it to reflect Gil's face, or what looked like it, drastically
altered. There was saliva drying on his chin and at the comers of his mouth. His
skin was waxy, his eyes huge and glassy. From fresh cuts he saw he'd chewed and
bitten his lips. The scar on his forehead and the dark smear of powderbura stood
out starkly on pale flesh. He'd never seen himself like this, but had seen
someone in this condition exactly.
Dunstan after the Berserkergang; I look just like him, Then a flood of horror
pried at his sanity. God, please, no! He knew it was true though; it had been
waiting to flare up in him.
Andre said, "Some of Dunstan's Rage must have passed to you when you essayed to
pull him from Bey's mystic circle in Earthfast. I do not know more." The
American moaned. "But you can live with it, as Dunstan did, and control it. You
must; it will come more strongly hereafter."
Gil's face was buried in his hands. A new thought occurred; did this mean
Dunstan was still alive? Was it some shared bond with his friend? Some calm
returned. "Was there any sign of Bey, Andre?" "None whatsoever."
The Trustee was telling Swan to examine the enemy camp; the Occhlon had been
routed when their flank was rolled back along the heights. "We shall pursue them
as soon as we may," the old woman was saying. "It is not beyond chance that they
may stand to fight again. Lord Blacktarget promises we shall gather more
122
strength in VeganS with word of Blazetongue and Cynosure, and victory." She
looked at Gil, then away.
Andre helped him to hjs feet, handed him his pistol and got him onto Jeb Stuart.
The wizard didn't seem disabled by his wound at all. Keeping their pace slow,
they all rode to the Southwastelanders* abandoned pavilions. Inside the biggest
tent, Gil let himself down among some cushions. Energy was creeping back into
him as the others started sorting through the enemy commander's property. He
supposed he might as well help search; there might be a hint on Bey's
whereabouts. They were poking around sacks, cases and portable shelves when
Andre called. He held a small wooden chest. Irt it were jars and boxes, stained
with painty stuff that he said was makeup, and weighted balls that a juggler
might use. They all thought about the traveling troupe, in the refugee camp.
Among them and perhaps among other displaced persons as well, there had been
Occhlon. And maybe, Gil thought, Yardiff Bey.
"We should not delay the pursuit of the Occhlon,** the Trustee said, "but
neither can we let southern spies go unhunted.*1
"What can they be after?" Andre asked himself aloud. "Blazetongue and the
child?**
**No," the Trustee responded, "I have word that all is well in the camp."
"What would the Southwastelanders be so hot to get their hands on?" Gil puzzled.
"There is Arrivals Macabre" Andre replied. "Bey is eager to get it"
"What is this?" the Trustee snapped. They told her of Bey's obsession with
Rydolomo's book. "There is a copy at Ladentree," she said.
"What's Ladentree?" Gil wanted to know.
"It is our great library."
"My God, that's it!" He glared at Andre. "Why didn't you tell us about the
library?"
The wizard ran a hand over his balding head. "When last I was in Glyffa,
Ladentree was a monastery, but had no great store of books.**
Swan told him, "It was made a center of study and thought when the Mandate was
imposed. Precious
123
books and documents were brought there from every corner of Glyffa."
"That's where he'll go," Gil stated flatly. Goddam Bey's got more disguises than
a Chinese fox.
The Trustee became brisk. "We act immediately. Swan, take your best women and
give chase. Be alert; they may have changed guises yet again. I shall secure
this area and follow."
"I'm going too," Gil told her. He didn't have to worry about joining combat;
numbers would be on the side of the Sisters of the Line. Worrying about what to
do if Bey were there, he looked expectantly at Andre.
"I shall accompany you, of course," the wizard said.
"Good enough. Uh, what about Woodsinger and the
kid?"
"I shall stay with her for now," Angorman volunteered. "Then I will come along
with the Trustee."
Swan set out a subaltern to gather the Sisters she wanted. A horse was found for
Andre. Ferrian appeared, having gotten his mount back, to see how they'd fared.
The Horseblooded was taciturn, avoiding their eyes; Andre explained what they'd
discovered, finishing, "We leave for Ladentree now. Would you come?" Ferrian
frowned in thought.
"C'mon, man," the American shouted. "There's nntliing you can do here. Let it
go."
"Your aid would be appreciated," Swan said. Gil looked at her in some surprise.
"Then you shall have it," Ferrian replied.
The High Constable had chosen fifty of her personal guardswomen, an elite. They
found, as expected, that the entertainers had decamped as scon as battle had
begun and left behind tents, baggage and the trained bear. Gil stopped long
enough to pick up Dirge.
It was just over seven miles to Ladentree. The southern army must have been
maneuvering to get as close to the library as it could. Had the Glyflans waited
much longer before engaging them, the Southwastelanders might well have taken it
The countryside was quiet and empty, with everyone either recruited or in
hiding. Gil began to hope that they could trap Bey or even get Dunstan back
alive. In any case, the book mustn't fall into enemy hands.
124
He was pleased in a tiredly dispassionate way that Cynosure and Blazetongue were
safe, but glad to be free of them. As with Dunstan, the lethargy that had
replaced Berserkergang passed away, leaving reflective calm.
They sighted Ladentree silhouetted against the setting sun, a rambling, airy
place on a hill above a diminutive lake. It sprawled grandly in galleries,
courtyards, repositories, study chambers, vaults, shelf rooms, auditoriums and
copy studios. Its walls were blue-black stone, its roofs of thick orange tile.
They came to the front of the place, a tall arch of amandola marble. There were
fresh hoofprints, deep and wide-spaced from speed, leading into the building
itself. They left their own horses outside and Swan posted ten cavalrywomen to
hold the gate. Gil left Dirge and Dunstan's sword behind, not to be slowed up.
The mam corridor was broad as a city street, roofed in elaborate groining and
fan-tracery, lit by wide windows.
There were fresh marks on the time-worn floors, pale dints of iron horseshoes on
the darker surface. A word from Swan, and her Sisters of the Line drew swords.
They raced along the corridors past paneled doors, their boot scuffs barely
disturbing the vast quiet. They came on a body curled on the floor, a man with a
broken length of wood beside him. He was dying, a deep wound in his side. Swan
cried out, recognizing her brother lade.
Some of the glaze left his eyes when he saw his sister. "Swan, you are needed;
you are here." He strayed into unconsciousness for a second, but forced himself
back out of it "They came hours ago, riding then- horses through our halls. We
couldn't stop them. But we would not help them look for what they wanted, and
they could not rind it. At last they became angry, beyond temper. Silverquill—**
He paused for a fit of coughing on his own blood. *The Senior Sage tried to run.
They chased him."
Gil wanted to tell him to save his strength but there was no point; the wound
had as good as killed him already. "Oh Swan, I broke the Mandate. I fought them
with that length of wood to make them stop. The tem-
125
perance of years ruined hi a moment of—" He was racked with coughs again. The
blood ran freely from his mouth now.
She hugged his head to her. "You did what you must," she said softly. "Warrior-
spirit, you did what you could, no sin." He looked up in hope, his last
exertion. He slumped, breathing leaving him. She looked up at the sound of boot
heels.
It was Gil MacDonald, pistol hi his fist. She thought at first that the
Berserkergang was on him, but he was composed. Voices had attracted his
attention, drifting from an inner courtyard. Fenian, Andre and the guardswomen
went after the American. Swan remained at her brother's side. Stern war captain,
shrewd administrator, she was lenient with herself for once, taking a moment out
for mourning.
Gil came to a pair of beautiful doors of reticulated carving. Through them he
could see Sages of Ladentree, cowering from three members of the troupe. One of
the intruders, the bear trainer, stood aside, holding some tiny white thing in
his hand. Gil saw it was some minuscule songbird.
The Occhlon dropped the bird and clapped his hands together loudly. There was an
exaltation of white wings up from the trees. Some birds flew to safety but many,
close to the man, dropped with helpless paroxysms of wings to lie on the turf.
Apparently they were so fragile that loud noises would stop their hearts. The
Occhlon found that entertaining. He unslung a horn, to see how many he could
frighten hi adjoining courts and rafters.
The doors were latched from the outside. Gil took a step back and kicked. The
painful rebound of his foot felt good, making him assert control; he intended
never to capitulate to the Berserkergang again. There was a splintering of old
wood. The doors slammed open.
The bear handler saw him, dropped the horn and put hand to hilt. The Mauser's
muzzle came up.
"Give it up," Gil offered, "or HI kill you. It wouldn't bother me. Decide!"
The Southwastelander's blade came free. Before Gil could get a shot off, Ferrian
dodged around him, scimitar in his left hand, for a revenge of his own. Gil
lowered the pistol.
126
The two fought up and back, hard boots scoring soft turf meant for bare feet or
slippers. The other South-wastelanders, juggler and clown, waited, outnumbered.
Ferrian was plainly the better fencer, with a flexible wrist and inspired sense
of timing. The other, with a husky build much like the Horseblooded's, using his
accustomed hand, found himself losing. Their blades wound, rang and rang again,
investigating the scenarios of death. Ferrian's scimitar was first to execute
one. The curved blade leapt at the Southwastelander's heart The man died hi
cruel surprise.
The surviving members of the troupe drew together; cavalrywomen moved to disarm
them. Then one of the Glyffans dropped, a long war arrow's fletch at her back, a
pale-head sticking out of her mailed breast. Gil searched upward, saw an archer
on a rooftop and cursed himself—Screw-up!—for not being more cautious. He
brought the Mauser up, fired, missed. A second arrow found Ferrian's thigh; Gil
squeezed off three more shots. The bowman's body hurled from its perch.
The American demanded of the quailed Sages where the other Southwastelanders
were. "Abroad in the library," one answered. "There were many of them.**
Swan arrived to investigate the shots. She split her troops into search teams.
Gil went with seven Glyffans, to help. He never knew how many rooms he ran
through, doors he yanked open, praying Bey's inhumanly calm, one-eyed stare
would meet him on the other side. There were racks of clay tablets whose age he
couldn't even guess, ages-old works of art. There were enormous books bound hi
gold, set with precious gems to show their rarity and worth. There were piles of
scrolls and illuminated folios, maps and charts. He saw plant specimens and
items of natural history, but ignored them all. He went on, dreamlike, ripping
aside endless curtains, turning countless door handles, running, ever running
through the maze of corridors.
Twilight turned as they searched. They had divided the offshoots among them. Gil
fell behind, making his inspections thoroughly. The Sisters had outdistanced him
and gone to the next stretch of corridors when he heard a whisper.
Pistol ready, he traced it back to an unlighted alcove. 127
Then he recognized a skinny frame and lean, melancholy face.
"Dunstan!" He lowered the handgun and would've let out a yell, but the
Horseblooded, at the far end of a hidden hallway, hushed him with a finger sign.
He was armed with a short stabbing sword, and wanted quiet. "Is Bey here?" Gil
mouthed silently. With a nod and a signal to follow, Dunstan slipped down a
flight of stairs. Gil complied.
Trailing the Horseblooded's fleet figure, he was only a few yards behind when
Dunstan slipped through a door. Gil came more slowly, then jumped into the
doorway. His glance skimmed past shelf on shelf of giant books, an ancient suit
of armor on a display pedestal in a corner, an iron lance in its gauntlet, and a
hearth, Then he saw Dunstan.
His friend stood, sword at the breast of Yardiff Bey. With the sorcerer at
gunpoint, Gil knew fear and elation; the Hand of Salamd had forced his hatred
far beyond what Gil had thought were its extreme limits. Here was his brilliant,
elusive nemesis, everything that made him awaken in sweat and clouded his
thought.
"Move away, Dunstan." He lifted his pistols, both muzzles leveled at Bey. His
friend didn't move from his line of fire.
"Stay your hand a moment," said the Horseblooded. "I said stand clear." His
thumbs were moving the hammers back to half-cock. Whatever reasons Dunstan had,
he didn't want to hear them.
"Nay, I will say my piece," the other insisted. "No!" The muzzles shook now.
Yardiff Bey glared at the American, unmoved. Gil took another step, meaning to
angle around for an unobstructed line of fire. "Look out; I'm gonna—"
A terrific weight hit his shoulders, driving him to the floor. Something crashed
off his steel cap; star clusters went off in his eyes. His arms were wrenched
back, the pistols torn from his hands. By the time he could focus there were
sharp points at each side of his neck, just behind the jaw. He croaked his
friend's name.
The Horseblooded stepped away from the sorcerer. Yardiff Bey blithely waved a
hand. Dunstan shimmered and became a stranger, a dark-skinned Occhlon. Gil
128
hung his head abjectly. "Oh no; oh no, no.** There were more Southwastelanders,
who began to laugh.
"You would not have been deceived by so hasty a glamour,** Bey told him, "had
you not wanted to see Dunstan so very much. I did but work with what was already
hi your mind.**
They shoved him against the hearth and held blades at his waist and throat. In
this moment of complete disaster, he accepted it listlessly. There was a large
workta-ble in the room, cluttered with books, low-burned candles and a long
parchment list. Gil stared without seeing it, while Bey gathered implements,
preparing for hasty departure. On the table was a huge leather binder, another
intact jacket of Arrivals Macabre. It was empty, though its raised seal was
undisturbed, and its stacked pagevbundled securely, lay near it.
"Be intelligent for once, insect," the sorcerer was saying. "You were observed,
led astray and captured; it is accomplished fact If needs be, you are our safe
passage past the Glyffans. You may yet see Dunstan in the flesh. Simply obey.**
Gil's scalp burned. Insect? He fought vertigo, a little less punchy. "You blew
it when you came to Ladentree. They*ll never let you walk.'*
The Hand of Salami permitted himself an indulgent smile, the least retaliation.
More than that would have been undue credit to the outlander, whose deception by
carrier pigeon had caused the sorcerer to cancel standby plans to take Cynosure
and Blazetongue. Bey had, at last, the prize secreted by Rydolomo. "Take the
pages and put them in my pouch," he ordered, "and leave the sealed cover. It is
of no use to me. We depart through the rear gates."
Gil shuddered. He would have opened himself to the Berserkergang in that moment,
but it wasn't in him and he didn't know how to exert it. He made an effort to
push the fuzz back in his brain, staring down at the empty covers of Rydolomo's
book, his fright making every detail of binder and seal leap up at him with
abnormal clarity. Then it struck him exactly what he was seeing. He pressed
slightly against the weapons pricking him. He would need room, a piddling bit of
leeway.
129
''You'll never make it," he told the sorcerer, "Andre deCourteney's here."
Yardiff Bey looked at him as if he were crazy. "What care I for an imbecile like
deCourteney?"
"He and the Glyffans will stop you, but it's not too late to make a deal.
Otherwise they'll bring you down before you can get out of Glyffa." He was
making it up as he went, playing to his guards. If they were distracted, he had
one chance. "Maybe Andre can't stop you," he leaned forward at the waist and
dagger points backed off fractions of an inch, "but the Trustee can, can't she?"
The Southwastelanders looked to their leader. Gil's heart flip-flopped. They
didn't have to buy it; they just had to see he was hi a dialogue with the Hand
of Salami.
"She is not nigh," Bey replied, "or I should know it. I will be long away long
before she is."
"Oh yeah? There's something you should know." Locking in on the sorcerer's
ocular and the dark, liquid eye beside it, he leaned forward even more. The
blades retreated one more degree. It was high-voltage triumph when his hand
touched the table's edge. "The Trustee knows you're Gabrielle's father. She'll
have your ass." His other hand got to the table. "You and these poor slobs are
through." He eased down, forearms resting on the table, torso over it. "And
Salama's going down for good." The two points pressing his ribs didn't matter;
he'd gone as far as he needed to. The sorcerer, bored with him, turned to fasten
his bags, gathering thauma-turgical tools.
"So save yourself, Bey." Gil pushed himself backward, bringing his hands back
toward himself, brushing the cover of Arrivals Macabre with his wrist "And tell
these scumbags to let loose."
He dared not look at the table now, and could only hope he'd gauged it right,
and that Bey wouldn't see. He perspired, waiting, lost control of his impulse,
and his eyes strayed to the empty binder. He'd moved it just enough to bring
Rydolomo's seal up to a candle stub's flame. The men holding him hadn't noticed.
He held his breath.
That alerted Yardiff Bey. He turned, wondering what 130
had made the American go silent. He followed Gil's eyes, saw it all. His voice
was a whiplash. "The seal, fools!" A thread of melted wax ran from it, even as
he longed at the binder. The Occhlon stirred, mystified, indecisive.
There was an explosion over the table. The Occhlons flinched back. Gil, braced
for it, threw them off, spun, and dodged around the corner of the hearth,
crouching in its momentary protection.
The guardian entity confined by the seal of Rydo-lomo hovered in the air. Its
tendrils flailed at one astounded Southwastelander, then another. They bounced
through the air like tennis balls, one crunching up against the mantelpiece, the
other dumping the table over, landing five feet beyond. The two handguns jumped
from his clutch. Yardiff Bey ducked in to scoop up the bundled pages of Arrivals
Macabre.
Another Occhlon, the acrobat hi red who'd perched over the lintel and taken Gil,
sprang in and hewed at the guardian with his yataghan. A pulse of light crackled
down the blade. The Southwastelander dropped, arm charred, and there was the
smell of smoking flesh.
Gil, peeking around the corner of the hearth, saw Yardiff Bey slide himself
across the polished floor. The window at the opposite end of the shelf room was
too far away. The sorcerer's hand was near the latch of his ocular, as if he
debated unleashing whatever was contained there. Then he turned and swung the
door open.
The entity whirled angrily, tracking the movement. It went drifting after him.
Yardiff Bey tumbled through the door and hauled it shut behind him; without time
to ready a spell, he chose to escape with his treasure. Perhaps the guardian
would finish the American, perhaps not; the overriding priority was to bear away
the secret he'd won.
One of his men tried to do the same, but collided with the closing door. The
entity flowed over and around him. He shrilled hi agony and collapsed backward,
blackened. The door's wood burned where the thing had touched it.
The guardian throbbed darkly for a moment, then flared brighter. The last
Southwastelander flattened against the wall, whites showing all around his eyes.
131
The sunball drifted nearer. He sidled along the shelf, slowly. It played with
him for a moment, then rushed to block his way. He reversed field, and it
circled to stop him again. The Occhlon's mind snapped; he ran at it with his
blade high, screaming, "Bey-yyy!" This tune the guardian flashed, blindingly.
The desert man became a human firebrand, dropping to the floor, his sword
twisted and molten.
Gil knelt, quivering with the need to fight or ran. The guardian rotated slowly,
waiting. He saw a straight run for the door would be suicide, but he'd noticed
that the being recovered for a second or two after each discharge. It wafted
toward him gently. He rose to his feet
He scrambled around the pedestal on which the armor suit stood. The guardian
detected him, came at him. He tugged hard, and hopped to the side as the armor
tottered forward. The entity stopped short, but the iron lance clamped in the
suit's gauntlet plunged into it Streamers of energy spun out, dancing down the
lance and armor, which began to soften and ran, glowing, in abrupt
thermoplasticity. Waves of heat filled the room and globs of scoria, blasted
free, started more fires. For a heartbeat, the thing was dimmer.
He charged past the guardian, doubled over. An instant later its effulgence
returned. The guardian circled and dove at him from behind just as he leapt one
Soutn-wastelander*s charred corpse and threw the burning door open. Realizing he
couldn't get through in time, he pushed himself to one side. The sunball boiled
past, into the corridor, searing him.
It raged against the stone opposite the door. He slammed the door shut and,
absurdly, shot the bolt Backing away, watching the portal, he paid no attention
to the fires and stench of burned flesh. As he'd feared, the door began to
crackle more earnestly; smoke and flame seeped in around it, indicating the
guardian's effort to re-enter and continue its vigilance. He scooped up his
pistols and headed for the window.
There was a drop into darkness; he had no idea how far up he was. But the
decision was easy; the cuckolded guardian was nearly through the door. He hung
by his fingers from the sill and let go. He fell less than ten feet
He rose and stumbled through blackness. Red light 132
flickering from the window didn't help much, but at least the guardian evinced
no interest in coming after him. Wading blindly through shrubs and flower beds,
he found a wall and groped along until he came to a door. Inside, he trotted
slowly, pistols out, and picked up his bearings. He raced to the juncture of
corridors where the search teams had divided.
There he found Andre, Swan and some of the Sages along with Sisters of the Line.
He gasped his story; they had to chase Bey at once. But Andre rapped, "The
guardian must be stopped first, and the fires. They will destroy lives, and
Ladentree." He pounded away, Swan and some of the Glyflans at his back, over
Gil's violent protests.
Ferrian was reclining against a wall, leg bandaged. "One of the teams was set
upon by more Occhlon," he informed the American, "and a skirmish was fought. The
Southwastelanders killed and injured many."
"If we don't nab Bey right now there'll be lots worse than that. He's got what
he came for." His eye fell on the Sages. He grabbed one, a slender old man with
a carefully trimmed beard and high, smooth forehead.
"Take me through this damn maze, to the rear gates." The Sage drew himself up.
"Remove your hand," he ordered, his expression saying he meant it, even though
fighting was prohibited to him. Gil complied. The Sage turned to his fellows.
"Go, help the Sisters of the Line in any way you may." He immediately set off
down the main corridor. In time, through twisting hallways and wide passages, he
guided Gil to a final door. The American edged past, drew both guns and eased it
open. Horseshoes battered the earth.
He got to the open gates and fired at shadows from frustration, but heard the
hoofbeats dying away into the night. Maggie's drawers, he chided himself; I
missed. There was no other horse there. The Mauser was empty. He dashed back the
way he'd come.
It wasn't hard to find Swan and Andre; smoke and commotion drew him to them. The
wizard had used a Dismissal on the guardian, but the fires had taken hold,
endangering the library. Swan directed the Sisters hi fighting the blaze, the
Sages working side by side with
133
them, using sand, water and their own robes. Gil got the High Constable's
attention, relating what had happened.
"We cannot hie after him now," she said, wiping her smudged cheek with a
blistered hand. Her blue cape was scorched.
He grated, "We can't do anything else. We can only collar him if we start now."
She blew up. "I have casualties to think about! My brother's dead, and if
Ladentree is consumed Glyffa loses half its heritage. So go, chase him yourself
if you must; I have no time to waste beating the bushes in the night. Now leave
me be!" She pushed past him.
He went to the wizard. "It's you and me. We have to take Bey ourselves."
Andre shook his head regretfully. "He has more Southwastelanders with him, and
we know not where he is gone. He trapped you once tonight; would you make it
twice?"
Gil was disbelieving. **What*s wrong with you?"
Andre's tone was hard. "I have been against Bey for longer years than you can
imagine. This is not the closest I have come to him, only to lose him." Andre,
too, went back to fighting the fire.
Gil, ready to take up the chase by himself, was stopped by common sense. He
hadn't the vaguest idea which way the sorcerer had gone, and he'd never even
tracked anybody by day, much le^s pitch darkness. He'd made one dumb move that
night, he admitted; a second one wouldn't cancel that Tearing off his steel cap,
he hurled it at the floor; it rebounded with a belling sound.
Swan was commanding Sisters of the Line to tote more ancient codices and folios
out of danger. Gil fell in with them. "You're right," he conceded gruffly. Now
it was her turn to stare in surprise.
They fought the fire under control by phases. Gil tried to imagine what special
advantage the Hand of Salama had carried into the night
134
Chapter Twelve
Although it fall and die that night— // was the plant and flower of light . . .
Ben Jonson
"It Is Not Growing Like a Tree"
WHEN they were sure no last spark remained, Gil trudged off tiredly through the
smoke with the others. No one could calculate how much irreplaceable knowledge
had been incinerated.
Andre went off to see how Ferrian was. Gil found space at a bench where two
Sisters of the Line and a few Sages sat numbly. Someone had left food on the
table, dark bread and jars of cold well water, sliced fresh fuit from the
library's orchards and slabs of cheese. He helped himself mechanically, and
asked where Swan was.
A cavalrywoman told him, "She has gone to the chapel, to do prayer for her
brother. We are billeted for the night; our casualties are being attended by
Sages of Healing and the Trustee's son, deCourteney. The High Constable
commanded that your baggage be set there, by the door. Your horse has been seen
to."
Dirge was among the things they'd brought. He faced the Sages. One of them was
the man who'd led him to the rear gates.
"Hey, any of you know anything about swords?'*
They stopped talking and looked among themselves. The Sage Gil knew stood. "I am
Silverquill, chief savant here. I have some familiarity with metal working and
the various master smiths."
Gil got Dirge, unscabbarded it and threw it onto the polished wood. It landed on
the table with a gong that hung in the air. There was a sinister glitter to the
black,
135
runcinate blade, as if its sawing teeth waited to bite flesh. Sages and
cavalrywomen alike examined it None tried to touch.
Silverquill leaned over it, yellowed nail tracing one glyph, a flaming mandala.
"This mark and the stamp of the weapon weights of Death's Hold, I know, are
inscribed in implements of dark renown. This is Dirge, is it not?" Gil confirmed
it "Then take great care; this hanger will do nothing but harm, wounds that only
its dreaded owner may heal. Dirge seldom cuts but that it kills, by its edge and
its runes of death. Yardiff Bey is said in the texts to hold it in highest
merit."
Gil sat staring at the blade, speculating how he might use that. The others
became uncomfortable. One by one they drifted away to stand guard duty, rest, or
just leave Dirge and the morose outlander. Presently, he was alone hi the small
sphere of light from the candelabrum.
He touched the mandala glyph cautiously, feeling its cool fire. Then he slammed
Dirge back into its scabbard, roused himself and began digging through his
saddlebags.
Finding the oily rag and cleaning kit he carried, he took down the Browning and
cleaned it, his mind elsewhere. When the Hi-Power was reloaded and returned to
the shoulder rig, he stripped the Mauser, working proficiently. There were three
rounds left for it, two for the Browning. They were both nine-millimeter
weapons, but their ammo wasn't interchangeable. He was nearly done with the
Mauser when he realized he wasn't alone. Replacing the magazine base plate, he
saw Swan standing at the edge of the light
She'd shed her armor, washed and combed out the straight, glossy black hah-
until its ends floated around her waist She'd found a robe somewhere, simple
black muslin, caught around her hips with an antique belt of beaten silver
plaques. He was startled to see how young she looked, standing with the right
half of her face in shadow. He finished quickly and bolstered the pistol.
"I'm sorry about Jade," he faltered, "truly sorry."
She took a seat across from him. Her long brown fingers interlocked. "He was so
close,'* she told nun softly. "Jade lived for the Reconciliation; to make it
work. The Trustee knew his name, thought him an important
136
thought-shaper among the men. Do you know how many times we spoke? I have
reckoned it. Today, finding him dying there in the corridor, was seven.
Precisely seven times."
Her cheek gave a tug. "Why should death find Jade on the eve of Reconciliation?"
He wondered if he should leave, but it came to him that if she'd wanted
solitude, Ladentree was full of it. He was accosted by his own griefs and
regrets, evoked by hers. To deny them, he got up and took her hand and the
candelabrum. She came to her feet. Taking the light from him, she led the way to
the room she'd chosen in the secluded upper reaches of Ladentree, over the Sixth
Hall of Antiquities.
When they stood together, he tilted her chin to see her full face in the glow.
She resisted, catching his hands with a tight grip. He moved closer, brushed her
hair away and kissed the hot curve of her throat. She had some second thought,
or misplaced spasm of propriety in mourning. He stopped her when she might have
pushed him away, drawing her arms around his neck. She locked her mouth to his.
There was little sense of transition. They left clothes behind and matched
themselves along each other on the short, narrow bed. Its mean confines were an
environment severed from any other. Both had worried about their own
awkwardness. But uncertainties fell away; hesitations hadn't followed them. They
made trusting, unhurried exploration, through levels of excitement. In their
vergency he heard a victorious sound low in her throat.
They were left with a fragile tenderness. He went to brush the hair back from
her birth-badge; she ducked away. He laid her fingertips to the powderburn
tattoo on his cheek. She shook back black tresses, defiantly. He pretended to
examine it closely, then nipped her nose. She throbbed with laughter.
After a while, she said, "It is some time that you have not been with a woman."
She felt his nod against her cheek. "Nor I with a man. Once, I thought to put
aside my duties and bear a child. But it was not to be; as it came out, I have
contributed more to Glyffa this way,"
137
She stretched up for a kiss. 4IBut you, outlander, exemption, I am glad you came
here." He was sorry he 'hadn't said it first, but seconding her now would sound
lame. Instead, he reciprocated the kiss, and caressed the angry red wash of
flesh on her neck.
"When I was young," she confided, "the other girls made sport of it. So, when we
practiced at swords, I would tie back my hair and make a face at them, so.'* She
showed him, the coal-gleaming mane gripped back in her left hand, imaginary
rapier in her right. She grimaced savagely, eyes bulging. He laughed, then she
did. "But it was effective, yes. I was ever the attacker, the winner. They
ceased japing." She became reflective. 'Then the Trustee saw me, and said,
*LittIe one with your warrior-mark, we have enough of lasses handy with a sword.
Let us see if there is in you a leader.* **
Conversation slackened soon; desire took hold again.
At length, they held one another, warm and lazy. Gil's last thought was that he
would least have thought that this particular day would bring him peace, however
ephemeral.
He was awakened by a hand on his mouth. It would normally have sent his hand
burrowing for the pistol under his pillow, but the love-pax had survived the
discontinuity of sleep. Swan pulled him up to come with her. Qoosefleshing, they
went to the window. Dawn just touched the horizon. He knew unhappily that he'd
have to leave soon.
Some of the little white birds he'd seen terrorized the day before were in the
courtyard below, trilling a haunting song.
"What are they?"
*Those are the Birds of Accord. Once, ages ago, they nested and bred in the
branches of the Lifetree itself. When it was destroyed, they fled here to
Ladentree, sensing its tranquility. They live out their long lives, but when
they die it will be the end of their kind. The Birds of Accord mated only among
the branches of the Life-tree."
The floor under his bare feet sent him looking for his clothes. She wrapped
herself hi a blanket and sat on the bed, hugging her knees, watching him. As he
sat lacing his shut, she spoke suddenly.
138
"Did you leave her, or she you? Or did she die, or did you argue? Or are you
going back to her?"
He stopped. "Her name was Duskwind. She died; I did too, a little. Bey*s fault.
I'm going to kill him for it, and free a friend of mine he's holding."
"You mentioned your friend second." There was coolness in her voice. "Is revenge
more important?**
"I—" He went back to the lacings. "I don't know. I can't separate them." She saw
the Ace of Swords as he slipped it around his neck.
There was a blast of trumpets. She sprang to her feet Her persona was -now High
Constable; she was into her armor, white-wing-helmeted, before he finished
dressing.
Downstairs, they found Andre greeting the Trustee, Angonnan and two squadrons of
cavalry. The Trustee demanded, "All is secured?"
Swan answered, "There is more to matters than that, but yes."
"Then," said the old woman, "let us go rest from afl this whooping about. It is
always a treat to visit Laden-tree.'*
They went to an inner garden of the library. SJIver-quill appeared, and welcomed
the Trustee with a deep bow. She returned it equally. "Please be comfortable,"
the Sage invited, "but I ask you to put weapons aside. There have been enough
tools of war brandished here in Ladentree."
Swan and Andre laid aside their swords and Gil put down his guns. Angonnan
looked stubborn; he was thinking of his last separation from Red Pilgrim, at
Dul-cet's. "Come, Saint-Commander," beckoned the Trustee, "lay your axe against
the rose trellis. It will not be alone." She leaned her rune-carved Crook of
Office next to it. They all found places on benches of agate centuries old.
Swan told what had happened hi crisp, accurate style.
*This misfortune is less than it could have been," the ruler of Glyffa decided.
"Bey's information was faulty; he lost much time in his hunting. Since he came
himself, trusting no subordinate, a major advantage must have been at stake. I
would give a pretty to ken what he won last night"
139
Swan asked, "How stand things with the Southwaste-landers?"
'The Occhlon withdrew, but regrouped, positioned at a certain disadvantage,
inviting us to close with them." The old woman shook her head in wry humor. "I
can recognize a pig in the parlor when I see one there, or a worm on a hook.
They wanted to engage us, thus I sought elsewhere for their real motive. Setting
my Lord Blacktarget to keep surveillance, I came here to find it, but not in
time to strive against Yardiff Bey."
She drew on memories for a moment, then decided they were something the others
there should hear. "I remember the Hand of Salami hi his youth, ere his foul
affiliations were known, an avaricious boy, hungry for power. I was foremost
among the Adepts then, having earned my Crook. Where Salama* stands now, the
center of the Unity was then. The Lifetree bloomed nearby, its upper branches in
the clouds, its roots delving to the earth's core, holding all spheres in its
grand equilibrium. Gift of the Bright Lady, it was the demonstration of the
Unity's office. Sojourners from every earthly quarter saw it; it is in most
religions still. We held high hopes for the human race in those days."
"And the sorcerer?" prodded Angorman. "Bey, yes; a willful one, even then. But
of course, ft was the demon Amon who seduced the Five. While the rest of us sat
in the shade of the Lifetree, complacent or preoccupied with higher knowledge,
Amon stole among the Lords Paramount of the Unity. Even Dorodor, central figure
of the Unity, more demigod than man, failed to detect it.
"First of the demon's levers was Skaranx, whose high honor was to warder the
Lifetree, but who destroyed it. Then there was Temopon, trusted Seer, who
delivered false counsel. So too fell Vorwoda, taken with Amon's promises,
betraying her husband Dorodor; she had been his mainstay. She lusted for
Kaytaynor, Dorodor-s closest friend, who slew him for envy of his wife and took
her. Lastly was Dorodeen, the Flawed Hero who, failing to win the loftiest seat
in the Unity, would take no second place, and set about to bring it low.
"Together, the Five compacted to annihilate the Life-tree and slay the Unity's
most puissant overlords. They
140
would throw open the Infernal Plane, unleashing the hordes of the lower regions.
In those first two aspirations they succeeded; the flower of the Unity perished,
and the Lifetree with them. But in the final days of the Masters' plan, their
Great Blow, remnants of us gathered to rob them of total victory. A portent
appeared in the sky, the Trailingsword, to call together all persons of good
intent. We won our resistance, but the world was tottered and changed forever.
"Tnere are omens showing themselves," the Trustee finished, "which are products
of those bygone days. I cannot share my every datum with you; proof will be
forthcoming."
"We worry not," Angorman said in confidence; "chip by chip is the oak hewn."
As the Trustee was about to respond, Birds of Accord flocked down through the
garden in a soft-winged cloud. Gil was nervous, remembering the aerial attack on
the Tangent, but these Birds only lilted then- song. Many hopped through the
trellis, flitting from it to Red Pilgrim, then the Trustee's Crook and back
again. One perched on the old woman's extended finger, singing as if telling her
something, but she didn't have its language.
"Here is a good omen, surely," Angorman remarked.
"Aye," she answered, "they bode good luck."
"How lucky can they be?" Gil injected. "They're dying out."
The Trustee told him, "You may yet learn. It is sometimes the inoffensive, the
forgotten creatures who set the gears of fate turning."
Gil felt squirmy. "What about Yardiff Bey?"
"He did not come back south, or I would have known it. Among his own kind I
could not single him out, but if he were abroad near me in these lands of the
Bright Lady, I could not have failed to. Thus, he meant me to stay occupied with
battle."
"We have a two-edged problem," Andre declared. "Yardiff Bey must be found, but
it is as important that Blazetongue and Cynosure be taken to Vegana"."
"You cannot ignore the sorcerer," Swan objected.
"We will not," the Trustee proclaimed. "Here, his magic is small. Force of arms
will net him. You will
141
supply that, High Constable. Where we mean to take Cynosure and Blazetongue
there will be magic in plenty; Andre, the Saint Commander and I will all be
needed. You take to Bey's spoor with half this force I brought; run him to
ground if you can. He may be in GlySa still, but I cannot permit that to divert
me. What's more, I do not have full confidence in my Lord Blacktarget. He
already has his harpers composing odes to his own bravery yesterday. I fear his
vainglory may lead him to folly."
Gil was thinking it over. Andre and Angorman were still determined to escort the
baby and the sword to then* final destination. But if Swan was going after the
Hand of Salama with a full squadron, Gil no longer needed his companions. He'd
be content with those odds; if Bey were caught here in Glyffa, Gil MacDonald
meant to be there.
"All these things were best done as soon as may be," Andre was saving.
Gil told him, "I'm going after Bey."
"You have seen our charges into friendly hands, where they belong," Angorman
announced, "and you go now to chase their enemy. You are no longer bound to us
by the Faith Cup, therefore."
"Thanks." As ij thafd stop me! He went off to collect his gear. On his way back,
he remembered Ferrian. Asking around, he found his way to where the Horse-
blooded lay in bed, leg bandaged. In his lap was a book. Gil told the former
Champion-at-arms what had happened, then asked how he was.
"I shall survive, and walk again. There may be a limp, the Sages tell .me, but a
Horseblooded's feet are only for stirrups anyway, is it not so?"
Gil left the subject. "When you leave Ladentree, you'll have to figure out what
to do by yourself. If I can, Til come back this way, so leave word."
"I shall." Ferrian swept his hand at the shelves of books. "There are worse
places to convalesce. How many days and nights would you have to listen, how far
would you have to ride, to gather the wisdom that is met here?"
Gil admitted he didn't know.
"Exactly! Strange for a Wild Rider to say, but I have 142
come to love the elderly mustiness here. Thus, mending will be quick." His face
was luminous, but then lost its rapture. "Gil, Andre has told me of your
Berserker-gang."
Gil's features clouded; the Horseblooded hurried on. "That was less a betrayal
than it seems. It was, in part, for fear that Duns tan's fits of the Rage had
passed to you that Andre wanted me in the traveling party. I am Dunstan's
kinsman, you see; the wizard thought I might be of some help. But all I can lay
forth is that Dunstan had the seizures of his father, though he could often
channel and control them."
"Does it mean Dunstan's alive?"
*There is good chance of it, aye."
"Then, I'll find him. Be seeing you when you're up and around." They traded
grips. Gil left Ferrian bent over his book.
The Trustee, Andre and Angorman were back on their horses. They made quick good-
byes, then the de-Courteneys' mother turned to Gil. "You are not unimportant in
this. Kindly consider your every action accordingly." She called to Swan. "High
Constable, what was that you did say in my tent, two nights gone? My legacy will
be human weal?"
"And your name will live forever," Swan finished in subdued voice. She withheld
her concern, that her Liege was overtaxed. The Trustee took the thought with
her, lifting her Crook. Half the Sisters of the line wheeled into ranks and
followed her away smartly, banners popping on the breeze.
With Swan's contingent readying for speedy departure, Gil stepped inside to
fetch his baggage. His steel cap had been dented. He'd dug out the wide-brimmed,
weather-beaten hat Brodur had given him in Earthfast; he'd wear it for shade and
protection until he could find another helm that would fit him.
Silverquill came to say good-bye. The American tried to apologize for his
rudeness; the savant set it aside. "I hope your way is clear, your hardship
small. I have no proper leave-taking gift for you; accept, if you will, this
token, to say there is no resentment betwixt us two." He handed the other a
writing plume, silver-tipped for his name's sake. Gil thanked him. Silverquill
went off about
143
his duties, and the younger man took the plume and pinned up the left side of
his hat brim with it.
Swan appeared, pulling on gauntlets. She wore a baleful look; he asked what was
wrong.
She eyed him ruefully. "The Trustee took me aside for a moment. She said my lips
are puffy."
Then she broke up. They roared together, out of the sight of the Sisters of the
Line. Making himself straight-faced for the ride, he began to think what life
could hold if he lived to see the Hand of Salama die.
Chapter Thirteen
Bright star! -would 1 were as steadfast as thou art!
John Keats "Bright Star"
WYVERN Boulevard was alive again, decked for celebration. Deliverance had come
to Vegana.
For months the city of Midmount, capital of the country, had been somber in its
captivity. Today a parade of triumph marched down the boulevard, through myriad
flower petals drifting down from its balconies. People crowded twenty deep at
either side, screamed, laughed, wept, hugged one another, waved pennants and
hailed the captains or lords they recognized, scanning the ranks hopefully for
the face of a loved one. Panegyric songs filled the air, many of them to Lord
Blacktarget, propagated by his own advance guard. Occhlon banners could be seen,
trampled and burned, in the gutters.
Weeks of sharp clashes had dislodged the Southwaste-landers from resolute
positions just south of the Glyffan border. The returning army of VeganA and the
Sisters of the Line, fueled by shattering wins to the north, had sent the desert
men reeling in one onset after another.
144
Their numbers had swollen with militiawomen from liberated regions of Glyffa,
and Veganan men freed from the southern yoke. These had been the most aggressive
fighters, out for redress.
The Southwastelanders had been thrown out of central Vegana. Crows had circled,
blotting the sky, awaiting a rare feast. Shrewd gray wolves skulking in die
hills had licked their white chops, knowing their time would come. The Occhlon
had lost nearly fifteen thousand men since the cream of their army had marched
north to screen Yardiff Bey's stealthy mission to Ladentree.
Lord Blacktarget led the parade to a halt before the temple of the Bright Lady,
lifting his hand to the cheers. He raised Blazetongue aloft, and Woodsinger held
Cynosure. Veganans were not far from a happy brand of hysteria.
After the general came the Trustee, who'd actually directed the campaign, with
Andre deCourteney and Angonnan, both risen as commanders hi their own right The
crowd pressed in against their honor guard as they dismounted.
The temple reared above them, largest in the Crescent Lands; late-afternoon sun
splashed from its gilded domes. Atop the front steps stood its archdeacon. When
they came up, he kowtowed. "All praise for this day. I will take charge of the
babe; she goes to the keeping of the temple virgins."
Woodsinger didn't move. "It is not yet the time for that," the Trustee said.
Lord Blacktarget became incensed. "Come, madam, your prerogatives do not run to
this."
Patiently, she explained, 'There is more to her home-coming than that.
Prophesies must be observed, a Rite performed."
Their uneasy alliance was close to fracture. He'd never liked taking a secondary
post to hers, and no longer needed to. But the archdeacon said, "If the Trustee
refers to the child's Vigfl, that would be commensurate with custom. Cynosure
is, after all, the last of the Blood Royal."
Blacktarget yielded one last time. At the foot of the steps, a Glyffan captain
let herself breathe; the call to
145
arms hadn't been far from her lips. Her Liege had been specific; nothing was to
keep the child from her Vigil. Woodsjnger gave the child over to the archdeacon.
Andre, Angorman and the Trustee accompanied the old churchman inside. Lord
Blacktarget insisted on coming too. Climbing from stairway to stairway, on stone
worn away by ages of footfalls, they made a winding ascent to the little chapel
where only royalty of Ve-gana" held ceremony. Its walls and roof were all of
glass roundels, like distorted gray lenses, that created an eerie half-world as
the sun set.
The new monarch must, by tradition, stand a night-watch. For the first time in
generations it could be done, as it was supposed to be, with the ancestral
sword. Usually, the Vigil was kept hi solitude; tonight was the most singular
exception in Vegana's history.
The chapel's altar was a waist-high cube of jasper. Inset at its center was the
emblem of Cynosure's house, a wyvera picked out in gold on a black field. A
short rod supported the crescent moon of the Bright Lady over it. The archdeacon
set the baby down between the sparkling claws of the inlaid wyvern, then went
away, having discharged his duty.
The others knelt or took seats on low divans. Andre removed the rod and hi its
aperture he stood Blaze-tongue. The child made no sound, attuned to the moment.
"That is a liberty to take," commented Blacktarget, "with a sword not your own."
"Yet he has, by rights, some ties with it," the Trustee observed, "for it was
forged by his grandsire, my father, for a King far back in Cynosure's line." The
general was incredulous. "Yes, Lord Blacktarget, our magic is there, and far
mightier enchantment besides, though Andre never knew any of that until I told
him. Blaze-tongue is a vessel of the Bright Lady's energies, and complies with
her still. Did you think it came into my hands at random? There is transcendent
purpose to it all."
"What do you hope for, from k?" Lord Blacktarget snapped.
"The keeping of a promise given long ago. The Celestial Mistress brings many
threads together tonight." They were closeted with their own thoughts. Andre 146
fretted about Gil MacDonald, and wondered, too, how things boded for Springbuck,
for Readier, Katya and Van Duyn. He said a prayer for Gabrielle.
The stars appeared, warped and rearranged by the roundels. The crescent moon
rose, magnified in the roundels, hanging over Cynosure and Blazetongue. The
Trustee watched it carefully. Angonnan chanted softly to himself, Lord
Blacktarget halted his devotions. Andre simply waited.
Blazetongue came to life in this appointed moment; it had no ruinous flames to
spew, but rather a blue aurora that made them shield their eyes, and a high-
pitched humming, music of the spheres. All of them knew their deity had come.
Angorman was about to raise his voice in praise. The Trustee shushed him and
stepped to the altar.
Her arms lifted imploringly. "We are assailed, hard-put even as we were long
ago. One great portent must we have, to lift hopes, and set hands against the
Masters. We look to your promised Omen."
The humming grew louder, Blazetongue's aura more brilliant. The baby didn't seem
to mind at all. Monarch of Vegana, she'd been born for this, an hour implicit in
Blazetongue's forging. Among the crowds' keeping their own nightwatch in the
streets below, a shout went up. They'd marked the glass-walled chapel's
radiance.
The Sending subsided. Andre took his hand from his eyes. Cynosure was quiet, and
Blazetongue dark. Angonnan cried, "See!"
In the sky hung an awesome Sign, a comet stretched down through the firmament
like a sword, the fiery head for its pommel, its tail aimed directly down where
Shardishku-Salama' wove its spells. It outshone the moon, planets and stars,
making night more like day.
They rushed out onto the balcony. Angorman and Blacktarget offered up thanks to
the sky; Andre and his mother hung back. "What visitation is that?" voices
called from the streets. Others answered, "The Trail-ingsword! It is as in days
of long agoj"
"You see?" inquired the Trustee. "The old stories survive. Everywhere, there
will be those who know the tale. Seven tunes seven days after the first
Trailing-
147
sword appeared, our decisive battle was fought, where its tail pointed us."
"Did Bey know this would happen?" Andre asked.
"Suspected it, I should think. Still, he ignored it in his plotting to get the
thing he sought at Ladentree; that disquiets me. Now the sword has rendered the
second of the two great services for which it was created, and they are
complete, though Blazetongue may render a final aid in its unmaking."
"I will remember," he promised. She was sharing what knowledge she could with
him because all lives would soon be in danger again.
"Your prowess has increased, Andre," she remarked, "but that is a mixed gift. It
says more arduous burdens shall be laid upon you."
"I welcome that. I owe Salami no less than does Gil MacDonald. This Omen suits
me well."
Across the Crescent Lands, men and women peered at the sky. The Trailingsword
gleamed, and timeless tales came to mind, of the Great Blow and the last defense
that was made there where it bid its supporters to rally. At every latitude it
appeared the same, urging them toward Salami. Seven times seven days was the
measure of its time. There would be those who would ignore it, and those who
would oppose it. But for many, it was a morsel of hope in desperately hungry
days.
PART
Children of the Wind-Roads
148
Chapter Fourteen
But pleasures are like poppies spread— You seize the flower, its bloom is shed .
..
Robert Burns "Tarn o' Shanter"
YARDIFF Bey was making for Death's Hold. His trail, read by astute Glyffan
trackers, made no secret of that.
Swan shook her head in perplexity. "The Mariners gutted his fortress with their
sea-and-land assault. There is only smoking rubble there; how can Bey hope to
profit?"
A woodcutter, dwelling near the roadside, said she'd heard riders gallop by in
the night. Gil tried to guess how much lead that gave the sorcerer, as Swan
stepped up the pace. Stopping the occasional traveler, they met no one who'd
seen Bey.
They'd covered twenty-five miles on rutted roads, much tougher going than the
Western Tangent, when darkness forced them to halt, the trail no fresher than
when they'd taken it up. Swan considered going on by torchlight, but feared that
the way would be lost or their pursuit misdirected somehow by the Hand of Salami
He might use such minor magic, though it chanced detection if the Trustee were
near, and tricks like that were far more likely at night. Too, the horses must
rest.
When he'd unsaddled Jeb, Gil made his way to Swan's spot in the bivouac. She'd
dispensed with her tent, making do with a tarp set up as a crude lean-to. He
found her in a huddle with subordinates, naming relief commanders for the
night's guard. Maps were spread before her in a lamp's glow. All faces turned to
Gil, then Swan.
150
"Yes?" she asked in neutral tones. She was all High Constable now, intent on her
work. He saw he'd intruded, remembering how he'd hated people looking over his
own shoulder. He excused himself and went oS to sleep, curling at the base of a
tree some distance from the Sisters of the Line.
The first relief had yielded to replacements when he woke to find her by his
side. She slid into the warm cocoon of his cloak, adding her blue cape to their
covers. They made wordless, exigent love unconnected, he knew now, with what
they might do or whom they might be by daylight. He was, as she had called him,
her exemption; in a way not wholly different, she was his.
Lounging afterward in the tangled clothing, the mingled aromas, the sudden heat
that left them with less regard for that warmth mere cloaks and capes provide,
he apprehended that areas of mutual consent had been defined. They slept in each
other's arms, and just after the last relief came on, she rose and went off,
picking her way surely among recumbent cavalrywomen. The squadron departed in
first light.
On the second day of the chase, they had word from two men, cowled Sages on
their way to Ladentree, that confirmed their route. The Sages said ten mounted
men had passed them the preceding day, bearing westward in haste. The savants
had been surprised, but assumed them to be outiand allies. The gap between
hunters and hunted hadn't closed at all.
"Squadron's too slow," Gil opined. "H we drop the heavy cavalry we could catch
him.'*
"With less than a company of light horse," Swan pointed out. "We are going into
unpoliced territory, where he may have arranged for reinforcements; my
instructions direct me not to be drawn out headlong. There will likely be traps;
so says the Trustee."
Though they were south of her own Region, her blue cape and flashing, winged
bascmet gave Swan clout. Despite that, there were no fresh mounts to be had, the
country having been stripped of every worthwhile horse for the Trustee's army.
The fact cut both ways; the sorcerer wouldn't be able to obtain remounts either.
The chase stretched into grueling days and exhausted
151
nights. They strained their eyes in dazzling sun and saturating, dispiriting
rain, hoping the next hill would bring sight of the Hand of Sal am a. It never
did. Gil didn't see how the horses of the sorcerer's party could endure it. Jeb
Stuart and the Glyffans' were close to the limits of their means to comply. Swan
thought magic might be involved. Wolfing rations, sleeping and other amenities
became major luxuries, infrequently enjoyed. But the merciless pursuit didn't
keep Swan from coming to him when responsibilities permitted. Both were amazed
at how little fatigue mattered when, together, they were enfolded by the night.
If Swan's subordinates knew of the affair, none gave any sign.
But after a time they began to narrow the southerners' lead. The spoor grew
fresher, Bey's brief campsites more recently abandoned. The day came when the
hunters followed the Wheywater River around a bend to see Final Graces, once a
trading port, deserted when Death's Hold, downriver, had revived its menacing
activity. No Glyffans had yet re-entered it. The tracks veered mat way, rather
than on along the river bank road toward Bey's onetime stronghold.
Swan had expected to find no one there, but over the little cluster of rooftops
inside its wooden stockade, they saw two masts, sails furled. The gates were
closed; the trumpeter blew a fanfare while the squadron deployed itself along
the wall. There was no reply; the High Constable had the call repeated.
A face appeared at the wall. Gil had the Browning out, hoping it would be Bey or
one of his men. He was disappointed; he gradually recognized Gale-Baiter, the
Mariner captain who'd intervened to rescue Brodur and himself in Earthfast
"What would you?" demanded the captajn.
"Open those gates," the trumpeter directed. The High Constable of Region Blue
will enter."
Gale-Baiter hefted a cutlass. Other Mariners appeared on the wall, with bows and
javelins. Among them were Wavewatcher, the giant red-haired har-pooner and
Skewerskean, his smaller partner. "Be you gone," the captain told the Sisters of
the Line, "for we know you to be no true Glyffans."
Some cavalrywomen had bows out, nocking arrows; 152
others shook lances, hollering angry denials. GU dismounted, a sure sign that a
cavalryman wanted no trouble and offered none. He swept off his battered hat
with its bobbing quill.
"Gale-Baiter, it's me, Gil MacDonald, remember? I swear, these are really
Glyffans. We're dogging Yardiff Bey. You'll let us in, right?"
The Mariner was taken off guard. He swapped uncertain looks with Wavewatcher and
Skewerskean. " 'Tis assuredly he," the harpooner admitted. Gale-Baiter ordered
the gates opened. Swan was pondering the American.
"You have friends hi unlooked-for quarters," she remarked. He bowed.
"We had been told you would be enemies," Gale-Baiter explained when they'd
joined him inside. There were twenty -or so seafarers. They were swaggerers,
dashing figures. They wore embroidered shuts and brocaded tunics, bibs of coins
at their necks, chains of them at their wrists. Thick armlets and bracelets
glittered, and on their buckles gemstones sparkled. But their cutlasses, bows
and javelins were unadorned and well-used. Wavewatcher and Skewerskean stood
warily to either side of their captain. The harpooner wore a sealskin shirt and
a big scrimshawed whale's tooth on a thong against his hairy chest, and his
barbed throwing-iron was in his hand. His smaller friend's sleeves were sewn
with tiny bells that jingled as Skewerskean moved.
"It was said impostors were abroad," the captain said.
"By whom?" Swan rapped.
"Our Prince's special ambassador, who set sail this morning, after arriving in
great hurly-burly."
Gil blasphemed, clenching his fist in the air. Soon, it was established what had
happened. The Mariners' fleet had shattered Southwastelander sea power in a two-
day engagement in the Central Sea, then pursued remnants to this area. The
seafarers had laid waste to Death's Hold, to deny the southerners future
sanctuary and erase their foothold in Glyffa. Afterward, the bulk of the
Mariners had sailed northward after their surviving foes, leaving several ships
on patrol in local waters. Gale-Baiter, remembering what Gil had said in Earth-
153
fast, had mentioned to his Prince that travelers from Coramonde might be coming
to the ruined fortress. The Prince of the Mariners had assigned him to the
patrol, ordering him to check upriver at Final Graces periodically, where
wayfarers would logically stop first, to gather any recent news. Gale-Baiter had
done so once, a week before. Three days ago he'd returned, but his ship had been
damaged by a submerged rock, barely making Final Graces.
He and his men had hove down their ship, the Long-Dock Gal, for repairs. The
following day, another craft had appeared flying Mariner colors, bearing the
ensign of an ambassador extraordinary. Her master's papers showed she was on a
mission for the Prince of the Mariners, awaiting a diplomatic entourage from the
Glyffans and Veganans. The newcomer's crew couldn't even aid Gale-Baiter's in
repairing the Gal; then- orders were to stand ready for instant departure.
Only hours before Swan's squadron arrived, the expected party had appeared, worn
from strenuous riding, and ducked aboard then- ship. Hooded and cloaked, they
hadn't been seen by Gale-Baiter's men. Their horses, used up, had died at their
tethers within minutes. Before then- summary departure, the entourage had
dispatched word that they might have been trailed by Southwastelanders
masquerading as Glyffans.
It had to have been Bey and his men, using a contingency plan. But in leaving
Gale-Baiter to cover his withdrawal, Bey had been unaware that Gil had met the
captain, and could dissuade him from a bloodletting.
Gale-Baiter testified, *'I had seen the papers they bore. Their ring-seal proved
their mission was of highest priority, I was angry they would not assist our
repairs, but could make no objection. Unhappy am I that I cannot go on their
wake right this moment."
"'Tis well-sent that you were repairing damage," Swan observed, **or they might
have worked some ill to stave off pursuit"
"Rot him! I shall set sail on that liar's course. The body of the fleet is
overdue to return, and there are other ships patrolling. We will take him; the
Prince boasts vessels swifter still than mine."
Gil pounced on that "You'll be ready that soon?" 154
"Aye, and if those were Occhlon scum, they can set only one course. North of
here Mariners still scour the oceans. There is but unending water to the west.
South will they voyage; the first hospitable landfall they can make is Vegana."
"Uh-uh," Gil told him, "Vegana's no good anymore. The Occhlon got whipped by the
Crescent Landers."
"Then, to be safe, they can make no nearer port than the Isle of Keys. We shall
catch them in open seas."
"But where would Yardiff Bey have gotten Mariners' safe-passage letters and
seals?" Swan mused.
"There is only one place I wot of," Gale-Baiter said darkly. "The Inner Hub,
whose destruction started this war."
Gil concurred. He himself had fooled enemies during the thronal war with phonied
dispatches. That the scam had been turned around proved how fast Bey learned. "
'Tis to be sea chase," the captain was telling Wave-watcher. The hulking
redbeard nodded happily, scratching the tangle of rust-red curls on his chest.
"See the repairs finished," Gale-Baiter continued, "with all speed." The
harpooner went off, Skewerskean by his side,
Gil took the captain's elbow. "Hey, hey; I've gotta go along."
Gale-Baiter sized him up. Gil avoided meeting Swan's gaze, proceeding: "You're
headed south and the seas belong to the Mariners, right? You'll overhaul Bey,
most likely; if you don't, you'll still get me south a lot faster than I could
get there on land. The Crescent Landers have a whole load of real estate yet to
take back from the southerners. I can't wait that long; you promised me passage
whenever I wanted."
The Mariner scratched his head. "Very well. I gauge the Isle of Keys will be our
next objective, saved for last."
They all went to the dock. The Long-Dock Gal had been moved to the quayside for
final work. Seamen were laboring with caulking irons, mallets and grease wells.
Braces and bits, carpenter's hatchets, rave hooks and augers lay nearby. She was
a small brig, carvel-built of finely sawn, smoothly trimmed planks, more a thing
of the sea than those ungainly cogs the Crescent Lands
155
used. The Gal didn't have her name on her bow, what with literacy uncommon. She
bore instead a painting, a( winking blonde. Right away, though, the American saw
she had no ram or ship-fighting engines.
"Your boat doesn't look like it can protect itself," he pointed out.
Gale-Baiter winced, collecting his self-control. "She is not a 'boat,' nor is
she an 'it.' She's a ship, you see? On open sea she dances rings 'round anything
not best friends with her. No southern scow can match a Mariner craft. We come
alongside and board; that is the long and short of it." He took in the progress
his men had made. "We will not be done by nightfall, and I won't navigate this
poxed river in the dark. First light, then."
Swan billeted her troops in the dusty, deserted houses of Final Graces. For
herself, she took the cobwebbed inn. Gil found her seated in a rickety chair,
helmet put aside. She'd just finished writing up the day's report in her
journal, and had a compact ledger open, balancing expenditures and funds of
Region Blue. She looked up.
He was having a tough time getting started; she broke the silence. "This
damnable war has leached away monies I needed. It was my hope to squeeze into
the budget a bridge project. Trade would have doubled." She sighed. "Impossible,
this year, and there will be extra hardship for that. But you didn't come to
give ear to administrative woes, did you?"
He stared into heavy-lidded brown eyes. "I thought," he began, halted, then
switched from what he'd wanted to say. "I thought you might not mind taking Jeb
with you. You could leave him with Fenian at Ladentree."
She closed the ledger. "I shan't be stopping there. It falls upon me to rejoin
the Trustee with all speed."
"Oh." He fooled with his hat, thumbing its creases. "Will you tell me what's the
matter?"
She leaned on the chair's arm. "You are being rash. Your friends may need you,
in Vegana, and I mislike what is in your mien when you speak of him, the
sorcerer. Does he look the same, do you think, when he talks of you?"
"No. I mean, he's one pretty cold fish." He lost patience. "Are you holding this
against me, or what? Every Mariner alive is heading for the Isle of Keys; this
whole
156
thing could be over before the Trustee and the others get the baby to her home
city. Angorman and Andre don't need me, but Dunstan does. Swan, I can't depend
on anyone but me. Can you tell me you wouldn't hang in for the whole distance,
in my place?"
Her severity failed. "No. No, I should imagine I couldn't tell you that."
He took her hand. Rising, she pressed to him. He kissed her, taking the pins
from her hah- deftly, familiar with them now. She shook out the flowing blue-
blackness. Her finger hooked for a moment at the chain that held the Ace of
Swords to his breast. When he pulled her toward the stairs she didn't resist;
events were shifting again; their respite was almost done.
They took one another hungrily. Neither had expected their exemption to last
forever. They made a last denial of any truth but their own; it wasn't
altogether futile.
Chapter Fifteen
Who thinks to wrest the sea from us Or rule us with the sword? We grappled
OccMon vessels nigh, And gave our brief, complete reply, "Pikes, cutlasses, and
board!"
from "The Southwastelanders' War,"
a Mariner song
GIL came up the gangway just after sunrise, thankful to find the Gal's deck firm
under foot, forgetting she was still quayside on a quiet stretch of river.
He went to Gale-Baiter, who stood calmly by the rail. "Anything I can do?"
"Only in giving these lads room. We are overdue for rendezvous with the fleet,
and shall back-and-fill down
157
this river. At least the ebb tide's with us." He sniffed the air. "It be against
a head wind, though."
The American didn't know what any of that meant He kept out of the way, along
with his saddlebags and the wrapped bundle of Dirge. Crewmen were freeing
berthing hawsers from their bollards, while men in a longboat readied to warp
the Long-Dock Gal into the current. The harpooner was bawling orders aloft;
Gale-Baiter's first officer had been lost in sea battle, and Wavewatcher was
serving in his stead. Skewerskean seemed eveywhere, noticing each detail, his
sleeves' bells sounding each movement. Gil liked the crisscross lines of
laughter in the little man's face.
Swan had led her column out shortly before, one of the troopers towing Jeb
Stuart's rein. They'd been near the end of any words they could say to one
another.
"When I come back," he'd insisted, "111 come through Glyffa, get Jeb, and see
you in Region Blue."
"In Region Blue," she'd supported his contrivance. Then she'd taken up the
mirror-bright helmet of her rank. Watching her horse being brought up, she'd
added, "Once again now, you have nothing more to risk than your life."
She'd never looked back. He'd felt an awful hollow-ness threaten, and made
himself go to the dock imitating high spirits.
The Gal got into the current's fairway. The longboat was brought aboard and
topsails set for maneuvering. The Wheywater was green and wide here. The
Mariners were calmer away from the quay. They'd be happier still on the open
sea. His own discomfort, Gil thought, would grow proportionately.
Gale-Baiter didn't have many men aloft; few were needed to man the topsails.
"Note how some of them be singing whilst others are a-sulk?" the captain
inquired. "After repairs were done, some of them slicked up and went to try
their fortune with your Glyffan playmates. And some were kindly received, and
some not. Well, this is one place where the ladies' decisions are not to be
questioned; even these jolly-boys know that. I put the lucky ones up in the
yards, where they are safe until the rest get over their snit."
158
He spoke a command that Wavewatcher relayed wiu a roar, "Back that mainyard! And
hop to; you move like a damn bargeman!" Backing the mainyard made the Gal drift
broadside down the current's fairway. Gradually, a bend in the river came in off
the bow.
The captain had the foremast topsail backed too. Wind hit both sails' forward
surfaces, and the Gal took a stern-board. Gil began to think they were going to
back downriver.
The brig was in position to stand fairly down the Wheywater. Yards pointed into
the wind that came from the sea; she floated with the current and the ebb tide,
moving with beautiful economy. Ahead, the green waterway spread broader. Gil
congratulated himself on bypassing the campaign for this more pleasant
transportation.
Later, Death's Hold came into view around a point of land, alone on a wide gray
delta to the north. Black smoke seeped from its cracked battlements and rose
from its gutted spires, where the crab and the gull had dined on bloated
carrion.
Gil was mesmerized by it, shivering. Death's Hold was the place he'd glimpsed in
the Dreamdrowse, but this devastation hadn't been part of the vision. Gale-
Baiter had assured him no Horseblooded had been found there. The American's
hope, redirected to the Isle of Keys, was more the product of insistence than of
faith.
One of the hands aloft exclaimed and pointed. Two smaller craft had put out from
the other shore, some way ahead. One was a dory-boat, the other a longboat of
eight oars. They were packed with men, the sun splashing from brandished
weapons. Their course was for interception. Gil counted a dozen men and more hi
the longboat, plus whatever the dory held. Besides himself and Gale-Baiter,
there were nine men on deck to meet them. The captain called several more down
from the yards; boarding was clearly the order of business. "That lice-ridden
masquerader must have kept more men hidden below decks," he rasped, "if he can
afford to throw this many at us in a diversion, leaving them behind."
159
Wavewatcher, who'd put his harpoon away, was feeling the point of a lance with
his thumb. Other Mariners collected cutlasses from the racks, took up boarding
pikes or strung bows. Gil tucked Dirge behind some coils of hawser and drew the
Mauser. His satisfaction in his decision to sail had evaporated. When the last
few rounds were gone it would be sword's point, with him no different from
anyone there. He'd have hocked his soul for a handful of bullets.
Gale-Baiter barked more orders, including one that the master's cabin shutters
be secured. The fore topsail filled, and the Gal drew ahead, her bow swinging
slowly to the fore. The two boats pulled madly, the dory falling behind the
longboat. Waiting at the rail, Gil heard Skewerskean mutter something about
their luck that it was only two boats. Gil didn't think then- luck was running
so hot. Men aloft in the yards waited anxiously for their captain's orders to
fill all, but the brig hadn't cleared the river's shelves yet, and Gale-Baiter
bided his time.
The longboat was preparing—clumsily, Gif thought—to come alongside. A man stood
in its bow with grapnel and line. Skewerskean had taken up his re-curve bow. He
drew, aimed, released. The shot was long, the arrow missing by an arm's length,
but shields were raised in the longboat. The next shaft was true, but buried
itself in leather plies.
The raised shields bore the flaming mandala of Yar-diff Bey. The Mauser came up
and blasted twice, Gil's reflex reaction to the sorcerer's blazonry, prodded, in
part, by the Rage sleeping within him. The shots went wide. The Mariners were
aghast, except Gale-Baiter, who'd heard a handgun at the White Tern. The
American restrained himself. The shots hadn't deterred the Occhlon; perhaps Bey
had prepared them for the possibility of gunfire.
Resting both elbows on the rail, Gil squeezed off the Mauser's last round. The
man in the bow pitched into' the water, his mail shimmering once, and was gone.
Another rushed to replace him, and the grapnel whirled round and round.
Gil brought the Browning Hi-Power up carefully, re-
160
solved not to shoot unless he was certain he'd hit, and that it would make a
difference. Gale-Baiter hollered, "Do for the coxswain, their steerer!" If the
boat were pilotless, it might let th^Go/ slip by. Gil fired twice, too quickly.
Tongues of spray leapt in the longboat's wake.
"Should've saved 'em," he rebuked himself. Holster-ing the Browning, he tugged
Dunstan's sword free. His hand gripped, loosened, gripped tighter on it.
Skimming his hat aside, he considered removing his byrnie, hi case he had to
swim for it. Compromising, he only loosened its lacings.
The man in the longboat threw his grapnel, missed, and began reeling in
furiously, aware that the brig could soon make faster way. He waited behind a
shield through the next salvo of arrows and javelins, then cast again. The
grapnel missed the rails, where the Mariners might have chopped it loose, and
lodged where tiller connected to rudder across the sternpost, impossible to get
without someone's exposing himself to archers in the boat.
Wavewatcher saw what had happened. Gil, standing near, saw the man's big,
freckled paw reach for the belt knife hanging at the middle of his back, sailor-
style, where either hand might take it. Gale-Baiter stopped him, saying, "It is
my place. Stand away." He took his own knife in his teeth and vaulted the rail.
Gale-Baiter let himself down quickly by the few handholds there were. Men in the
longboat were hauling line rapidly, ducking under Mariner covering fire. The
captain dropped the last few feet, to cling to the sternpost. The dripping line
being too taut to release, he began sawing with his blade. Bowmen in the
longboat hadn't shot at the Mariners on deck, having no clear targets. But now
arrows began to hiss, drilling the air.
One transfixed the captain's leg to the rudder. Two more sank home, one in his
thigh, one just below the scapula. Gil had one second's look at Gale-Baiter's
face as the captain, pasted to the rail, realized he was dead. Falling, he tore
loose the arrow holding his leg to the rudder. Rings of water sprang from his
impact. The line remained. One Mariner got a leg up on the rail, meaning to
retrieve his captain. Skewerskean caught his arm
161
and flung him back. "He was dead, fool; so will we all be, if we do not stand
together."
Wavewatcher was howling hi anguish. He grabbed his lance again, drew and aimed.
Gil saw sudden, deadly grace, synthesis of hunter, athlete and soldier. The
release was one of enormous force. The lance struck through a shield, pinning
the grapnel man to the boat's hull, penetrating the wood. The attackers pulled
frantically, drawing themselves in under the protection of the stern while
arrows rained down on them. Hidden by the stern's projection, they'd be able to
climb to the deck.
Wavewatcher took up a cutlass. It was small, almost frivolous hi his huge band.
"You aloft there, 'ware my commands! The rest, position yourselves about the
deck."
Gil picked a spot at the portside rail and waited, one hand on a ratline, and
the other still tensing, loosening on his sword. There were outcries astern, the
first of the boarders. He turned, about to help, when a clambering caught his
ear. He leaned over the rail slowly and nearly had his head taken off. A
Southwastelander clung there, showing his teeth in a sneer. The fingers clawing
the hull for purchase were blunt and visibly strong, the Occhlon nimble in his
light mesh armor, his curved weapon dangling from its sword loop. Unable to'
reach the American from where, he was, he climbed directly upward, unnerving
Gil, who would never have gone against an enemy waiting with the advantages of
firm footing and weapon in hand.
The boarder abruptly began to edge sideways, catching Gil by surprise, to move
away from him before trying the rail. The American followed, listening to the
grunted, labored breathing, unsure what he'd do when he faced the man.
The boarder sprang the last few feet, screaming Yar-diflf Bey's name. He had an
arm and a leg over the rail when the other, galvanized by the hated name, got to
him. Gil brought his heavy bastard blade around in a flat arc. The boarder could
only spare one hand to raise his scimitar; the broadsword carried it backward
and knocked the boarder off balance. Gil took a more resolute swing. The blade
bit through the woven gorget and
162
into the neck. Dropping away, the desert man's face was awful in its disregard
of his own death.
A shouted warning from Skewerskean made him spin. Another boarder, a shorter
man, had dropped to the deck, ready to fight. Mariners and their foes staggered
across the deck, locked in death duels. Wave-watcher had a cutlass in either
hand now, the ringlets on his chest holding drops of enemy blood suspended among
them.
Gil crossed swords with his new opponent, whose style relied on his edge. Yells
from the Mariners told of more of the assault party making it to the deck.
Seafarers raced to meet them, their bare feet slapping alarm on the planks.
Gil engaged the second man in a high line, putting down his own panic. They
exchanged hair-raising strokes, edges laying back and forth. The man had a long,
strong arm, but his footwork was conservative. The American pressed against that
possibility as blood pounded at his temples. All sounds faded but the swords'
clanging and his own heartbeat. He kept control of their fencing distance,
coming into range and getting out again to his own advantage. A shout penetrated
his concentration; the tinkling of bells proclaimed Skewerskean in combat.
Gil's opponent was slow responding to a croise, backing up against the head
ledge of a hatch, and swaying. For a moment his defense was open, though the
American could not ordinarily have exploited it. But something in him drove his
point in under the vulnerable throat. The boarder fell back with a flopping of
limbs and that same expression of loathing. Gil paused to catch his breath,
hearing Wavewatcher call, "Ho, aloft! Prepare to fill-all on my—dammit!—on my
order."
The interruption had been another antagonist. The harpooner was busy both with
the battle and monitoring the GoTs progress downriver. With both topsails
filled, the ship began to draw ahead at the wider mouth of the Wheywater. The
harpooner called on the embattled men at the tiller to keep her off a little, to
increase headway through the water.
There was a scraping at the ship's side. The dory had come with a second wave of
attackers. Snatching up a
163
carpenter's hatchet from a weapons rack, Gil ran farther toward the bow, to keep
them from getting a line onto the Gal
He was too late. Two boarders swarmed onto the deck together. With hatchet and
sword he launched himself at them, swinging wildly. The world swam at him,
begging combat through a red mist.
Berserkergaag filled him; he coursed with a killing joy. His attack left one
dead, the hatchet buried hi his chest, the deck-roll playing with pooling blood.
The second boarder joined Gil at the death-duel. The American felt exultation hi
the Rage. Dunstan's sword seemed familiar now, sending strength and cunning up
his arm. Always heavy before, the weapon hefted light as a fishing rod.
Berserker blade screamed against desert scimitar. Gil's lips were drawn back,
teeth locked, ears flattened to his skull in animal fury. He was hyperaware of
time, distance and possibilities of slaughter. He disowned fencing to hack and
hew without letup. The Occhlon was the bigger man, with a thick black mustache
and angry brows. His attack was powerful and confident. But Gil, enfolded by
savage depersonalization, met it, swinging Dunstan's sword with a terrible
vitality.
The Southwastelander gave ground to a flurry of wild slashes, then reversed
field and came on again. Both hammered with swords held two-handed, notching and
blunting them. Wavewatcher*s voice, bull-horning for the hoisting of jib and
flying jib, trimming them by the wind, went unnoticed.
The Southwastelander's exertions left him off balance. Gil pounced on the
moment's invitation, bashing the other's guard aside, thrusting with Dunstan's
sword. Standing over the dying Occhlon, he knew a split second's contentment,
then whirled to find more slaughter. Battle had passed; Mariners were clearing
the deck of their enemies1 bodies and seeing to their wounded, but the
Berserkergang didn't recognize that. Gil moved suspiciously down the deck as
seafarers drew back, watching him uneasily, seeing that something wasn't right
with him. Blood that had run down the fullers of his uplifted sword dribbled off
his knuckles. He ap-
164
preached a pair of Mariners, seeing no reason why he shouldn't attack them too.
His ankles were seized from behind with a tinkling of bells, his feet yanked
from under him. He sprawled flat on the deck, cracking his chin, dashing breath
from his lungs. A weight like all the Dark Rampart landed on him. In a moment
the Mariners had wrested his sword from him, and pinned his arms. He fought and
writhed like a salmon, but this was only the second time the Rage had come to
him; it couldn't vet drive him to the superhuman extremes that it had Dunstan.
Eventually, the murderous fit dispersed, to be replaced, curiously, by nothing
more than fatigue and calm.
"Better now?" piped Skewerskean, from where the little man held one of Gil's
legs. Gil, gasping, said he was.
Wavewatcher, sitting patiently on the American's back, warned, "Whatever
baresark malice you called upon, save it for the enemy. Enough is enough,
agreed? Let him up, lads." Gil felt as if he'd been through a wringer.
One of the men aloft yelled, sighting a sail. The big-bellied harpooner hauled
Gil to his feet effortlessly, setting him against the rail among Mariners
straining for a view. The Gal was standing clear of the Wheywater and out to
sea. Another ship had rounded the point, appearing from behind Death's Hold. A
big sailing barque, she had on her foresail and mainsail the device of a golden
sea horse on a red field. Spying the Gal, the barque had come about, wearing
ship briskly. She had a brown-and-white bird painted on her bows.
Gil speculated dizzily whether he was up to an escape hi one of the Gat's boats,
or swimming if he must. Then a triumphant cheer went up from the brig's crew.
When Wavewatcher called for sail on the starboard tack, men jumped readily for
the ratlines. Some broke out flags, to hoist the signal that there were wounded
aboard. More vessels were appearing from behind the stronghold. A smile had
parted the harpooner's dense beard. He thumped the American on the back; Gil
almost lost his hold on the rail. Wavewatcher laughed. "When you tell this tale,
say you no sooner came to the sea than
165
you encountered its very overlord." He saw no understanding on the other's face.
"That four-master is his flagship; no less than our monarch, the Prince Who
Sails Forever."
Chapter Sixteen
Many waves cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.
The Song of Songs, which is Solomon's
THERE'D been no disabling wounds among the Gal's crew, nor anyone slain except
Gale-Baiter. Replacements, were put aboard the brig and her own personnel, Gil
included, transferred to the four-masted barque, the Osprey. The Prince Who
Sails Forever had questions for all of them.
Wavewatcher and Skewerskean appointed themselves the American's unofficial
custodians. They helped him up the boarding ladder and hustled him below decks,
out of the way of busy crewmen. The forecastle was crowded, the ship having
manned for war, but the two partners found Gil room to stow his gear and rig a
hammock alongside theirs in a converted storeroom.
Osprey and her half-score escorts, smaller two- and three-masted vessels, were
working toward the Outer Hub, scouring the coast, insuring that no enemy had
eluded them. The fleet had been late for its rendezvous with the Long-Dock Gal,
apparently arriving shortly after the Hand of Salami had fled south. The Prince
had sent a party ashore at the opposite side of the delta, to assure that
Death's Hold had been completely gutted. The party, spying the GoTs predicament
as she neared the Wheywater's mouth, had rushed to tell their Liege.
166
Swift ships were being sent after Yardiff Bey's even as Gil boarded Osprey.
Wavewatcher and Skewerskean had to make their full report to the Prince,
explaining that the Lord of Sailors was eager for any news off the wind-roads.
"What are wind-roads?" Gil wanted to know.
The harpooner was shocked by his ignorance. "Why, the breezes of the air, which
are thoroughfares of the oceans. In that wise, we Mariners call ourselves
Children of the Wind-Roads."
"Never heard it before. How long till we get to this Isle of Keys?"
"Scuttlebutt aboard of here says this flagship will soon join the rest of the
fleet at the Outer 'Hub. But the seas are ours once more, and many Mariners
would rather put aside further enmities with landlubbers. Um, nothing personal."
"No offense,"
"Most feel, though, as does the Prince, that no trace of Salami should be
tolerated, especially on the strategic Isle of Keys."
"What will the Prince do?"
"Put his recommendation before a gathering of masts, as when we voted for war
after the Inner Hub was razed."
Gil made a sour face.
"Bey got what he wanted hi Glyffa. Salami is ahead of the game,"
The partners frowned at one another. "The Prince will want to hear this,"
Wavewatcher concluded. Both got up to go. Gil stripped off his blood-spattered
byrnie and reclined hi his hammock.
The storeroom was dim, filled with the smell of Os-prey's wood and odors of a
thousand cargoes and sailors, smoke of lamps, and the bite of incense. Two
Mariners, off watch, were throwing dice for lOUs. They noted the stained byrnie,
nodded to the American's casual greeting, and left it at that.
Osprey was making way now, her bow rising and falling on the open sea. Gil
thought for awhile that he might grow seasick from the hammock's sway, but
depleted by the Rage, he fell asleep instead. Skewerskean shook him awake,
saying the Prince wanted to speak
167
with him. The American rose unsteadily, having no sea legs, and followed the two
through narrow passage-wavs and ladderwells.
He emerged at last, to take his first good look around the barque. High
overhead, cirrus clouds were torn and shredded by the winds, in shapes of stress
and speed. Down at sea level though, there was. only a Heht breeze to carry the
sails. Low swells rolled, the color of blue ink, and Osprey's bow sliced the
water at a leisurely five knots.
By Crescent Lands standards, the barque was a giant, a quantum leap in marine
design. She had four tall masts, rigged with what looked to Gil like ten square
miles of canvas and duck. It risked vertigo for him to peer up the six courses
of sail on the mainmast, to the ship's summit. The mazework of creaking rigging
held the eye, bewildering it, as wheeling seabirds called out over the sheering
of the barque's bow wave.
Men were scrubbing down the deck, coiling line and doing other work, but there
were racks of javelins, cutlasses, pikes and shields close to hand. He made his
way aft and stopped when Wavewatcher did, the harpooner calling for permission
to mount the quarterdeck. An officer hi trim blue silk granted it. The two
partners waited behind, as Gil clambered up the ladder.
Under the curved spanker sail an awning had been set, shading cushions and a
sturdy-legged table burdened with food. A man waited there, a short, erect
figure with a crisp white goatee and the bluest eyes Gil had ever seen, hi a
crinkled brown face. He wore a uniform of white linen and held a staff almost as
tall as himself, an osseous twist of narwhale horn capped with a golden sea
horse. Over his heart was pinned a golden broach shaped for his ship's namesake,
an os*prey. The Prince Who Sails Forever.
"It is gracious of you to come," he began, "for I know you have been through
much. I am Landlom, captain of the Osprey and of the Mariners too, it may be
admitted. Will you sit and take your ease with me?"
When Gil was seated, the Prince of the Waves continued. "Gilbert MacDonald, I
believe you are named? And they call you Gil? May I? Thank you. I should be
168
much in your debt if you would relate more of the events current in this war
being fought inland."
"Oh, sure, your Grace. It—"
"Ah, please! Friends call me Landlora; will you not do me that honor?"
Gil took to the Prince from the start, to the scrupulous courtesy extended to
everyone. He was sure' that anyone who led the rowdy Mariners could be a hard-
case boss when he had to. Soon, he was telling Landlorn his story, of the Two-
Bard Commission and of Yardiff Bey, Cynosure and Blazetongue and the Occhlon,
and of Arrivals Macabre.
In the end, the Prince said, "You shall come into your chance to see the Isle of
Keys, if the Mariners second my will of it; dislodging southerners from their
sea-keep is work for the Children of the Wind-Roads, and therein lies tragedy,
for I would rather they could stay out of it, unparticipant." His expression
showed private sadness, then he roused himself. "I trust you've been made
comfortable?"
"Thank you, yes. But it's all a bit strange for me; I'm a dry-land type."
Landlorn's eyebrows rose. "Oh, but I, too, am a landsman by birth."
"You? Then how'd you end up here?" Gil saw immediately that it had been a gaffe.
Gil had answered the Prince's questions though, and Landlorn's etiquette
compelled him to do likewise.
"I come of royalty; one of the lesser kingdoms whose name you would not know. My
older brother had the throne, and there was little liking between us. He
proclaimed it my duty to fetch him the bride he'd been promised by a neighboring
king. I was to bring her by sea, and 'was obliged to swear by oaths of honor and
magic that I would make no other landfall until I had brought her to him, do you
see?
"Her name was Serene. On that voyage she came to mean much to me. We were
attacked by corsairs and our ship burned, leaving us two adrift on a hatch cover
for days. Mariners picked us up at last, a rough-handed lot not much better than
pirates themselves, then."
He broke off, listening to men working to a long-haul 169
chantey. Skewerskean's clear voice joined in, holding to the higher notes
playfully.
"We might have plead for ransoming, but I would not yield her up to my brother
after all we had gone through, and Serene did not wish it either. I was
sufficiently the swordsman that those nomads took me on. So you will understand,
this royal scion started out lowly on the backs of the oceans. I thought the day
must soon come when I should be free of my vow, and I would wait it out.
"But I had to shun the shore, so my crewmates dubbed me Landlorn. I acquired the
ways of the sea, learned, mastered. I had been schooled, and so could resurrect
lost lore from old books that had survived the Great Blow, and Osprey is one
product of that. The Mariners put me at their head and I am content, though
there was more to it than that. My brother is dead now, and the bonds of my vows
eternal unless I become Oathbreaker and risk the magic that sealed them. But I
love the oceans; much rather would I be sentenced to life at sea than the same
on land exclusively. I have seen the waters in' all their stations and offices;
the Wind-Roads are my realm and Serene is mine, and I am fulfilled."
Landlorn was speaking absently now, staring off over the sea. Gil said a fast
good-bye and rejoined the har-pooner and the chanteyman at the quarterdeck
ladder. He marveled at the Prince's story, wondering why it had left him with a
deep, unidentified sadness.
Wavewatcher and Skewerskean gave him a hand in picking up what Mariner life was
all about, and became his friends. They replaced his torn and bloodied clothes
with new ones, a soft sealskin shirt and buckskin pants and jacket. The jacket
had wing epaulets, sewn with metal lamellae to protect the shoulders from sword
cuts.
Then the American was introduced to Mariner life. The Children of the Wind-
Roads, under the care and dominion of the currents of air and ocean, were
intimates with them. They had dozens of names for dawn, even more for sunset,
cloud formations and portents of weather. Gil would point to swells in the
morning and ask the Mariner name for them, but when he'd ask
170
again at noon, the swells looking no different to him, the two would have a new
answer. The nuances escaped him completely.
The sailors defined the subtlest variations in clouds, their height, texture,
luminosity and drift. Weather predictions were extraordinarily accurate. Charts
were exhaustive, and the shorelines on maps, but interiors were largely ignored;
the Mariners merely called them "inlands." When Gil mentioned it, Skewerskean
countered, "Does the landsman's map tell of reef, channel and" shoal?"
Wavewatcher added, "And does the hawk concern himself with the rabbit's warren?"
They had then- own estimations of worth. A man could be unexcelled with weapons
or bare hands, but if he lost equilibrium aloft or couldn't steer by the stars,
his status was lowly. Wavewatcher, who'd hunted the whale whose every part was
valuable to the Mariners, was listened to with respect, but Skewerskean's
chantey's made work easier, whether he sang a hand-overhand to synchronize the
tautening of the braces, or a long-haul ditty for heavier work. The little man
was therefore the more welcome shipmate, with his gift for making drudgery
bearable. His repertoire was staggering, though he could improvise endlessly on
any subject, high or low.
**Mariners would sooner swear than discourse," he told Gil, "but they would
sooner sing than swear." Tradition, law, philosophy and mythology were all bound
up in memorized verses and sagas, chanteys and hymns. Restless voices poured out
gratitude, humor, pride and pain.
Raised by one parent or the other, Mariner boys might spend their youngest years
at sea or ashore. But early hi lif e they began learning the lore of their
peculiar tribe. When a Mariner youth took his first ship as a man, he swam to
it, from shore or another ship. Naked, without one article from his former life,
he made his rite of passage. His survival depended solely on his new shipmates;
he might not see his loved ones for years or, in some cases, ever again. Among
them he'd have to earn, beg or otherwise obtain all that he needed or wanted in
life. Subsequent changes of berth would be
171
more sedate, made as an adult. Yet, all Mariners were fond of exchanging stories
about their frightening Free Plunge, as they called it, through menacing waters
to an unknown world, their first ship.
Life in the closeness of Osprey was rigidly codified. Each person had a right to
as much privacy as was feasible,, under Ship's Articles. The first things the
two partners taught Gil were the priorities for right-of-way on deck and in the
passageways and laddenvells. As supernumerary, the American classed among the
lowest groups, having to defer to officers, men on duty, and virtually anyone
else with anything useful to do. The pecking order was complicated: a junior
officer off watch would be expected to yield way to a crewman on duty if the
weather placed certain demands on the ship. There were dozens of individual
rules. Gil simply let anybody who wanted to pass him go right ahead. -
Sleeping accommodations, food, free time and shares of, profit were governed by
strict laws of propriety. Over everything loomed the sanctity of the Ship, holy
of holies. Every thought and action must be considered in the context of its
effect on that common bond, shared habitat.
Osprey's crew was an elite. The barque was Land-lorn's greatest accomplishment,
and there was always more to learn from her. Gil lost himself in blue days and
starry nights, motionless gulls shedding air from their wings, the creaking and
snapping of rigging. He was making decent headway after Yardiff Bey. The Prince
wanted to go against the Isle of Keys, and the Southwastelanders were being
driven from the Crescent Lands. At times, he was very nearly content.
But other sails began to appear hi the sea around Osprey, a field of sailcloth
bearing for the Outer Hub, to hear the rede of war.
172
Chapter Seventeen
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound, To arms, to arms, to arms!
Alexander Pope
"Ode for Music on St. Cecelia's Day"
OSPREY, attended by her smaller and slower escorts, arrived at her home port on
a flawless morning. The Outer Hub rested on a mountainous jut of island west of
Vegana, its mammoth walls and defenses commanding the only usable anchorage
there. Gil had learned that the citadels of the Mariners were called Hubs
because all life and commerce of the Children of the Wind-Roads revolved around
them.
Fortifications radiated from a complex perched on the slopes above the city
proper. The harbor's gates were enormous, their timbers strapped and faced with
iron, the blunt heads of their rivets as wide as dinner platters. They were
operated by heavily geared machinery powered by teams of oxen laboring in
roundhouses. There were emplacements of mangonels, bal-listas, fire-casters and
flame-sluices. Gil noticed most of those were pivot-mounted, and could be
brought to bear on the harbor if it came to that The-walls were of immense stone
blocks, and he wasn't surprised to learn that, like most of the more awesome
constructions in the Crescent Lands, the Hub antedated the Great Blow.
The harbor was crammed with the gathering of masts, assembled craft of a
seafaring nation, from bobbing gigs to a barque nearly the size of Osprey,
riding stately with sails clewed up, masts dominating the maritime forest. Every
ship had her emblem, a grasping kraken .or sweet-faced mermaid, ram's head or
diadem, pouncing black panther or four-winged gull.
173
Osprey anchored at the harbor's center. A longboat was put over the side for the
first parties to go ashore. Wavewatcher and Skewerskean were among the first to
go. The American promised to catch up later, saying Landlorn wished to see him.
The awning had been removed from the quarterdeck. The Prince of the Waves was at
the rail, narwhale staff in hand, gazing distractedly at the Outer Hub. Gil
pardoned himself for interrupting; the man left off his woolgathering.
"The pursuit of Yardiff Bey's ship was fruitless; my captains never caught sight
of him. What thing is it, in your estimation, stolen by him from the library at
Lad-entree?"
"Don't I wish I knew! Important enough for him to waste an army, is all I can
tell you; something he needs badly, or something he's awfully afraid of."
The Prince accepted that. "His enterprises threaten us all. Have you heard tell
of our other citadel, the Inner Hub, that was destroyed? I have yet to envision
what force broke her sea wall, sank her picket ships, crushed her war engines
and the turrets that held them. Many, Bey was responsible, but hi what terrible
fashion he accomplished it, I cannot ken. We never observed his renowned flying
ship; many of our vessels mount heavy missile-throwers that he shuns.*' His hand
swung the staff with its golden symbol. *'If such destruction was loosed on the
sea, the Mariners may meet it yet. I fear that."
He was interrupted. A woman had come on deck, draped with a heavy cloak against
the ocean breeze. She looked younger than Landlorn, her graying hair caught back
from a heart-shaped face in a long plait, fastened with pearls. On her brow was
a circlet of polished coral set in platinum. Her countenance was happy but
careworn; ebullience made her appear more hardy than she was on closer
inspection. Landlom went to her, preoccupations forgotten.
She hugged him. "Well-come, husband."
"And you, wife."
Gil witnessed it with interest. So this* was the woman who'd cost the Prince a
lifetime exile on the sea, or rather for whom he'd chosen one. Landlorn,
remember-
174
ing the American was there, said, "This young ally we met up with on our voyage
had a bad time of it from Southwastelanders. He is called Gil." Holding her hand
up proudly, he finished, "And this is my lady wife, Serene."
Gil bowed, something he'd almost never done, even in courtly Earthfast. Serene's
good-humored dignity seemed to warrant it. The Prince recalled what he'd been
about to say.
"You completed part of the riddle for me, Gil'. I asked myself why, if Yardiff
Bey had the wherewithal to raze the Inner Hub, we saw none of it in our affrays
with the Occhlon. Now I know he was engaged in his act of theft, diverted by
more pressing matters."
Gil considered that. "Could be. Maybe he threw away men on the Inner Hub as he
did getting to Laden-tree." The thought struck sparks. "Was there a library at
the Inner Hub? Archives or something?"
"Certes; our travels gather us much old doctrine, and many ancient books."
"Then it's a good bet Bey was hunting a copy of Arrivals Macabre there; that's
why he attacked your citadel. Let's see, that would be, uh . . ." He calculated
intervals, talking to himself. "It would have been just before everything blew
up in his face in Earthfast. He masterminded the assault or whatever it was and
netted a copy of Rydolomo's book. He brought it to Earthfast, the copy whose
binder Andre deCourteney found in his sanctum. When we took the palace-fortress,
Bey skipped with the pages, to Dulcet's house. When he found put he had the
wrong copy, he got busy on the invasion of Vegand and Glyffa, so he could get to
Lad-entree. So naturally you people haven't seen any sign of the slam he used on
the Inner Hub; he's been tied up with his main game, bagging Arrivals Macabre.
But he's got it now, probably the right one this time."
Serene was watching worriedly, and Landlorn was scowling. He finished his
reconstruction. "If Bey's latched onto whatever it was he wanted, we've got to
get at him as soon as we can. Put if off and there might be no stopping him."
He regretted having put it all out in front of them when he saw Serene's face
marred with apprehension.
175
Landlorn said, "I will be speaking to the Mariners tonight, here in the harbor.
That will decide the question of the Isle of Keys."
Gil shied from asking the obvious question because Serene was present. She
pursued it herself. "Will they affirm your plan?'*
The Prince Who Sails Forever admitted, "It is moot. They are weary of war, and
with every reason. It would be a costly battle, I trow, but if we do not go to
the Me, it will put forth its grasp to find us. Best confront it now."
His wife agreed dolorously, and Landlorn slipped an arm through hers, twirling
his staff, jollying her unavail-ingly. Gil left them to their reunion.
Going ashore in the next boat, the salt spray putting its taste on his lips, he
caught sight of Landlorn pacing the quarterdeck, Serene evidently having gone
below. The last view the American had of him was the Prince's silhouette against
the sky, with the wind stirring his hair, watching his people and their land, on
which he had never set foot, and never would.
That evening Gil returned to the harbor, doing his best to help a half-loaded
Skewerskean guide the weaving, gloriously drunken Wavewatcher. The harpooner had
won a contest, hurling his throwing iron, in a whaler's tavern called the Golden
Fluke, and made much of the celebration with his winnings. Gil had tagged along
through the noisy, prosperously frenetic harbor town while the partners made the
bars, paid off their many debts, bellowed songs, pinched cup-girls, gambled
emotionally, traded lies with other Mariners and threw away an amazing amount of
money. They sang him their ballads and chanteys and clamored to hear his, and
taught him the hornpipe. Somewhere along the way—-he couldn't remember where—
he'd acquired a tambourine.
But they'd torn themselves away from it all when the hour came to hear their
Prince. After boozy negotiating, a dory and boatman were hired for a scandalous
sum. The two chivvied Gil aboard and loaded the cask of ale they'd brought,
refreshments for the cruise. The harbor had filled and overflowed. The fleet was
aglitter with lanterns and torches, spread to the sea-gates and be-
176
yond. The sky was still clear, with a slice of moon among the stars.
An immense dredging barge, lit with cressets, had been brought to the center of
the harbor, where shipmasters had gathered in hundreds to sit hi a profusion of
costumes and attitudes, giving ear. If the popular response was too evenly
divided, it would be the captains who cast ballots to choose what answer the
Prince was to receive.
The boatman had to work carefully to get near the barge; the water was carpeted
with craft, so that a person could have walked from side to side of the bay. As
they waited, Gil told the two about Landlorn's concern over Yardiff Bey, and
whatever it was that the sorcerer had done to destroy the Inner Hub.
"Verily," agreed Skewerskean, "ten thousand voices in the Outer Hub are
whispering to each other about just that. One hears the words Acre-Fin."
"Well, I haven't heard. What's that?"
"Acre-Fin, every bugaboo of the oceans, the fear and dread of sailors made real,
the sea's violence incarnate, its oldest denizen. New worries call up an old
terror, the fish that eats whole ships and crushes islands. What the truth is, I
do not claim to know, but you will hear that name tonight."
They were quiet for a time. Gil, muddled, speculated if that might be the secret
of Arrivals Macabre. But no, the attack on the Inner Hub had happened before
Bey'd won his prize at Ladentree.
Wavewatcher was humming, a fair mutation of a courting walrus. "What was that
ditty you sang, Gil-O?" he rumbled. "About fhe watering hole on the road to the
underworld that is exclusively for horse soldiers?"
Gil leaned his head back and broke into "Fiddler's Green," dolefully.
Marching past, straight through Hell, the infantry are seen,
Accompanied by the engineer, quartermaster and Marine
For none but shades of cavalry dismount at Fiddler's Green . . .
177
He was stopped by resonant notes from a massive gong on the barge. Silence pre-
empted every song, greeting, toast and argument, so the only sounds were the
creak of rigging, the knock of hulk and the plaints of sea birds. Landlorn came
into the circle of light; Serene was at his side. Ovation began, but he waved it
aside with the narwhale staff. The Prince's face was morose in the rippling red
light of the barge's cressets.
"Salutations, you Children of the Wind-Roads. I bow to you in your thousands,
your ten-thousands." He lowered his head in homage. "I bear tidings no Mariner
can like. Though the seas are ours again, there is unchecked danger from the
land. We have ripped the Flaming Wheel down from Death's Hold, sending southern
ships and sailors to the. floor of the ocean, but the evil that moved them still
thrives."
Murmurs blew through the crowd, fanning louder.
"I cringe to see our keels exposed to the cruel rams and rostrums of the enemy.
I loathe the fire that burns our sails, and the wailing that lifts in the
quarters of our slain. Our foemen are gathered, making new plans. It is my
thought that we strike against them now. Thither too went Yardiff Bey, who
wrought our every injury."
Gil tried to gauge the Prince's success from the faces around him. Many were
dubious, drained by their bat-ties. If they rejected Landlora's proposal, the
American would have no choice but to rejoin the Crescent Loaders.
"The men of Vegana" and the women of Glyffa are on the march," the Prince was
saying, "and it may be that they will go beside us against the Isle, but we may
not rely on it. With them or not, it falls to us to unseat Salami from its
island."
Wavewatcher and Skewerskean were on their feet now, rocking the dory, bellowing
support. Others were doing the same, but many more were quiet, unconvinced.
Landlorn was grim, unwilling to put war-fervor into his people.
"The Inner Hub is smoke and rum," he reminded them. "Many of your km and
shipmates are sped. There are those who say we have taken our vengeance hi full,
and I would not nay-say them; what I ask is not simple
178
recompense. There must be no taint of the Masters outside their own shores."
People were vacillating. Gil was about to ask how much longer this could go on,
but Wavewatcher was -   pointing into the sky, nearly upsetting the dory. "See!
See there, in the south!"
A line of light had appeared, like a comet, brightening the night. Its brilliant
head shone; its tail cut a path of splendor down through the darkness, straight
at Shardishku-Salama. Legends were preserved here, just as in the Crescent
Lands. The same word being taken up at that moment before the Temple of the
Bright Lady was being repeated through the Outer Hub.
"What are you guys talking about? What's the Trail-ingsword?"
They explained to him as the first shock subsided. It was eloquent of Landlorn's
status that he had then* attention again quickly.
"I cannot tell what mystical portent this is, though I hear you call it
Trailingsword. Perhaps it is, proclaiming the seven times seven days left to us,
or perhaps not. But it is some great sign, demanding our heed. What is your
will? Do we purge the Isle of Keys?"
The Mariners split the air with their consent. Cutlasses flashed hi the light of
the Trailingsword as Wave-watcher, Skewerskean and the boatman chanted
Landlorn's name. Joylessly content, Gil studied the Omen. With its pommel-head
uppermost, it mirrored his Ace of Swords, reversed. What had Gabrielle told him
months ago, that the tarot's meaning in that-alignment could be tragedy?
Unimportant now. It was enough that the Children of the Wind-Roads would sail
south.
179
Chapter Eighteen
Hope is the thing -with feathers That perches in the soul ...
Emily Dickinson
"Hope is the Thing with Feathers"
FERRIAN, onetime Champion-at-anns of the Horse-blooded, Defender of Corrals, was
fond of taking a scroll or book high into the uppermost parts of the library
complex at Ladentree.
His wound had mended slowly, over weeks. He would never lose his limp, but he
could walk, and sit a horse. The Healing Sages had advised him to stay for a
time, to complete his recuperation, and he'd complied, reckoning his
role.against Salamd ended. The Trailing-sword had declared as much. Seeing its
splendor in the sky each night, he'd been moved with a profound new mood of
hope.
Now he sat cross-legged in the tower of a silent bell so large a dozen men might
have sheltered beneath it. Its bronze was green, its rope decayed away long ago,
for the Birds of Accord nested nearby. The place had a solemnity that appealed
to Ferrian, a thoughtful freedom he held especial. At times he heard the songs
of the Birds, pure trilling like no other sound in the world. There was an airy
view for miles, and an intimacy with the weather he'd missed in the Chambers of
Healing.
Sitting with a folio hi his lap, he heard the voices of the Birds again. This
time there was unfamiliar cadence to it, a disorderly intrusion of other,
shriller notes. He put the folio aside carefully and rose, pulling himself up
with bis left hand, to spare his leg. Following the sounds, he rounded the giant
bell to a far corner of the
180
tower. He trod carefully; rotting boards made treacherous footing.
Bracing himself with his left hand and leaning out carefully, he spotted Birds
fluttering at the eaves of a lesser tower, darting in at nests there. Interest
became surprise; they behaved like parents bringing food to their young, but the
Birds of Accord had bred no offspring since they'd been driven out of the
branches of the Ufetree.
The Horseblooded cocked an ear and listened. The shriller, more disorderly notes
came from beneath the eaves. He recovered the folio and hurried off to find
Silverquill. The Senior Sage had been a willing tutor, anxious to hear about
life on the High Ranges. It was now their habit to seek each other's company
when the -mood struck, a mutual privilege.
Silverquill was politely skeptical of Ferrian's claim that the Birds had hatched
young. Still, the old savant dropped what he was doing—comparing several copies
from original manuscripts of Arrivals Macabre in an effort to learn what secret
Bey had been after—and went off with the brawny Horseblooded to see.
They eventually found the correct face of the right tower. The issue was
partially settled before they got there; high chattering of young Birds filled
the confines of the peaked roof. They edged carefully around a last beam, and
saw slots of light from the eaves. Birds of Accord fed and nurtured impossibly
small, vocal hatch-lings.
Silverquill shook his head, dumfounded. "This is unprecedented! The Birds may
breed only in the branches of the Lifetree, and it was uprooted and destroyed an
age ago, when die Great Blow fell."
"Demonstrably untrue." Ferrian grinned wryly.
"Even so. But that is no explanation." They drew back, so as not to disturb that
amazing scene.
Ferrian was snapping his fingers distractedly. "The Birds roosted here when
then- Lifetree was destroyed, and in all these years never bred. But now they
have; it remains to discern why. How long is it betwixt their mating and the
laying of eggs, and from that unto the hatching?"
181
"Who may say? Yet, let us venture that those are much as with other birds. What
is your thought?"
"I bethink me of only one incident here hi any reasonable span of tune, and that
is when Bey came, and we after him."
The Senior Sage stroked his trim beard. "Aye, yet what can that mean? Surely the
small glamour he used on Gil MacDonald cannot be the influence that has affected
the Birds. Nor can it be attributed to the Guardian, with its fiery destruction,
nor to Andre deCourte-ney's Dismissal; they are of no nature to cause the Birds
of Accord to beget."
"Perhaps the terror of the day? Many of them perished from that."
"All the less reason to think it made them bring forth young."
The Horseblooded's lips pursed, "What else then? I was wounded, and did not
participate in what came after."
Silverquill studied the weathered rafters, rubbing his thumb across his Adam's
apple. "The others came the next morning, the Trustee and her troops and Lord
An-gorman. They all met together hi the rose garden and conferred. Thereafter,
they parted ways."
"Hmm,.that seems of no relevance either. Perhaps we are not—"
"Hold!*' The savant's face lit excitedly. "There was another thing of it. All
those combatants were under arms, and I bade them put those aside; Ladentree had
seen enough of weapons. When Lord Angorman hesitated, the Trustee put him at
ease, laying her Crook of office with Red Pilgrim, against a trellis. I remember
seeing the Birds of Accord flitting round and round, alighting and hopping
about, even on the Crook itself."
Ferrian's brow knit. "You are theorizing that the Trustee's staff is^afted of
wood of the Lifetree? She never gave hint of that."
"True. Well, but, at least we have a glimmer of what drew the sorcerer here. The
Lifetree is connected with it; armed with that fact, we may phmge into the
assembled knowledge of Ladentree, and seek the rest."
The tall Horseblooded concurred eagerly. The Trail-ingsword had set many things
in motion, he saw. "Two
182
men are often too many to keep a secret from Salami; more is too great a risk,
for Bey may yet have ears here. This hunt across paper and parchment falls to
you and me, dear mentor."
Chapter Nineteen
For all, that here on earth we dreadful hold,
Be but bugs to fearen babes withal,
Compared to the creatures in the sea's enthrall. ..
Edmund Spenser Faerie Queene
COMMITTED to one more trial of war, the Mariners amazed Gil with their
unanimity.
Roping needles darted unceasingly, turning out hills of extra sail. Fish and
meat were salted, fruit and vegetables barreled or dried, medicines prepared and
leagues of line and hawser run from the ropewalks of the Outer Hub. Shipwrights,
pressed for impossible labors, delivered.
Forges clanged and glowed by day and night. From them poured new cutlasses,
arrow- and spearheads, shields, grappling hooks, axes and boarding pikes, and
armor and helmets hastily done up from metal lozenges on leather. Aboard the
ships that mounted them, fighting engines were refurbished. The Mariners
prepared their volatile fluid hi giant vats for defense of the harbor. The
stuffs base appeared to be naptha, but the seafarers had their own combinant
secrets.
.Many crafts were racheted up me ways, or hove down in bustling shipyards for
swarming repair crews and caulkers. Cargo ships took Mariner treasure, to
procure supplies wherever they could. More came hi each day with stores for the
fleet, and against blockade.
183
Fresh water was rationed, to build a reserve for the Hub and fill ships' casks.
Gil stayed out of people's way, impatient to leave but fascinated by life among
the seafarers and the incessant buzz of their preparations. But Bey was
somewhere across the water, scheming, contriving, and that seldom left the
American's mind, even when he was wondering how Dunstan was or, as happened with
surprising frequency, when he thought of Swan.
Even Wavewatcher and Skewerskean were busy; the Prince of the Waves filled their
time with tasks, saying it was high time two such capable Mariners shouldered
more responsibility.
Less than two weeks after the advent of the Trail-ingsword, the Children of the
Wind-Roads sailed out again. It took hours just to maneuver into formation, with
Osprey hi the lead and the larger vessels around her. Tubby cargo bottoms were
at the center, with lean brigs and barkentines flanking.
Gil, aboard Osprey, was billeted with his friends in the same little storeroom
they'd used on the way but. Landlorn had yielded, for now, to the partners'
pleas that they be allowed to ply their old trade as topmast hands. Serene, was
also in the ship's company, having absolutely refused another separation from
her husband.
The fifth day out, a storm came up. In alarm, the American watched whitecaps
come up and swells grow, and nausea hit him for the first time. As the ocean
rose in sudden temper, ships* bows began slimming into the troughs with greater
and greater force. Osprey and many of her sisters could have run before the wind
with a good deal of sail, but it was vital that the fleet not be scattered.
Landlorn ordered most canvas taken in, as the following seas exploded tons of
water around the barque. The flagship did well enough, her fore topmast staysail
set and the main lower topsail taken up goosewing-fashion, presenting a fan
shape to the squalls, the remainer heavily lashed to prevent its chafing fully
open. The Prince commanded his captains to keep careful distance but rig
lanterns, and not become too dispersed. Each craft coped as her captain judged
184
best, most of them goose-winging like Osprey, or rigging a three-cornered
crossjack.
Gil, clinging to the lifelines, watched Landlorn clinging to a rail up on the
quarterdeck, the Prince's cloak snapping around him like a whip as he surveyed
his fleet. Salt spume, gust-driven, pumiced the skin like a sandblaster, numbing
it in seconds. He noticed Gil, and called, "Be not so despairing. This is only a
middling blow; we will ride it out."
Gil, jaws clenched on the sour taste of vomit, nodded gratefully. Landlorn,
mistaking that for stoicism, smiled with approval, and motioned for the American
to get himself below.
By four the next morning, when the middle watch was over, the wind had died
enough for eight bells to be heard clearly. At daylight the storm was blowing
itself out. The ships picked their way through sluggish seas, back to a loose
formation, tallying losses.
Several vessels were no longer with them, three lost and as many more
unaccounted for. Other lives had been taken by the weather as well. A great deal
of sail had to be replaced, and water pumped from bilges. Masts had snapped here
and there, and there was too much minor damage to calculate. That evening at
sundown, Landlorn recited the brief Service for the Lost, though all hands
aboard Osprey had survived. He told the crew—as captains throughout the fleet
were doing—that then- brothers were rejoined to the eternal flow of the tides,
as all men would one day be. The sea, in Mariner creed, shall not yield up its
dead.
Debris was cleared, and shipboard routine resumed. As were-gjld for the men it
had killed, the ocean granted them a fair, easy ride in the next days with a
fresh, following wind. They accepted it thankfully, making the Strait of the
Dancing Spar in good time.
Gil was sitting with his back against a hatch cover, enjoying the day and idly
trying to calculate how much horsepower Osprey was cajoling from the wind, when
Wavewatcher and Skewerskean went by, on their way aloft.
They stopped, and Gil asked what it was like to haul canvas ten stories up. They
asked what a story was.
185
"Not easy to tell," Wavewatcher decided. "Why not come up and see? Sight of the
Isle of Keys cannot be far off." Before Gil could say he'd give that a miss, the
red-beard was calling for permission to take a new hand up the ratlines.
Landlora came to the quarterdeck rail. "Go; encounter the sky," the Prince of
the Waves told the American, curious what this fey landsman would make of the
experience.
Gil put one foot on the rail, thought better of it and sat down to take off his
boots. He returned to the side. It was easy enough getting around the deadeyes
and lanyards, onto the ratlines. Then he looked up the shrouds, their gathering
at the top only adding to the feeling of height, and had bis doubts. Osprey's
pitch and roll didn't help.
He started. The mere mechanics went okay, just demanded care that his foot was
firmly on the ratline before he hoisted himself for the next step. Wind played
its song in the rigging, and he found it appealing. There were spiderweb
vibrations along the hard, coarse shrouds. Skewerskean raced past him, and when
he chanced a look backwards, Wavewatcher grinned up at him. He steeled himself,
going on.
He would have liked to look around at the play of air against sailcloth and
study intricacies of the ship's rigging and running, but narrowed his
concentration to ratlines and shrouds, one step at a time. He could hear the
rush of foam from the keel.
When he got to the base of the tiny platform that was the main top, Skewerskean
was standing on it, smirking, fists on hips. Gil knew he was supposed to do it
properly, pulling himself up the futtock shrouds and angling his body out, up
onto the top, but played it safe instead, snaking up through the lubber hole. He
sat there, one hand white on the ratlines, the other arm around the topmast.
Wavewatcher joined them, making things, in Gil's silent opinion, way too
crowded.
"Well, come on," said Skewerskean.
"What 'come on'? Where?"
"Why, aloft. You don't think you are there yet, do you?"
"I know that, goddammit! There's a whole bunch
186
more of this flagpole I'm hanging onto, isn't there? But what makes you think
I'm going up it?"
"Wanted a view, did you not?" huffed Wavewatcher. "Fie, the mess-boy climbs this
high to call us down to lunch."
The idea had its appeal; if the main tbp was this exhilarating, what would the
crosstree be like? He got, but cautiously, to his feet.
The main topmast shrouds, descending from the little topmast crosstrees,
stretched almost vertically past courses of sail realized in stately arcs, were
much less roomy than the first leg of the climb. Again, Skewerskean preceded him
as Wavewatcher brought up the rear. Under his breath, Gil cursed the other
Mariners watching from the yards, now and then calling out a jibe or
encouragement.
The wind up here blew his hair around in constant fluttering. He gritted his
teeth, made the dubious safety of the topmast crosstree. Wavewatcher stayed in
the shrouds below, and Skewerskean hung casually to one side, a hand in the
shrouds. Gil reswallowed lunch and turned his head upward. The topgallant mast
waited above, shrouds bunched, ratlines far too insubstantial. Then, for the
first time, he took a good look around. The rigging, spars and sails were a
middle kingdom in themselves, with logic and beauty of their own. Below, the
hull was plainly too small to need or support these regal mansions of billowing
sailcloth and creaking hemp. Here, the winds themselves were divided into
components, seduced to service. To the north, he could see the southernmost
coast of Vegana, and to the south the hazy shoreline of the domains of Salamd.
He pulled himself to his feet, got one ratline without thinking. He never really
decided to go the rest of the way up the topgallant mast; begun, the climb had
its own destination. The two Mariners stayed behind, leaving him to his mood.
Past memory and thought, he pursued sheer sensation.
He went painstakingly, because the ship's movements were exaggerated by the
mast's height. Here, where the halyards closed in, the mast's body was slimmer.
With exacting care, he pulled himself up onto the topgallant crosstree. Above
him, the mast truck stood only a few
187
feet higher, flying Landlora's sea-horse emblem. He was level with the mainroyal
yard, close to the sky as he'd ever been. Here was a terrible solitude,
uninhabited but for sea birds hovering over the cryptic fluxes of the Wind-
Roads.
He got his breath and pulled himself erect, adapting to the mast's sway. He
burned with fierce, abstract pride hi Osprey, then threw his head back,
whooping, to a sky as much around as above him. Thronging ships of the fleet
spread behind, like sheep on a meadow. He called down to his friends. They waved
back, asking if he'd care to climb a little higher, and goose an angel or two.
Sounds caught his ear, coming from nowhere he could see. He heard a dry creak
like a turning wheel, the crackle of flame. He craned his neck, uncertain
whether or not the glare of the sun suggested a fiery mandala. Too bright; his
gaze was forced down to the ocean. Before he could lift it again, something
caught his attention. "What's that, another ship?"
The Mariners'were instantly attentive. Following his pointing finger they saw,
just at the periphery of sight, a disturbance in the sea to the far west. With
no sail, no oar, and the immense displacement of water from its way, something
came toward them.
Lookouts were giving the alarm. Wavewatchef turned to Skewerskean, saying,
"Speedily, tell the Prince just what we see!" The little chanteyman turned,
sprang lightly through the air and seized the mainroyal backstay with hands and
feet, swooping to the deck in a controlled fall.
Gil began the long descent to the deck. When he dropped at last to lean on the
rail, men were scurrying in all directions to bos'n's whistles piping battle
stations, the timbers drumming to running feet. The entire fleet took up the
stridence. A crewman, dashing by, dumped a cork life jacket into his arms.
Weapons racks emptied as arms were issued out. He was gathering up his boots,
life jacket under one arm, when Skewerskean found him.-
"I must go back aloft," the chanteyman panted.
"What's coming off?"
188
"No one is sure, but it may be all our worst suspicions come real; I think it is
the Acre-Fin.**
"The—that thingie you were talking about? Here? Why?" Fright was an ache down
his spine.
"It can mean us no good. The fleet will fight if it must, or disperse-and evade.
This tells us how the Inner Hub fell, but too late." He hopped to the rail. "The
Prince ordered that you stand abaft by the boat station; there is little safety
on the sea today." The shrouds vibrated to his climb.
Gil made his way aft as frantic seafarers dodged around him in either direction.
He reached a boat station near the companionway. Swells were up, and a strong
wind from the west No move had been made to put boats over the side, but that
could be done in moments. A coxswain, a man Gil knew only vaguely, was waiting
by his station. To the American he said, "You are to stay here in all events,
where you have been accounted, to avoid confusion.*'
Archers were in the rigging, and spearmen. Gil could see the catapult arm aboard
Osprey's sister ship, Stormy Petrel, being cranked down for loading. The
coxswain climbed to the rail whole Gil pulled his boots on and fastened his life
jacket, painfully aware what an indifferent swimmer he was. The wind had lifted
to a squall. Clouds raced in with the gusts, bringing light rain.
"I see a wake beyond our last ships," the coxswain said. "It sends forth a wall
of water. Wait; I see it no more.*'
"Will it let us alone?"
A shrug. "Who may say? Yet, it—there! It broke surface, a very mountain of
froth." He was yelling now, with the rising wind. "It's dived now, I think." The
air flapped his shirt and tangled his rain-soaked hair.
Gil hiked himself up for a partial view. All around the fleet, fish of every
kind raced blindly eastward, leaping through the spray, shivering in silver and
polychrome.
Could it be another sending of Bey's? He willed himself calm; he clung to his
only substance, determination to reach Yardifl Bey.
He was brought up -short by recollection that Dun-stan's sword and Dirge were
stowed in his quarters. He
189
tugged the coxswain's trouser leg and cupped his hand to his mouth. "Ill be
right back, understand?'* He made his way to a ladderwell, as the Mariner called
him to come back over the hundred other shouts and orders going back and forth.
Gil had to go down two decks and farther amidships. The gloom was usually
alleviated by small gymbal-mounted lanterns, but these had been extinguished
when battle stations had sounded. He groped along, trying doors along the port
side as Osprey raced with the sea. Deciding he'd gone too far forward, he
retraced his steps and discovered that some jerk had padlocked the room,
probably one of the Mariners who shared it.
Bracing against the opposite frame, he began kicking. The two swords, one a
trust and the other a clue, were too important to abandon. He stamped madly,
ranting at the door.
Hinge screws gave. Two more kicks, had it hanging from its hasp. He squirmed
past, dug through his gear and snatched up the two wrapped swords. Osprey
heeled, coming hard starboard; there was no time to burrow after his empty
handguns. He heard the loud crack of the catapult's throwirig arm on Stormy
Petrel, stopped against its check. The shooting sent him struggling back around
the door in panic, the longswords becoming lodged in the gap. He fought to
extricate them, but just as they sprang free, a roar of water came to his ears.
Osprey lifted beneath his feet, listing sharply to starboard. He fell across the
deck, losing the swords, to crash against the door opposite his own. It gave; he
curled up automatically. In the blackness his head slammed something; lights
erupted in his eyes. His right shoulder hit the bulkhead.
Osprey heaved back to port as stunning weights and stifling cloth cascaded down
on him. There was a world-rattling collision, the rending of timbers. Held fast
and smothered in his thrashing, he was borne down. His side throbbed in torment,
his head in agony. A malign density settled over his brain. In time, he stopped
resisting.
190
Water, cold, salt-stinging, brought him out of aimless drifting. He came to know
that he'd been buried in the bos'n's-stores locker across from bis quarters. He
could feel spare blocks and deadeyes on him, and lengths of rope holding him,
with stretches of canvas oddments over all, intertangled by the ship's
gyrations. His first thought was to control his breathing, determined not to go
lightheaded again from hyperventilating his scant air supply. He tried two
shouts for help; when they produced no ffesult, he stopped, saving air for other
things.
Probing, he found one foot unimpeded and began worming down in that direction,
bridging with his back, fending carefully with his arms. The life jacket
dragged, and a length of line had caught around his thigh. It took several
anxious tries and forced patience to work his knife from its sheath and sever
himself loose. Inching, twisting, he got a second foot free and rested,
wondering if help would show. Another shout produced none, so he presumed the
Mariners were busy with other problems. At least the water that had awakened
him, dripping down from the deck above, had stopped. Perhaps one of the rail-
dragging swells had broken over an open hatch.
A victory; his other foot was out from under. He dug in, pulling more
efficiently now, drawing with his legs, heels scraping the deck. His right hand
emerged, and with it, he extracted the left, and the knife. There was more
cutting, some hawser to unwrap. Then he was through.
He gulped air, sitting on a deck that was wet, but not awash. It was tilted
though, as if Osprey were taking water in the bow and rocking in the swells.
Dirge and Dunstan's sword lay near where they'd fallen. He got them and fumbled
his way back as fast as he could.
But on Osprey's deck there was only soaked wreckage. The Mariners had abandoned
ship.
191
Chapter Twenty
Hie, Acre-Fin!
Foam-canyon carver!
May skewed courses spare me
thy dreaded acquaintance!
from "The Fish that is an Island," a Mariner long-haul chantey
GIL dropped both swords and stumbled to the side, where a boardingnet hung. The
fleet was drawing off to the west under full sail To the southwest, Stormy
Petrel was nearly gone, the swells crossing her decks. Osprey's bow dipped too,
the ocean now and again breaking over it. She rode safely enough for the moment,
but must be in grievous danger for Landlorn to desert her so cavalierly. There
were no boats left.
He waved to the retreating ships, impossibly far off to hail. Teetering on the
rail, clinging to a shroud, he gathered all his breath and screamed to the
departing Mariners anyhow.
A voice drifted up from the water, "Who calls there?" He thought it had come
from astern, and swarmed up the quarterdeck ladder, its pitch steepened by
Osprey's low-riding bow. Holding on to the spanker boom, he leaned out over the
taffrail. A small boat bobbed into view, rowed by Wavewatcher, with Skewer-skean
hi its bow.
He laughed with relief. "I thought I was alone, With one helluva wet stroll
home. Come to the side; I'll climb down."
The two friends exchanged looks. "Nay, stay there," Skewersllan replied. "We
will come aboard."
Puzzled, Gil returned amidships. When they'd come up the net, he resisted the
impulse to babble. There was
192
something wrong beyond the immediate predicament.
"What is it?"
Skewerskean confessed, "We cannot take you after the fleet. We are not going
with them."
Gil's forehead hurt. Rubbing it, he found a lump the size of a half-dollar,
souvenir of his fall. He massaged it carefully, trying to comprehend what they
were telling him. "Are you both crazy?"
Wavewatcher bridled. "Acre-Fin struck. Osprey and Stormy Petrel had to be
evacuated immediately, for Acre-Fin will be back."
"Hold the phone now. Give it to me a piece at a time."
"The monster dove, astern. Lookouts in both ships thought they saw it; both
helmsmen were confused. They steered closer to each other. Acre-Fin came up
under Osprey^ port bow, lifting her into the air. She slewed down onto Stormy
Petrel; fortunate are you not to have seen it. Men fell shrieking from the
flagship's masts and decks, while the Petrel lacked even the time to put her
boats out. Many died."
Gil looked back toward Stormy Petrel. Only her masts showed, and they were
disappearing quickly. "What about the whatsit, Acre-Fin?"
"It took no more notice of us. It swam eastward, with all speed, for the Isle of
Keys."
And Yardiff Bey, Gil said to himself. Skewerskean put in, "It will go to Him who
called it up. It will come back to savage the fleet. 'Twas bad luck, that we lay
in its course, or maybe the monster attacks whatsoever it encounters on the
ocean. But one thing is certain, that it moved toward the Isle with purpose. We
think Bey will send it back this way."
"So, let's haul ass outta here!"
The chanteyman shook his head. "The fleet must find shallow water safety if it
can. The Prince will need time. So, when they abandoned ship, Wavewatcher and I
caught the small boat and hid behind Osprey. What with all the confusion, we
were overlooked, much as you were. We will delay Acre-Fin, if possible. It must
be essayed; the beast wiU destroy the fleet, else."
Gil's jaw sagged. "I didn't see that thing, but it must be the size of goddam
Pike's Peak, Catapults and arch-
193
ers didn't stop it, so you won't either. Now, let's cut the chatter and shove
off."
"I have my whalecraft with me," Wavewatcher maintained, "and three hundred
fathoms of line coiled in the tubs and poison of the Inner Islanders. I shall
coat my lances and harpoon with that. With luck we can divert the monster, at
the minimum. In any case, there is nothing else to do. We cannot overtake the
fleet now."
The American snarled, kicking a bulwark stanchion. "That coxswain, that bastard,
I told him I'd be right back."
"Many had been wounded," the harpooner reproved, "even the Prince's wife,
Serene. All was chaos, and you'd been accounted present at your boat station.
And the coxswain was among those lost."
Gil was rubbing the lump on his head again. His vision seemed to have blurred.
"Okay, you two do what you want." Osprey was drifting westward, back through the
Strait of the Dancing Spar. "I'm gonna throw me a raft together."
"It might be wiser to come with us," cautioned the harpooner. "If we fail to
stop Acre-Fin, we may yet avoid death, but in all likelihood the beast will
finish Osprey before doing aught else."
Skewerskean shook his friend's shoulder. "This is futile. Come, let us tack
upwind, where we may yet stop Acre-Fin from reaching him."
Gil hashed that over. He wasn't about to go out in the suicide boat, but neither
did he wish to die if Acre-Fin made it past the two. "Wait a second, you guys."
They paused, straddling the rail. He brought Dirge to them, holding the long
black blade up.
"Listen, this is Bey's. This stuff on the blade, it's all death runes,
annihilation spells. Maybe it'd stop Acre-Fin."
" 'Twould fit a lance's socket," Wavewatcher allowed, reaching to take it.
"Hey, careful. Any cut it makes'll bleed until it kills you." He relinquished
it.
Wavewatcher, holding the sword cautiously, eased himself over the side. "Best
begin that raft, Gil-O. A sail would be wise, but take a paddle." He went down
the boarding net handily.
194
Skewerskean gripped Gil's forearm. "Truly, if we cannot stop Acre-Fin or turn
it, this will be no safe place." He followed his partner. They cast off, set
their little lug sail and began tacking eastward. Skewerskean took the tiller.
Wavewatcher waved.
"Hey," Gil called, "what happens when I hit the beach? Is there someplace we can
hook up again?"
The harpooner smiled, teeth flashing in red tangles. "Should we fail to ride
this one out, look for us beside that sprinplet in your song, what was its
name?"
"Huh? Fiddler's Green?"
"Aye. There will we await you,"
// those two don't stop that big sucker, thafs just where I'm headed, too_. He
scanned the deck for materials. There was plenty of wood, pieces of spars and
mast, rail and deck planks, and miles of rope. He thought about dragging one of
the smaller hatch covers off and using it, but had misgivings about how well one
would serve hi rough seas.
He tried to work out a usable design. He'd never done this sort of thing before;
no combination of wood and lashings struck him as stable and buoyant enough for
the trip to shore. The knot on his head and the ache in his shoulder were worse.
He roped two lengths of spar together and decided they weren't wide enough.
Finding an axe in the ship's carpenter's locker, he chopped loose a hunk' of
fallen fore topmast and found U too short when he tried to fit it in.
A scrap of cloth blew along the deck, and he heard tatters of sail fluttering. A
breeze had come up, from the east. The sea was roughening, Osvrev's bow now
plunging beneath the swells. He went aft. and saw that the barque had drifted
farther westward. In the distance he could make out the two Mariners, who'd
lowered their sail to wait. Clouds closed in, the winds heralding Acre-Fin.
He was astounded, not having thought even a monster like that could swim to the
Iste of Kevs and back so quickly. No wonder the two Mariners had despaired for
their fleet; the ships had no chance of eluding Acre-Fin unaided.
Turbulence moved the water in the distant east. Gil knew he had no time to
finish up his raft. His life jacket,
195
he remembered too late, was back among the junk in the bos'n's-stores locker,
likely under water by now.
A fish broke the water, then another. In a moment the ocean teemed with
creatures fleeing the monster, some of them flopping onto the deck in rainbow
spasms. When they'd passed, rain hit, pocking the swells. Shreds of canvas
flapped, and the barque wallowed from crest to trough. White froth showed Acre-
Fin making straight for the flagship.
He saw Skewerskean and Wavewatcher hoist their sail. The two weren't quite on
Acre-Fin's course. Knifing along, wind bellying their canvas, they cut for a
point of interception. The rhythm of the monster's strokes sent combers rumbling
from the alpine ridge of its gleaming back. Gil could make out the tip of a
gigantic dorsal fin and part of the ponderous tail, swaying through beats of
incredible power. This was no mammal, but a deep-water fish. Would it stay close
enough to the surface for the harpooner to strike?
The Mariners paralleled it riding just ahead to keep out of its crest, but it
closed the distance quickly. The boat heeled sharply. There was a twinkle of
light from whetted iron. The smooth pattern of the colossal tail fell off for an
instant.
Then Acre-Fin bolted straight for Osprey, swimming furiously, pricked by the
toggle-iron head of Wave-watcher's harpoon, burned by its poison. It bore down
on the derelict like an express train. With a surge, its head broke the surface.
Gil looked on in horror. Acre-Fin's head reared. Its eyes, white-glowing circles
wider than cartwheels, were without lens or pupil. Cavernous jaws gaped, and the
sea broke in waves over and around spiky rows of monolithic teeth. Its underside
was encrusted with barnacles and other sessile growth acquired in eons spent
brooding hi the sea, as if Acre-Fin itself were part fossilized. The ocean,
falling back from it, nearly capsized the tiny boat pulled by the harpoon line.
Gil was up on the taffrail now, judging which way to dive. He could see water
blown in banners of foam from the tips of the monster's teeth, and the spasms,
deep beyond, of the twilight gullet. The wind, sucked down that abyss, made a
moaning. Great lateral fins
196
broke the surface, and it seemed they were, in truth, an acre in size.
The American decided to dive toward Vegand. But pausing for a last look, he saw
the beast turn in that direction. He checked himself; Acre-Fin was coming around
to see what had brought it pain. The Mariners* boat bashed along through the
pinnacles of the waves behind it, the two men clinging to their mast, as line-
tubs, spare whalecraft and anything else not tied down was bounced into the
water.
Wavewatcher had his lance, awaiting the opportunity to use it, but the creature
wouldn't give him the chance. It came about, never noticing the tiny boat,
bearing eastward in search of whatever had hurt it. It returned to where it had
been pricked, found nothing, and went on. The harpooner's poison would have
slain anything else alive, but only burned Acre-Fin. The beast knew no enemy had
come against it, and so continued the way it had come, assuming it was pursuing
its assailant, unaware of the boat jouncing along behind. Gil let himself down
off the rail, trembling, waiting for the next crest of water, or the next, to
batter the Mariners' boat to splinters.
Acre-Fin grew smaller in the distance. For a long time it bore onward through
the Strait of the Dancing Spar. The rain began to let up, the clouds to
dissipate. Acre-Fin stopped, mystified that it had overhauled no antagonist. Gil
tensed, knowing this was Wavewatcher's moment. It was too far away to see
clearly but he thought he caught a black sparkle, as if Dirge had reflected the
scant light. The ocean grew still.
There was a fountain of exploding seawater and white froth. A stupendous shape
half-cleared the water, twisting monumentally, awesome in size And the
proportions of its fury. It came down; waves and concussion sped from it in all
directions. Then th? monster thrashed in agonized circles, bent in upon its own
pain. It seemed doubtful that the harpooner and the chantey-man could outlive
their enemy's throes. Gil had no idea how much damage the vindictive magic in
Yardiff Bey's sword would do, but sensed that the Children of the Wind-Roads
would not be pursued.
The thing stirred in a final fit of torment, then cut
197
through the water to the east. Its stroke was uneven, conveying grave injury. He
followed it until it disappeared, toward the Isle of Keys. For a time he kept
surveillance, but saw no sign of the two partners, nor even a fragment of their
boat. His vision had become blurry and his head ached, functions of that rap on
the head below decks. Concussion was just one more worry, less immediate than
his others; he dismissed it.
Leaving the rail, drained, he dragged himself amidships, where wavelets lapped
at his half-finished raft. He noticed dazedly that Osprey had drifted nearer the
shore of Vegan£. Perhaps he wouldn't need the raft after all; he sat down
listlessly, watching the shore with arms clamped around knees, to wait and see.
The barque didn't seem to be taking on any more water. Minute after minute the
current dragged her closer to .the Crescent Lands.
A roaring penetrated his fog. He knew he'd heard it before. With electric fear,
he recalled where. Looking up suddeny, he fell to the deck. Cloud Ruler was
speeding toward Osprey on pillars of demon-fire. Insight came; Acre-Fin had in
fact returned to the man who'd called it up. Yardiff Bey had seen the creature
was wounded by his own sword, Dirge. He'd known who was out here on the ocean.
He'd come.
Gil charged across the deck to the hatch cover. Slight hope, it was better than
the unfinished raft. He heaved the edge up, got a shoulder under, and crouched
beneath. Cloud Ruler circled in; he felt its scorching heat even at this
distance, bringing steam off the water.
He lunged, biting his lip, lifting. His vision darkened with the exertion, the
pounding lump on his head threatening blindness. In an effort of animal
survival, he got the hatch coyer up and overboard.
He was seen. The demon-ship swept through a snapping turn, the ocean boiling
beneath it. Gil flung himself back, one arm" to his face to ward of! superheated
vapor. Coughing, eyes tearing, he lurched at the opposite rail, to swim or die.
Bey's craft came around, blocking that route too with fire and steam. He pushed
himself away, tripping backward on the slick deck. The demon-ship hovered,
unavoidable.
From a bay on its underbelly, weighted nets fell, cov-
198
ering Osprey's small remaining deck. He clapped his hand .to Dunstan's sword,
but they hit first, carrying him to his knees, enmeshing him. He started sawing
strands with his knife.
Vibrations traveled down the netting. Shapes rapelled quickly down landing ropes
carrying swords, clubs and catch-poles. He had two strands cut when the first
Southwastelander touched down on Osprey.
A tall, burly Occhlon, the man pounced on him. Three others bit the deck and did
the same. More came after. He thrust with knife; his wrist was caught and
wrenched around. There was no room to get out Dunstan's sword. Nightmare fight,
its single mercy was brevity. Battered, disarmed, immobilized, he came into the
dire captivity of the Hand of Shardishku-Salamd.
Chapter Twenty-one
My soul, the seas are rough, and thou a stranger ...
Francis Quarles Emblems
SAILS clewed up, the masts of the. anchored fleet rested untenanted, fewer now,
with Osprey and Stormy Petrel consigned to the uncaring ocean. In the distant
southeast, the Isle of Keys was sunlit by a break, hi the clouds, as if blessed.
Landlorn had transferred his flag to Wind Gatherer, a three-masted square-
rigger, precursor'to Osprey. He'd already envisioned his next vessel, a lean,
swift clipper, all a sailing ship should be. His drawing table was stacked with
preliminary plans, where frame lines, wa-terlines and buttocks curved and
intersected sweetly. Now they lay aside, until a time of peace.
The Prince Who Sails Forever returned his attention
199
to matters in question. Seated in his cabin were allies who were to help conquer
the Isle of Keys. The Trustee of Glyffa and her son Andre were there, with Lord
Blacktarget of Vegana and Angorman, of the Order of the Axe. Swan, the Glyffan
Constable, attended too, as did Landlorn's wife Serene, who'd nearly recovered
from the injury to her back taken when Acre-Fin had struck.
The tents of an armed camp covered the hills above the shore of Vegana. Hundreds
of banners and war pennants had been set side by side along the beach, to let
the Southwastelanders on the Isle know that the fighting wasn't done yet.
Galvanized by the Trailing-sword, the allied armies had fought their way to the
end of the Crescent Lands, breaking their enemies' last stand within view of the
sea.
Ready to go on to the Isle, the Crescent Landers had found no boat, not even a
cockle shell, along the entire shore. Landlorn's forces had been there weeks
before, destroying every craft they could find to deny Southwastelanders the
sea. With no way to negotiate the turbulent Strait, the allies had sat for days
weighing various plans. More than half their strength was, by then, of
commoners, free vassals and yeomen.
"We know Yardiff Bey is on the Isle," the Trustee was saying, gnarled fingers
holding the Crook of her office. "We did not see the summoning of Acre-Fin. I
sensed sorcery, but could not interfere at such a distance. The thing returned
to Bey, and I could perceive only that it was wounded or dying. It no longer
swims these waters, though I cannot say whether or not it survived. I doubt the
sorcerer shall ever bend Acre-Fin to his will again; it will shun him, after
this.
"We saw Cloud Ruler go forth, and later return. Would that he had tried to fly
over Glyffa! How are your two crewmen, who speared the sea monster?"
Acre-Fin's throes had smashed their boat to wooden chips, leaving Wavewatcher
unconscious and Skewer-skean swimming for them both. Fortunately, they'd gone
unmenaced by sharks or other predators; in the proximity of Acre-Fin, no fish
dared linger or hunt. The harpooner had roused at last, and together they'd
managed to struggle ashore. There, they'd been met by
200
the northerners. Landlorn had concluded that something had deterred the monster,
and sent elements of his fleet for cautious inquiry. Attracted by the
northerners' signal fires, they'd found Wavewatcher, Skewerskean and an army of
allies.
"They are in the fo'c'sle now," the Prince answered, "as royally inebriate as
when you so kindly returned them to us. I shall have to reward them, apparently;
I could hardly swear a' charge of disobedience against them, after all."
"And Gil MacDonald?" Andre prodded. Swan, who'd forebbrn asking, waited
noncommittally.
Landlprn gestured helplessly. "Osprey had long since sunk, of course.
Skewerskean saw Cloud Ruler pass overhead, but whether the young man was taken
or drowned, I cannot say."
"Dead is more to be expected," Angorman pronounced. "I do not deem him one to go
alive into the grasp of Yardiff Bey."
"Unfortunate," Lord Blacktarget remarked perfunctorily, "but less to be
concerned with than that which lies before us. How shall we whelm the Isle of
Keys?"
"An arduous undertaking," the Prince admitted. "It is defended well, if not so
well as our Citadel. They are stranded, and cannot withdraw. Every ship and boat
was being used to sustain their war in the Crescent Lands when we caught them in
open waters. Oh, no doubt some few craft escaped, but those are negligible."
Andre countered, "Time is Yardiff Bey's dearest commodity, not men. His design
is twofold, to win the secret of Rydolomo's book and hinder us from following
the Trailingsword to Salama. In the first, at least, he has been successful, in
part because he has been prodigal with manpower. So, I would be surprised if the
desert men didn't stand .and fight, ships or no. It may be that the sorcerer
will do the same. His arts will be more effective there, away from the
influences of the Bright Lady, and if the Five have enriched him with their
favor, he will wax confident."
"Of that we shall discover," Lord Blacktarget declared loftily, hand at the hilt
of Blazetongue. "We do not despair of it; the Mariners hav^e but to take us to
the Isle; we will deal with things from there."
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No one chose to point out his arrogance, though Swan shifted in her seat.
Nowadays, Blacktarget insisted that his banner go always in the van, and often
took a high-handed tone with the others, even the Trustee. The Trustee permitted
it, and enjoined the rest to do so. Breaking the schemes of the Hve justified
almost any expedient
"But there is still the question of entrance to the harbor," the old woman
reminded.
"The Mariners will accomplish that," Landlorn told her, "then bring you in, one
and all. The task will be yours from there."
"And relished will it be," Swan finished softly, staring past the quarter-
gallery railing at the Isle of Keys.
The Prince had a captured southern vessel brought up early the next morning.
Allied soldiers were crowding aboard his other ships, many of which had been
hastily converted to bear horses, and others to be packed with troops. Loading
had gone on throughout the night.
The Southwastelander bottom, a big galleass with a high, creneled fighting
castle in her bow and one in the poop, along with storming bridges, had been
readied for Landlorn's plan. Mariners, not chained slaves, sat her rowing
benches; her bow and forward tower were loaded with casks of the burning fluid
the seafarers used, with more lashed near her iron beak.
The fleet formed behind the galleass and stood out into the Strait of the
Dancing Spar. Closer to the Isle, the Prince ordered the casks of fluid covered
with water-soaked tarps. The decks, sail and fighting tower were doused for a
second time by bucket brigades of sailors.
The Isle had been filed fine by eons of the rip-currents of the Strait. Any
approach except that for the sea-gates was guarded by rocks and shoals. Landlorn
handed his narwhale staff to his wife and ordered all hands away, except two.
That pair was Wavewatcher and Skewerskean, who'd named, as reward for laying for
Acre-Fin, accompaniment of their Prince today. When the boats were away
202
like so many water striders, he ordered, "Look sharp you two, and attend my
every command."
"As we do always," intoned Skewerskean humbly. "As you do when it bloody suits
you, brazen man!" The pair exchanged wounded glances. Landlorn laughed. "Nay,
take no hurt; you did serve Gale-Baiter well, and thus me. But it was ever
rashly. So, enjoy this last frolic, lads; if we come through, I mean to teach
you responsibility."
That put doubt in their faces. At his direction, they pulled ropes to open all
mainsail clews. The broad lateen was set, stiffened in the wind. Landlorn had
positioned the vessel so she'd bear in straight for the gates, before the wind.
Cleaving steeplechasing swells, she held every eye in the fleet and on the sea
walls.
Fire arrows and missiles lofted from the defenders even before the galleass was
in range. Wavewatcher, at the tiller, surrounded by braced pavise-shields,
stretched his muscles to hold course when the ship's roll or caprices of current
tried to take her off it. Empty but for the casks, she moved lightly, but
somewhat skittishly; it took all the harpooner's sinew to curb her in the
restless waters.
Arrows began to thud into the deck at extreme distance, but the wetting kept
them from spreading flame. Fireballs flung by the wall engines, unstable in
flight, missed the galleass, which was still too far out for accuracy. But a
huge ballista bolt drove its iron head completely through the deck, doing no
other damage.
The mast and deck grew thick with a porcupine's coat of shafts; there were
dozens of holes in the sail. Another fireball arced, thrown high because range
was closing. Landlorn saw, and warned Wavewatcher. Setting bis foot against the
binnacle, the big harpooner threw his head back and bunched bis muscles,
dragging at the tiller. The galleass shifted for a moment, and the fireball
exploded on the water in sparks and spray. The redbeard threw everything he had
against the tiller, to bring the ship back on course.
The lateen mainsail took fire at last, but had been soaked well, so that the
flames ate their way only slowly. On her way to her death, the galleass paid no
heed to the minor hurts of stones and shafts. Gradually,
203
the distance was eaten up, as Southwastelanders readied long poles to push back
the scaling ladders they still expected to repel.
The three men crouched under showers of arrows, javelins and toss-darts, barely
able to peer around their shields. A stone from a mangonel, bouncing from the
armored fighting castle at the bow, slammed through the deck and hull, opening
the galleass to the sea as she came within a dozen lengths of the gates. The
Occhlon, having received no counterfire, saw now that the fighting castles and
storming bridges were unmanned. Then someone marked the casks in the bow, and a
cry went up; the southerners withheld their own fire-fluid, fearing the
conflagration it would start
The sharp won ram bit into the timbers of the sea-gates with hungry, resounding
impact. The Prince ran forward under a pavise-shield.
Soldiers began dropping from the wall. Many missed the deck, sinking into the
sea in then- armor. Others were stunned by then- fall and didn't rise, but
several made the drop and assembled themselves. Wavewatcher and Skewerskean took
shields too, and charged after their Liege. They engaged the southerners,
sounding a harsh chord of blades. The Prince snatched a lighted lamp from a
locker, threw aside one corner of a tarp and dashed it against the casks. Fire
caught; in moments the bow of the galleass and the sea around it were burning-
The forward castle caught quickly, becoming a roaring chimney. No more
Southwastelanders jumped from the wall.
The Mariners retreated astern, driven as much by heat as swords. The Occhlon
broke off the fight Casks were exploding, flinging globs of burning jelly in all
directions. The water sizzled with them, and a stench of black smoke expanded.
Landlorn had arranged for the forward tower's supports to be weakened. Now it
leaned toward the bow, spilling burning fluid, coating the gates, creating an
inferno.
Hunched behind then* shields, partially screened by drifting smoke, the three
stripped off their armor. Casting aside cutlasses and shields, they dove. A dart
took the Prince as he launched himself; his clean dive became a flaccid splash.
He didn't surface. The two part-
204
ners plunged down after bun. Behind them, the sea-gates stood in a curtain of
flame.
In a moment they were up again, Wavewatcher's python of an arm clamped across
his Liege's chest. With Skewerskean's aid, he struggled through the churning
sea, racing against spreading fire. There was no sign of the southerners who'd
dropped to the galleass. The larger ships had been ordered to keep distance, but
a small boat put out with shields and willing oarsmen. The wall's defenses were
hidden in black clouds. Fed by the wind, held fast by her iron ram, the pyre-
galleass was inextinguishable.
From Wind Gatherer there were cheers from men in the rigging and on deck. The
boat drew alongside, and the Prince of the Waves acknowledged them weakly. Caps
flew and cutlasses glittered. Men clashed weapons on shields or thumped the
deck, repeating the name of the Prince Who Sails Forever.
Serene welcomed her lord back, helping staunch a wound not half so bad as she'd
feared. He and the har-pooner and chanteyman sat, dripping, backs against the
mast, sharing a flask of rum. Serene sat by her mate, brushing away tears, the
brine soaking her skirt. She mussed his hair and hugged him.
He drew her to him and planted a salty kiss. " 'Twas my last deed, I trow. Never
shall I leave your side again."
The inferno blazed on, the gates* hinges weakening while the attackers bided
their time. The Occhlon couldn't man then- primary defenses for the heat and
smoke; the galleass* forward castle had collapsed completely. With no threat of
answering fire, Mariner ships moved up to lob huge stones and other projectiles.
Consumed, bombarded, the gates gave way in the end, peeling back then* hinges.
With a shrill hiss, still barred together, they were dragged down by the sinking
galleass. The deep channel there left way for ships to advance over the sunken
vessel and wreckage.
The Southwastelanders, lacking ships, had made other preparations. The first
craft into the harbor was pierced by sharpened wooden piles emplaced with points
beneath the surface. Landlorn called a dead halt while the stricken vessel's
crew transferred to other
205
ships. The Prince had foreseen this; scores of Mariners stripped off armor and
clothing, took shipwright's saws, and slid into the water, lithe as eels. They
tackled the piles, diving deep and working feverishly. A safe route was cleared,
marked by inflated bladders anchored to the sunken stumps. By late morning the
advance was underway again.
At the quayside it was combat on foot, with Lord Blacktarget in the van. The
Crescent Landers didn't have time or room to off-load horses, and the isolated
Southwastelanders had slaughtered theirs for food. The first ships at the docks
were those with high, fortified decks, giving the invaders equal height with the
hasty breastwork thrown up by defenders. Still, two ships were overrun and set
afire, hampering the rest.
Men and women struggled and fought on the quays. The boarding pike and hooked
bill, the cutlass, axe and scimitar all had their hour. Iron argument met steel
rebuttal.
Swan, first among the Glyffans to land, was confronted by a willing Occhlon with
a pike, its blade already showing red. He came in a low line to cut her legs
away and, ideally, follow through with a stab from his weapon's steel-pointed
butt. The High Constable pivoted away shield-side. She cut; the pike head came
in parry with a return stroke for her exposed side. She backstepped, counter-
parrying.
Instead of riposting, she slid her blade down the pikestaff and lodged it at the
narrow grip and vamplate, drawing the Occhlon forward off balance. She swung the
edge of her shield into his face. He fell back, but clung to his weapon. She
swung and scored, shearing flesh off blue-white bone. He moaned and clasped at
his wound; she dispatched him. Sisters of the Line poured past her.
Fighting spilled into side streets and alleys; neither side knew restraint.
Combat went from house to house, the desert men retreated, flung back twice from
new positions. The invaders kept the initiative, as cavalry began to appear from
the quays.
By late afternoon, stern men and women of the Crescent Lands stalked through the
smoky streets, going from clash to new clash. Where there had been no
206
quarter asked or given, battered and demoralized _ Southwastelanders now began
to surrender, first in small numbers when cut off, later in outnumbered
companies. By sunset, the city belonged to the northerners. Only the central
Keep above it remained unconquered.
Aboard Wind Gatherer, the Trustee turned to Land-lorn. "Prince of the Waves,
your share is well done. But the moment of sail and sword is past One more enemy
will be waiting, hi the Keep. Tune is here to test my puissance against Yardiff
Bey's."
Swan was dubious. Andre challenged, "Is it wise? Here, your strength is not so
absolute."
"Granted, but it should suffice. In any case, the thing must be done. He has
waited; I am expected.'*
"Then," he let her know, "I will go at your side."
Landlorn bowed deeply. The Trustee reciprocated, and squeezed Serene's hand.
Swan thought there was too much of farewell hi it all. Surrounded by warriors
and swordswomen, the old woman made her patient way up to the summit and its
Keep. They found its portals open.
Lord Blacktarget was already there. "These doors swung wide on then- own accord
when you came." The Trustee, lifting her Crook, ordained that the rest must wait
while she and Andre went in. Lord Blacktarget took exception.
"Madam, I will not linger behind. If Glyffans may go in, the Commander of VeganA
will."
Vegana'ns and Glyffans muttered among themselves, eyeing one another.
Blacktarget hadn't said as much, but suspected he'd be deprived of spoils and
prestige.
Andre would have objected; his mother stopped him, seeing that the alliance
could fall apart. "He has right, however unwise. But My Lord Blacktarget, your
hardy enthusiasm for war is too fulsome for me by half. You would be well
advised to be wary."
Red-faced, he blustered, "Madam, Blacktarget is well able to fend for himself."
They entered, and followed the long, unlit curve of a corridor. Behind them, the
doors closed up by themselves. Then there wag light from the Trustee's Crook.
There was no search, no delay. At the end of the corridor, hi a high, torchlit
hall, Yardiff Bey waited. Andre
207
motioned for Lord Blacktarget to stay back, but the general, all in his pride,
marched in, and they had no moment to prevent him.
The sorcerer stood in a limestone pulpit far above the floor, his silver occular
gleaming in the crimson light. He was calm and supremely self-assured. "He is
Increased," Andre discerned.
Bey chuckled quietly. "You see aright, worm. My Masters, well pleased, rewarded
their servant."
The Trustee spoke. "Your mission is fulfilled? Then, why are you here? Why have
you not flown back to your Necropolis hi the south?"
"In due course. I knew your armies would win the Isle from those starvelings and
you would deem yourself victorious and come here. Of the garrison I care not; if
they cost time and sapped northern numbers they were well spent. I tarried to
let you pit yourself against me."
"If your assignment is complete, yet you may have gained less than you think.
The war goes against you."
The Hand of Salama" laughed, making that act ugly, his robes rippling his mirth.
"Your last hope is gone. Listen: There was a final limb of the Lifetree, though
its parent plant had been thrown down. Rydolomo knew whither it had been taken,
and left the fact in-hidden within Arrivals Macabre. That could have threatened
Shardishku-Salamd, but that limb's fate is known to me now; it is unmade. No
other thing can interfere with the schedule of my Masters, not all the arms-
bearers on earth. I have seen that gulling Trailingsword; this time it only
beckons you to oblivion. There is no avail for you, you will go no farther. Not
even a step."
Yardiff Bey gestured, and the floor surged up beneath them.
208
Chapter Twenty-two
But yet 1 know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. William Wordsworth Ode:
Intimations of Immortality
ANDRE and the Trustee made Signs of protection against upheaval, but Lord
Blacktarget had none. The general clung to the quaking floor. His two companions
had attention only for the sorcerer.
The ruler of Glyffa held up her cursive-lettered Crook. An aura crackled around
it, magic of the Bright Lady. Roof beams groaned, and dust sifted down. The Keep
shivered to unleashed enchantment. Blasts of superheated air and icy wind chased
one another through the chamber. Thunder cracked from wall to wall.
Yardiff Bey threw down the counterattack, holding his own extreme efforts in
reserve, until they should exhaust themselves. Their assault was fierce, but not
so much so that it penetrated his wards. The Trustee was weary, and the
sorcerer's new power given by the Five would, he was positive, give him the
duel.
But as the deCourteneys built their offensives, they began to reinforce each
other, as with Andre and his sister. They weren't overwhelming, but the Hand of
Salamd began to consider employing the wiles he'd prepared.
As mystic discharges washed around him, striving to topple bun, he conceived
another tactic. Resisting the deCourteneys, he took aside a little of his
energies and hurled a quick spell at the vulnerable Lord Blacktarget The general
went cartwheeling, long campaigner's cloak gathering around him, constricting
breath from his
209
body. Its drawstring sank into the flesh of his neck. He writhed on the stone,
kicking, struggling.
Andre saw his plight. Sweat flowed from the squat wizard's face, his arts
extended beyond any previous mark. Without looking, the Trustee knew what had
happened. Bey's resources were in excess of what she'd expected; she was very
much in need of her son's sustenance. Yet, she couldn't bring herself to make
Andre let another innocent die, as she had compelled him to do a century before.
"Succor him," she encouraged, her stare never leaving the Hand of Salama. Andre
rushed to Lord Black-target. The general's face was darkening, eyes bulging,
bloated tongue swelling in his mouth. It was as the sorcerer had intended. He'd
withheld much of his prepotency; now he revealed it, lashing out at the Trustee.
To Amon's gift of augmented energy, Yardiff Bey had added his own ingredient of
treachery.
The old woman staggered. Flooring blocks ground together beneath her feet, and
overhead a wide section of roof was flung away by backlashing of competing
incantations. She mustered her fullest effort, surprising Bey; it was more than
he'd estimated. Almost, it was enough. She contained his attack and launched one
of her own with an explosion of blue radiance from her Crook, jolting the Hand
backward with vehemence. His defense faltered. Again the Crook flared, but less
brightly. Depleted, with her son's support diverted, her endurance failed. The
light in the rune-written Crook flickered. Andre, toiling at Blacktarget's side,
sensed it and turned to give a moment's aid to her. In that instant her will let
go. She was smashed down by the spells of Yardiff Bey as by the waters of a dam
that had burst.
The Crook fell from her thin hand, dimming. The sorcerer's magic flashed
triumphantly. Before he could pour into her the support she'd needed, Andre had
seen her life torn from her. The symbol of her Trusteeship lay dark now. At the
same time, the cord tightened around Blacktarget's neck, killing him.
From Andre's throat came a wail. From depths of instinct, he invoked a wizardry
.that crashed black fury at Bey's defenses. The sorcerer's most trusted
protections were in jeopardy; his antagonist's attack, more vi-
210
dons than Yardiff Bey had thought him capable of making, was barely turned. The
Hand of Salami had to shore up his endangered wards.
Andre, in his wrath, called down his curse m a voice of such volume that cracks
shot along the stone walls. His enmity beamed at the Hand, who was pounded
backward a second time, bewildered at this new ferocity.
Andre raised up his left fist, and blue lightning spat and snapped. He cried a
spell of destruction so terrible that the roof beams began to split and pull
themselves down. Bey parried desperately, bracing them back by his arts, Andre
lifted his right fist up, howled again, and blue magic of the deCourteneys shone
from it like a beacon. The stone floor fissured open with a rumble, belching
deep-earth fumes, tossing Yardiff Bey to his knees. For the first time, the
sorcerer thought of opening the ocular, but wasn't sure that even that extremity
would help.
The limestone pulpit tottered. Andre summoned up blue, plasmic hatred in a last
dreadful bolt. It was insignificant if the Keep were broken in pieces and
swallowed up, or the Isle itself consumed by the ocean. In primal malice, he
cared only that Yardiff Bey die.
An arcane aura swirled around him. He gathered it in, hands outstretched. The
sorcerer saw with amazement that all his newfound energies were no match, in
this moment, for deCourteney's stark emotion. But he had a last, hidden
recourse, short of the ocular. Reaching behind him, he drew up the captive who'd
lain, dazed and motionless, out of sight at the rear of the pulpit. Andre's
hands swept around in unison, funneling their forces.
Gil MacDonald felt himself hauled up, sick and weak, from half-dreams of storm
and lightning. He rer-membered little since the Southwastelanders had taken him,
beaten, into captivity, to be held in occult sedation. Now Yardiff Bey's
unnaturally strong hands used him as shield.
Andre spied Gil at the last instant, as his bolt went out, too late. He blurted
a Dismissal on the heels of his own spell, but was only partially effective. The
American's body arched backward in spasms, wreathed in
211
vines of azure light, as Bey snatched his hands back. The wizard broke off his
attack. Gil went stiff, eyes rolled up into his head, tongue bulging in his
gullet. No pain had ever been as bad as the one in his chest. Awareness slid
away.
Andre, appalled, stood motionless, hands slumped to his sides, mouth agape. Bey
had the American's body up again, hi front of him, backing away. At the rear of
the pulpit, he escaped into pitch darkness, taking his hostage.
The ground shuddered beneath the rent floor. Roof beams groaned, splitting,
raining slivers of wood. Andre shook himself from his disorientation and saw he
couldn't repair them. He'd done things in his transport of fury that he'd never
match or undo in any sane moment. He bent, took up his mother and her Crook hi
one arm and Lord Blacktarget over his shoulder, and lumbered, ungainly, for the
entrance.
Outside, in gathering night, Swan and Angorman were preparing to enter. They'd
held back, hearing the conflict, knowing there was tittle they could do, but
their anxiety had gone past their control. Just hi that moment, Andre came.
Seeing the Trustee in death, the High Constable lost all color. Men of Vegana"
clustered to their slain Commander.
The Keep's roof collapsed, and the stronghold fell hi on itself, into the earth-
cleft. Clouds of dust and subterranean gas rose, and the Isle trembled under
their feet. The shocks sent other portions of the fortifications into rubble,
with creneled turrets and ramparts following the donjon into the earth. Waves hi
the harbor tossed the anchored Mariner fleet around like toys.
From the ruin a silvery shape lifted on streamers of demon-fire. Cloud Ruler
swung southward; the sorcerer only wanted the Isle of Keys behind him. There
would be ample time to deal with deCourteney; next time, the wizard would have
no tidal wave of emotion upon which to draw.
At the tip of the crater where the Keep had vanished, Andre bent over his
mother. Swan ordered her Sisters of the Line to build a pyre, thinking of her
brother Jade's words. "The last of the Old have passed away,"
212
she whispered. Men of Vegand began mourning dirges for Lord Blacktarget.
Andre shut out his grief and called Swan and the other captains. He issued
directives for disposition of captives and departure. The subordinates looked at
one another uncertainly. Some bridled at orders from an outlander.
But the wizard's mien was locked, with unspeakable anger riding his brow; no one
would risk defying him. Angorman proclaimed, "The rein has passed to your
grip."
Swan went to do as he'd said. The men of VeganA, seeing it, did the same. "Tell
the Prince of the Waves to make him ready," Andre said, "and begin reloading our
picked forces at once."
*'The winds give that no favor," Angorman cautioned.
"There will be wind to overfill all sails, I vow." Andre took up the Crook of
the Trustee, and removed the arming girdle and scabbarded Blazetongue from Lord
Blacktarget's body, slinging it over his shoulder. He looked south, where
Yardiff Bey had gone. The Trailingsword hung in the sky there; he shook his fist
toward the Necropolis, and it left a blue glow hi its wake.
"We come! If that Lifetree is destroyed, and you are invulnerable, I care not.
Salama", we come."
Two days after the invasion, one of the Isle's taprooms had been revivified. The
place had been called the Dogfish; its shrewd young proprietress had buried
barrels and cases of her best under a false floor in the celleret when the
Occhlon had come, months earlier. She'd dug them up and reincarnated her
establishment, naming it the Broken Yoke. She'd scarcely unlocked her door when
two Mariners crowded in, and began depleting her modest stock.
" 'Tis the source of no small bitterness," Wave-watcher complained a little
later, "this reaping unkind-ness where the harvest ought to have been gladsome
thanks." He was squiggling doodles on the tabletop with moisture from their
tankard rings.
"If our intermittent shortcoming has been disregard 213
of orders," Skewerskean added, "why, 'twas done holding the Mariners' best
interests uppermost. Most times."
Foxglove, the proprietress, she of the tumbling sable locks and swaying hips,
was bringing their next round. "Wherefore are these complaints? Is it so
perishing unpleasant to be put in authority over your own ship?"
The harpooner growled, "Life becomes charts, schedules, manifests—"
"He feels worse about it," Skewerskean confided to her, "because he was named
captain."
"Pay calls, customs men, pilot's fees—" the redbeard droned.
"And I am first officer, purser and supercargo."
"—ship's log, inventories, credentials—"
"We can embark on compensatory business ventures only, or the Prince promises to
make us grease-boys in the sculleries."
"And," finished Wavewatcher, pointing to the ceiling, "just try getting a goddam
shipwright to pick up a mallet without letting him hold the mortgage on your
oysters!" He plucked up another drink.
"Oh, la!" Foxglove commiserated, "the weight of the world, hmm?"
"We always saw that it threatened," Skewerskean admitted, counting out her
exorbitant price, "and avoided it also. But the Prince had replacements to
appoint, and we are both qualified." The chanteyman held her hand now, playing
his fingers over her wrist. She gave a preliminary tug, not completely unhappy
with that inter-sport. "Telling no to a Prince is one of those matters better
left unassayed."
The door's opening, admitting another customer, interrupted the game as Foxglove
whirled her hand free. Wavewatcher, scrutinizing the man framed in the light,
let out a snort. "There; all courses cross in time, just as is said by the old
grand-daddies. You are a long haul from your Earthfast, old son, and farther yet
from the High Ranges."
Ferrian took a chair with them, the toll of diligent riding apparent on him.
"Your memory is spry. I congratulate you on the news I had at the docks, that
you two have arisen in this world. I was seeking a ship and,
214
hearing your names, thought it could be no others but you."
"Pray waste not those well-wishes," Foxglove advised from behind the bar.
"Success depresses them."
The Horseblooded told them, "I arrived at the coast this morning, and ferried
over on one of these supply ships that are ending the starvation here. I am
informed I am too late to speak to Andre deCourteney."
"As all will attest," replied Skewerskean. "The wizard enlisted our Prince's
further aid, half by plea and half by statement inflexible. They sailed for the
South-wastelands, and all those allies and mounts with 'em, hi great haste and
with precious little ullage. The Trustee was slain in combat with Yardiff Bey,
as was Lord Blacktarget, but the Crook and that especial sword Blazetongue go on
with Andre deCourteney."
Ferrian was nodding. "I had the tale from a Glyffan woman, and heard this news
of Gil MacDonald as well. I thought the balance of these hodge-podge soldiers
would go along soon, but there are some to garrison the Isle, and others to be
set back on the Crescent Lands."
"Aye. That wizard did insist, all speed and mobility was his preoccupation.
Hence, most foot soldiers stayed here."
"Where will the fleet make landfall?"
The chanteyman was playing with his tankard. "Not near here. Observers report
amassed southerners, frustrated with their lack of passage ships. The Prince and
deCourteney, avoiding them, were making southeast The wizard called up the very
air, filling all sailcloth. Common thought has him landing farther east, where
he can drive toward Shardishku-Salama with less resistance."
"And the Crescent Landers put themselves under him?"
"Well, the Sisters of the Line are under their commander, that Swan, and the
Veganans have some interim general, but they did indeed obey the wizard. All of
them were angry for the deaths of the two great leaders, and time and again
Blacktarget and the Trustee publicized that the Trailingsword must be heeded.
And so, too, thinks the Prince Who Sails Forever. Off they all sailed."
215
Ferrian leaned forward. **Everyone, is that so? An-gorman too? Well, my hearty
sea-rovers, it falls to me to catch up to that fleet as soon as ever I may. Is
it enough to hear that many lives ride with it?"
Their faces perked up. Until this moment life had been a dreary sentence of
sober industry. For the Horse-blooded's words there was the enthusiasm reserved
for stays of execution.
"We can accept only offers of business," Skewer-skean reminded his friend and
captain, "on the Prince's order."
The tall Rider frowned, left hand burrowing in his pouch. He came up with a pair
of copper bits, all the money he had left from what Silverquill had managed to
find for him. He laid the little pellets on the table, where they clicked
together, a preposterous sum with which to purchase passage.
"They'll do," Wavewatcher announced, and scooped them up. Foxglove shook her
head unbelievingly.
"But can you overhaul them hi the fleet?"
*<Horseman, meseems 'tis fundamental; breezes that drive them eastward must pass
us. Or if not, we may still make our attempt."
Skewerskean warned, "The Prince will see us hung." But he threw back his drink,
rising to go.
Over his shoulder, Wavewatcher called to Ferrian, "Meet us on the quay in the
half-hour, and all will be ready." To the chanteyman, he philosophized,
"Remuneration is remuneration; nobody ever said anything about profit, witling."
Ferrian watched them go, then chortled down into his drink with the humor of
long sleeplessness. He caught Foxglove staring at him quizzically, and raised
the toast to her. "Here's to as perceptive a pair of businessmen as this old
world ever saw, and to good ends for two-penny rovers."
PART IV
Proprieties of the Apocalypse
I ,'*:
216
Chapter Twenty-three
And when fate summons, monarchs must obey
John Dryden MacFlecknoe
THERE was no elation to be had from this rallying of blazonries, clan totems and
banners of war at Seaguard. Coramonde, generations' labor of the Ku-Mor-Mai, was
coming undone in rebellion and civil strife.
Springbuck had been working toward a time when, his realm secure, he could
gather a host here and sail for Shardishku-Salama. But he hadn't envisioned it
this way, a desperate rush to gather what troops he could and confront the
Masters while it still was possible. He'd left trusted Honuin Granite Oath in
command, yet even Earthfast was no longer secure.
Springbuck's decision to cast all his strength southward, and not stand fast hi
a wasted effort to subdue Coramonde, had come hard. His every instinct had told
him to hold on, as his ancestors had done, to grip the suzerainty with the
martial fist. But, from what he knew of Bey and of Salama, Coramonde couldn't be
saved if the Five worked uninterrupted.
"Can I expect further loyal contingents?" he asked his Warlord.
Hightower sighed, raising frosty-white eyebrows. '"Communication has fallen
apart. Some have sent you knights and scutage and men at arms, and posted the
call along to those they trust. The strike force that was Bonesteel's own before
his death stayed true, made a forced march here, flying the crimson tiger and
your own stag's head.
"We may expect no more from Honuin Granite Oath either, than that he hold
Earthfast and some of the suz-
218
erainty. So, we have a quiltwork. There are archers from Rugor, Clansmen from
Teebra, four of the war-drays of Matloo dispatched by loyalist septs, and your
personal guardsmen who number less than two companies. Oh, and members of the
Constabulary of the Way continue to drift in. There is also Balagon and his One
Hundred, the Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, along with a good part of the Order
of the Axe. Strange, to see them more in comradeship now than enmity. But those
are all you have, and a goodly part of Coramonde in chaos."
"As it would be," informed Gabrielle deCourteney, **whether you stay or go.
Salama has many intrigues incubating in Coramonde, and cares not which ones
hatch, so long as there is discord and confusion." Her wide mouth smiled,
dimpling, sardonic. "Put aside any idea that you two could have held on here, my
desperadoes; that is what the Five would most have liked to see."
Springbuck's chin was against his chest. "But our roster here is short.
Militarily speaking, this is farce."
"Practically speaking, it is inescapable,** she parried. "You not only lack the
means to shore up your throne. You lack the time."
He resettled himself hi his plush chair, considering that. The three were met in
the palace of the King of Seaguard, who*d kept fealty to the Ku-Mor-Mai. Though
the drapes were fastened against night airs, the conferees could hear the gulls
mourning over Bold-haven Bay. "The Mariners are waging war on the sea, and
winning against the Southwastelanders. The King of Seaguard would give the ships
needed.'*
"Few as we are, we have small hope to conquer the Southwastelands," Hightower
reminded him, "much less lay siege to the Masters."
Gabrielle, exasperated, tapped her toe. They knew it was a danger signal, and
listened. "You do not understand yet, nor does Springbuck; your goal is to
penetrate through to the Necropolis, and not in order to mount some crude siege.
"I told you of the stance with Gil MacDonald, when I gave him the Ace of Swords.
Since that night I've had my busy ear to the half-world and the tidings its
creatures carry. I have read auguries and scrutinized the
219
stars, deciphered the fall of the knucklebones, and taken the meanings of
entrails." Where she was usually light-spirited, even hi the gravest matters,
she was somber. "This upheavel is conceived to fend us off from the Five and
their pursuits; it is the sort of thing about which Andre warned. The Masters
think you two can launch no offensive, all in your disarray. Before we can act,
they are confident, then- real labors will bear fruit."
Springbuck played with the basket hilt of his sabre, Bar. No more ceremonial
trappings for him; he'd chosen to wear his old attire of an Alebowrenian bravo
on his excursion to Seaguard. He'd undoubtedly have more use for vamhraces and
war mask than brocade and silk.
"What would be then- crop?" he wondered.
"Ultimate spellbinding. It could wipe away the world."
"Can it be stopped?"
"Everything can be stopped, even time itself, Ku-Mor-Mai. But this endeavor
cannot be foiled from here. Shardishku-Salamd is like some smelting furnace of
magic; it cannot be extinguished by half-measures, or from afar. We may go to it
and do what arms and enchantments can, but from Coramonde we can achieve
nothing."
Springbuck clicked his tongue and tapped Bar's pommel. "Then you prevail,
GabrieEe. I'd hoped to avoid this war for a tune."
Hightower was on his feet. "As easy to reject the flood or deny the avalanche.
Spare us your regrets; you know little enough of what awaits you."
His tone dropped. "We may yet see a time of cataclysm like no other. Drums tell
the world to march. Cast out your wise men, Ku-Mor-Mail Drive them from you and
listen to the epistles of your flesh; the gales of war speak your name tonight!
Take the rede your hackles send you; study the writ of your bowels. There's
where verity resides now."
"My Lord Hightower." The sorceress stopped him. "Cast no more shadows. Salamd
has thrown quite enough of those."
He subsided, going to monotone. "Preparation may prove futile, and forethought
will be no protection; I did
220
but warn him.11 To Springbuck he added, "There will only be the guidance that
lives hi the marrow."
The younger man rose. "If that's the shape of things, well do as best we may, to
stop this thing unknown by thaumaturgy or hand-strokes. But first we must look
upon it"
She whirled on him, enraged. '"Unknown to you!" In a temper she was capable of
anything, and a Protector-Suzerain was no safer than any other man. Springbuck
held himself carefully.
"We have had our glimpse at it, your Warlord and I," she continued, her hand to
the old man's cheek. Hightow-er*s chain-mailed arm encircled her. Springbuck
left, closing the door behind.
His name was called. Captain Brodur caught up, breathing hard, his bared sword
in his hand. It was he who'd brought the first warning of revolt, because his
home fief had been first to be lost. Brodur, visiting his family, had risen from
bed to enter the fray in breeches and shirt, without bothering to take up armor
or arming girdle. He and his family had been driven out though, their land
taken. Brodur had made the painful recognition of his duty and carried the news.
He was carefree no more; men called him "Brodur-Scabbardless" for, having begun
with a bared blade, he'd vowed not to cover it until his family had their lands
returned.
Now he gasped his message to come and see what Omen had appeared. They found a
hallway window. Moonlight and starlight over Boldhaven Bay was outdone by a new
illumination. Seeing the Sign hanging in the southern sky, Springbuck shouted
for Hightower and Gabrielle. They came running, the Warlord with his two-handed
blade half drawn.
Gabrielle confirmed that it was the Trailingsword. "My brother and the rest
discharged their commission. Now you have a higher edict, Springbuck; the men
left to you will go with you southward. Reacher will have seen it in Freegate,
as will any who hate the .Masters. Whether those will be enough or not, we shall
learn, hi seven times seven days."
Springbuck drew Brodur-Scabbardless aside.
"Call together all leaders of the diverse elements. 221
Have the King of Seaguard invited. You may pass my word: Soon many swords, like
yours, shall leave behind them the estate of the scabbard."
Every scrap of their patience, stamina and imagination was subject to test,
those next three days.
"Your Grace, the septs of Matloo refuse to embark without their war-drays. I ask
you, where have we room for those oversized wagons and horses?"
"Hmm. Fill each dray with cargo, captain; they are capacious enough. Pack more
in around them once they're secure. Thus, we sacrifice little space. We may need
those fearsome wagons. The horses will fit somewhere aboard the vessels
designated for mounts. Some men of Matloo may accompany them."
"My Lord Hightower, the Ku-Mor-Med directed me to you on a subject A special tax
is levied on profits of those buying goods from the departing Lords and
soldiers. Where can be the justice in this? I am an honest man, seeking to aid
our great cause, and take due earnings from that. The Protector-Suzerain would
lack funds, had not we merchants opened our coffers, converting goods and deeds
of land to hard specie."
Hightower*s reply blew the userer's hair back. "Slight good will your monies do
you, coin-caresser, if we fail! When before this have you bought bullocks so
cheaply? When has land been rented or sold to you outright at such low sums?
Bah! Better men than you are sailing in one more day while you, squealing
piglet, are best gone from my sight, else I hang you by the heel at the
ramparts.'*
'The problem is as follows, Ku-Mor-Mcd,n said Brodur-Scabbardless. "The men of
Teebra object that the volunteers from the Fens of Hinn are allowed to fly then-
flag. They say rebellious Hinn is rightfully theirs, and this should not be
permitted.'*
"The men of Hinn promised they would be first to the gates of Salami if they
could fly their standard. Besides, the Grand Council of Teebra had grown
hardhearted to them, for in their shared religion, Hinn is more orthodox, making
Teebra uneasy. See what you
222
can do to soothe the Teebrans, but do not let them forget their fealty to me."
The captain made a note. Looking him over, Springbuck asked, "What device is
that you bear upon your shoulder?"
It was a stylized emblem, a longsword picked out in white, beaming hilt
uppermost, on a field of stars. **Everyone seems to wear the Trailingsword now."
He made to go.
"Just a moment, Captain; there is one matter the more, Lord Hightower will
command the expedition under my lead, but will also general our regular legions.
He needs a good man over all his cavalry elements. He selected you."
Brodur was evasive. "Lord, I have never even commanded a squadron, let alone
regiments!"
"You avoided it. It was permitted until now, but that is no longer tenable. Oh,
I know you would rather keep peace of mind, but youTI learn to live without it,
as I have. Surely after the war you can go your, own way once more."
Brodur, ruffled, denied that "There will be no peace, once my fine aptitudes are
disclosed." The Ku~ Mor-Mai barked with laughter, but wondered how the captain
would react when he was in charge.
"Lord Hightower, many men take exception to these new rules. Being told to boil
drinking water, and how and where a man may take his relievements, and the
things they must do with their rubbish, and how they must bathe with soaps the
apothecaries concocted, those lay much against then1 pride."
"You are a brave and able man, Lord Bantam. I remember your volunteering to stay
behind and command my family's garrison against siege during the retreat to
Freegate last summer. But what happened? Half the men who remained with you took
ill. The Hightower and its defenders would have fallen if Yardiff Bey's general
had had more time to spend on you. Attend me; these rules, as strange to me as
to you, were given to Springbuck by the outlanders Van Duyn and Gil Mac-Donald.
We will be careful about our drinking water and our—our sanitation, as they put
it, and no man will
223
stop short of our goal for sickness if I can help it. If you must, tell them it
has arcane meaning. Or again, provoke their honor; this is part of their
service.
"And pass along my warrant that these rules are holy doctrine hereafter. The man
who ignores them and his superior will both hear from me in strongest terms,
clear? My gratitude, Lord Bantam.**
Men grew sick, stomachs emptied their contents into the sea, and the leeward
side of any troop vessel was a noxious, crowded place to be.
The sailors of Seaguard's flotilla were hugely entertained by so many
landlubbers coming to grips with the sea at once. There would have been fights,
Springbuck was sure, except that few of his soldiers wanted to do anything but
lie or sit hi their misery. On advice from older officers, he ordered that
everyone was to stay topside whenever weather permitted during the day.
Lingering below invited disease and apathy, and dampened morale worse than salt
spray ever would.
Hightower and Gabrielle spoke to him with more ease now that their renascent
love was open fact, but usually preferred one another's company to the Ku-Mor-
Mofs. Springbuck either talked to Brodur or the officers of his flagship, a
ponderous fighting-carrack, or stood on the aft fighting castle.
Though Brodur-Scabbardless had ample opportunity to gamble, he had little time,
worrying about his new command and fretting about their horses* well-being. A
part of his outgoing spirit returned, but he still carried a bared blade.
Nearly two weeks out, they sighted the Inner Hub. They asked one another what
could possibly have made those immense breaches in the sea wall, and torn the
harbor gates away so completely as to leave no trace of them. This was the
older, the first of the Mariners' citadels, and had boasted walls of marble and
of beryl, gardens, halls and libraries and temples. Now there was smeared ruin.
Mast trucks poked blackened pennants out of the surface of the harbor, grave
markers. Ash and wreckage drifted restlessly on the water. Springbuck could only
hope that, as Gabrielle had predicted,
224
the Mariner vengeance would occupy the attention of whatever Southwastelander
ships plied the sea.
He was on the rear tower of the carrack, named Oak-engrip. Hightower and the
sorceress were on the forward castle, she sheltered under the long, warm sweep
of his cloak. A gulf of loneliness yawned, even as a cold, analytical side of
Springbuck came forth, telling him it would strengthen the expedition's resolve
to see this devastation and think what it meant in terms of home.
Pulling his own cloak tighter, he paced to the other side of the deck and peered
forward, toward the southern horizon. Unsteady in the unfamiliar rhythhi of the
sea, he'd been on deck most of the day, letting men know he shared "the ship,
the weather, the situation altogether," as the Mariner rhyme had it
The next day the sea became rough again, sporting whitecaps, and all landsmen
who'd missed the agony of seasickness the first time coped with it now. Those
who'd already dealt with it refamiliarized themselves. No ships were lost, and
only a handful of careless men. The Ku-Mor-Mai, was thankful he'd gotten off so
easily. A day came, just short of three weeks after the Trailingsword's
appearance, when land hove into view.
Chapter Twenty-four
The virtue of adversity is fortitude.
Francis Bacon "On Adversity'1
IT was a peninsula of struggling, sunburned orchards and crops. Springbuck's
poor vision gave him only the vague details of modest white huts fronting a
bleached, broad beach. Fishing nets had been draped to dry, and long canoes were
pulled above the tide's mark. The flotilla was on full alert; there was little
information about
225
this side of the Central Sea. The strand was unnervingly quiet, with no sign
that their arrival had been noted. Unwelcomed, unopposed, they were used to no
third alternative.
Hightower ascended the aft castle. "Someone must go ashore, and there is not
much time for it." The Ku-Mor-Mai agreed; an alarm might already have gone out
The Warlord finished, "It is my intention to do so."
"I'm sorry, my Lord, but you are too valuable to risk at preliminary scout. Send
someone whom you trust."
Brodur, a pace behind the old man, offered himself at once. Hightower insisted,
"I will take any others you choose, Lord, but mean to go myself. It will fall to
me to give the command to disembark. I must see what is there for myself first."
The younger man couldn't dispute that. He conceded the poult, and Hightower was
soon in a longboat with Brodur and a dozen other volunteers. Springbuck followed
them through a spying tube, squinting elaborately to make the scene come clear,
but after they'd secured their boat and gone past the first line of houses, he
lost them.
A half-hour passed. Springbuck ordered more boats readied, selecting a larger
party to come ashore with him. Just then the longboat put out again from the
beach, and in its wake came the canoes. Men of Cora-monde loosened swords and
tested bowstrings, but heard no war cries and saw no weapons or armor flashing.
Hightower's boat pulled alongside the flagship, but the others stood back. Their
occupants had been warned that Coramonde, come to wage war, would be quick to
misconstrue an act as provocation.
The people were small, brown-skinned folk whose boats were painted in bright
colors and fanciful designs. Most wore a sort of short kirtle; many had flowers
woven in their hair, and there was a good deal of simple jewelry, childlike
works of coral or shells. The Ku-Mor-mai noticed, at this close range, that many
were scarred, missing a limb, maimed, bereft of an eye or ear, or otherwise
afflicted. Still, they sang a happy-tempoed tune of greeting, for all the fact
that their faces were sad and wary.
226
The soldiers and sailors didn't know what to think of these little people, but
called to them good-naturedly.
Hightower and Brodur brought a representative to the Protector-Suzerain, a
slender brown man older than most of his people, wearing a dignified chiton. He
was in awe of Oakengrip. "O Ku-Mor-Mai" Hightower boomed formally, "I present
Kalakeet, who is Speaker of these people, which call themselves the Yalloroon."
The Speaker smiled, but clearly had misgivings. Springbuck was to learn these
people had good reason .to fear strangers. Kalakeet told him, "The great Lord
Hightower has said thou art called Protector-Suzerain, and we beg thee to take
us under the soldierly wing of Coramonde."
Springbuck was stuck for reply. Could he, in fact, be a Protector? "Why do you
ask it of me?"
The Speaker's face lost composure, as if a hope faded. "We are tormented by an
enemy, as beasts of the pasture or cooped fowl. In our whole history we have
been unable to throw off the collar of Shardishku-SalamA, and we had thought,
when the Trailingsword lit our sky night after night . . ."
Thinking what it must have meant to have the Masters blight their lives for
generations, Springbuck's impulse was to tell Kalakeet's people deliverance had
arrived. But he had no wish to lie, and he spoke the only thing a Ku-Mor-Mai
could dare to, the truth.
"There is no wing mighty enough to preserve you in surety against Salami, but if
you will it, you have found determined allies."
Those listening thought it a good response, except Hightower, who clenched the
hilt of his greatsword. Kalakeet seemed as if he were awakening from a dream. "I
should have foreseen this; no plight like ours is thrown down in a day. My
people saw this arrival with too much optimism, I should say, without meaning to
offend." He squared his thin shoulders. "There are many items we can tell one
another; wilt thou come ashore?"
"Thank you, yes." He took a map from an aide. **First, we would like to know
precisely where we are. Can you tell us?"
They'd been blown east of their destination. That event was benificent, in that
the Yalloroon were hospit-
227
able. While Kalakeet was apprising Springbuck's navigators and pilots of
inaccuracies in maps and charts, the Ku-Mor-Mai took his Warlord aside.
Hightower confirmed that the city was empty of armed men. Springbuck gave the
order that unloading begin at once.
Arrangements were formulated for some vessels to beach and others to unload by
boat. Warships dropped back to form a defensive cordon. Blocks creaked and
tackle groaned as supplies and equipment piled up on the beach. Those craft
transporting horses took high priority; armored fighting men were the backbone
of warfare.
The town had no walls or defensive works at all; those had been banned by the
Southwastelanders. Springbuck ordered three ships to disgorge their full cargoes
of infantry, an augmented brigade of hardbitten pikemen from the late Bonsteel's
legions. The Ku-Mor-Mai would feel better when he had a ring of them around the
city of the Yalloroon. Sharp-eyed archers of Rugor positioned themselves and
their mantlets, hammering in their stakes, for supporting fire.
Leaving the rest of the operation to subordinates, Springbuck repaired to
Kalakeet's austere little home. Gabrielle came along, and Balagon, Divine Vicar
of the Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, Angorman's rival. But Hightower said he
had off-loading to supervise.
When they'd gone, the Warlord turned and stalked away, his visage fierce. He'd
heard the story of the Yal-loroon's suffering; it had lifted him to a pinnacle
of rage. He nearly trampled Bodur, who jumped from his way. Hightower scarcely
registered it. "Brodur-Scabbardless, commandeer me the first twoscore horses off
the ships. Then handpick thirty-eight more men, best of our very best. We are
going riding."
Springbuck and Gabrielle made themselves as comfortable as possible in
Kalakeet's dirt-floored common room, along with Balagon. The Ku-Mor-Mai had not
had much chance to acquaint himself with the ageing warrior-priest. The Divine
Vicar was a figure out of fables, leader of the renowned One Hundred. Well along
in years, like Angpnnan, he was a canny and vigorous man. His sparse white hairs
were gathered by a simple leather circlet, and he wore black ringmail under his
228
white vestments. On his right forefinger was the heavy seal ring of his station,
and at his hip hung his famous two-handed blade, Ke-Wa-Coe which, in the Old-
Tongue, means Consecrated of the Goddess.
It was strange for the son of Surehand to be in Ga-brielle's company again
without Hightower. She, on the other hand, gave no indication that she felt the
same.
The food the little Speaker put out for them was pitiful, crusts and oddments of
meat scraps, and runtish vegetables along with some puny fish. Kalakeet
apologized, explaining Salami didn't leave much. Springbuck expressed surprise
that the Yalloroon didn't live under closer control.
"At times we do, in closest arrest, and at other times not, according to the
whim of the Five. Yet, there are worse things than short rations, or going
homeless, or coming to steely harm, Ku-Mor-Mai."
Gabrielle asked what he meant. Kalakeet elaborated. The Yalloroon had lived
under Shardishku-Salama for an uncertain time, since they were forbidden
records. Once, they'd lived peacefully at the ocean's shore. Thus, they'd been
unable to resist armed conquerors, adherents of the Masters who'd ground them
down with painstaking intimidation, torture and execution. The Yalloroon had
fought back once, disastrously. None who'd taken up arms were punished, but
every other man, woman and child was, and many of them were killed. Some rebels
committed suicide out of remorse and others simply became despondent; no
uprisings occurred again. Several groups set out to escape, by land and sea, but
all were brought back, saying they'd found no place not controlled by Salama\
The Yalloroon became playthings in a game of transcendent cruelty. They suffered
ever-new terrors, humiliation and pain, being tested, they concluded, in some
cold experiment to learn how to separate people from pride, from hope, from any
other quality that might inhibit total submission.
They'd considered racial suicide. But one woman had stood up at one of their
meetings, saying, "There is only one reason they could wish to erase us so
utterly. They know we are better than they."
The weaker and less angry knew they couldn't bear 229
it. Many took their own lives or each other's by agreement. Those who were
angriest, though, vowed to keep the things Salami wished to destroy. So, while
the Masters could quite easily have them killed, or broken with physical
torture, or compelled by direct duress, separating the Yalloroon from their
self-worth had met insurmountable resistance.
Springbuck was amazed. In some way, Shardtshku-SalamS itself had lost face, its
clinical subjects refusing to behave as they ought. The Yalloroon had been
unshakable in their belief that they were being tormented simply because they
were better. From it had flowed the strength to resist. Erring, the Five had
converted these unimposing people into a human alloy capable of being shattered,
but never bent, the diametric opposite of the intended result.
"But then," interrupted Balagon, "as far as you know, we could be of Salama*,
and all this, even the Trailingsword, a ruse."
"As happened generations ago," responded Kalakeet. "An army came, and declared
us liberated. There we/e celebrations and thanksgivings. After a week, they
revealed the terrible truth, a sudden and subtle blow that started a more severe
round of atrocities."
"You have little reason to believe us then," Springbuck observed, "but you are
no longer alone."
"And whether that is true or false, Ku-Mor-Mai, we welcome thee. If it is
betrayal, that is thy crime, not ours." He said it in an old, formidable
dignity. The Ku-Mor-Mai bowed homage to that.
"When deeds are tallied," he answered, "none will match those of the Yalloroon."
Balagon voiced agreement. Splendid Gabrielle took Kalakeet's hand and inclined
her head over it.
Springbuck began asking questions about the area. He answered Kalakeet's
questions about Coramonde, but told nothing of his actual plan; information
could be extracted from the bravest man. A cartographer arrived with revised
maps for the Speaker's review, and the Protector-Suzerain ordered the
expedition's healers to move among the Yalloroon and be of whatever service they
could. Night and the Trailingsword came on, and Kalakeet lit hoarded stubs of
candle.
230
The door banged open. Hightower filled the frame, reeking of the fight, with new
damage to his armor, eyes smouldering. The first engagement with the Southwaste-
landers on their own soil had already been fought.
He sat, to tell them about it. Hearing Kalakeefs story, he'd become infuriated.
Seeking release, he'd re-connoitered the countryside with Brodur and select men
at his back. They'd encountered three times their own number hi enemy cavalry,
stumbling into them by chance in a winding pass. The Southwastelanders had been
astounded but Hightower, with no more hesitation than it made to drop his lance
level, had gone hi among them, irresistible. His men, with scant choice, had
borne in after. The southerners, less heavily armored and without room to
maneuver, had stood then- ground.
The Warlord had driven completely through their ranks. Springbuck could picture
that; he'd seen the old giant hi combat, where getting in his way was tantamount
to suicide. Gabrielle's face wore a pride the Ku-Mor-Mai couldn't begrudge.
Hightower and his men had cut the Southwastelanders to pieces, and sent them
reeling back down the pass, shivering in fright of these terrible new foemen,
found where there ought only to have been helpless Yalloroon. The men of
Coramonde had ridden back to the city singing, with a foeman's head on every
lancetip.
Springbuck set his hand to the Warlord's hilt, pulled the greatsword from its
sheath. It was streaked with the dark blood of enemies, red coming to brown in
the candlelight.
"Lord Hightower has delivered the first statement of our long communique' of
war."
The Speaker reached out timidly. The very ends of his fingers reached the cold
blade, rested there for a second. He drew them back as if burned, awed at the
brown stains on them. Then he buried his head in his hands, weeping.
Wrestling within the son of Surehand were loathing of the squander of war,
against satisfaction in the delivery of the Yalloroon.
231
Chapter Twenty-five
Who asks whether the enemy were defeated by strategy or valor?
Virgil
THE Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach gauged the dust of enemy horsemen. One of
the riders of his advance party, doing the same, estimated, "They will be here
in perhaps forty minutes, Majesty."
Reaclier shook his head. Those were swift desert chargers, bearing lightly
armored South was telanders. They would arrive at the little way station here,
where the men of Freegate had stopped, sooner than that. He looker to the
courier who'd just come up from the main body of his army.
"How far back are my sister and the array?"
The man answered unwillingly, knowing it was bad news. "No less than an hour and
another half, my Lord. They are harried by unarmored bowmen on fleet steeds who,
firing at them, outrace pursuit The Horseblooded might have chased and caught
them, but the Snow Leopardess would not allow her force to go asunder. She will
come as quickly as she can. It might mean delay, your Grace, or it might mean a
fight"
"It is Katya," Reacher replied. "It will be a fight** But she was handling
things entirely correctly. It wouldn't do to let the Horseblooded become
separated from the slower-moving mailed warriors of Freegate, risking piecemeal
combat in unfamiliar country. She couldn't know this way station was here,
deserted by its few sentinels, commanding high ground that would be defaulted to
the thousand or so Southwastelanders coming at full speed.
Reacher had come ahead with two hundred men to 232
scout the terrain in depth, only to find Southwastelanders within minutes of
this strong position on its high ground, approaching from the opposite
direction. He studied the hill, its grass burned brown by the overbearing sun.
To the west, enormous broken teeth of stone formed a jagged hedge, sloping away
toward the uneven, ravined land that led to the Central Sea. The position was
secure enough there. The way station and its outbuildings were close by the side
of the Southern Tangent, at the crest of the rise; from there the hill fell away
to the east. It descended into gullies, draws and washes etched from the earth.
That it wasn't more heavily fortified was due to the fact that it fronted league
after league of barren, uninhabited land to the north, guarding the farthest
parts of Salama's domain. South of here, the Southern Tangent was said to stop,
vanishing beneath a region of desert
The way station was indefensible by two hundred men against a thousand or more,
but that same thousand might hold it against many times their number. The Lord
of the Just and Sudden Reach dismissed the idea of trying a useless holding
action. That only left it to come back with his whole army and dig the desert
men out, using precious time and costing a toll of men.
"We leave now," he told the soldiers who waited tensely. They relaxed a bit
hearing it "Have all buildings been searched?" he added.
"It is being done, my Lord," said the captain in charge of scouts. "There are
some outbuildings left; it is nigh accomplished."
"Where is the Lord Van Duyn?" The American had been eager for a look at the
Southwastelands, asking to come in the advance party as a favor Reacher could
hardly deny.
"He is gone up onto tjie roof of the way station," one said, "to see the lay of
the land."
Edward Van Duyn eased the hauburgeon that always seemed to drag at his
shoulders, rubbed dust from his gold-rimmed glasses and rechecked his estimate
of the enemy's rate of travel. The prevailing wind blew down the slope, out of
the highlands behind him, toward the
233
plains. Distances were difficult to judge with the brazen sun directly overhead.
Van Duyn might easily have remained back in Free-gate, or returned there when
Reacher had made his decision under the Trailingsword to go south. In the
capital, he would have had the contiguity device close to hand, ready for escape
from this Reality if the Masters should prevail. But Katya was accompanying her
brother, not to be kept from his side in time of danger even by her feelings for
the American. Threatened by prolonged separation from her, Van Duyn found
himself unwilling to accept it      /
There was another reason for his going, less subject to analysis. He'd found
himself recalling Coramonde's Highlands Province and how, at the end of a day's
toil at the model farm or surveying for the new dam, he and the Snow Leopardess
and many others would gather in the community bath'and sauna they'd built There
they'd baked out the chill, laughing, joking, buffing themselves lobster-red hi
the heat They'd spun a' hundred plans and dreams, more than their tomorrows
might bring, but no less worth conceiving.
He'd had something then, challenges and ideas, Accomplishments and hopes. He'd
been accorded the friendship of the Highlanders, seldom given to outsiders, a
thing of bedrock palpability, irrevocable. He'd thought of that often since the
Province had been swallowed up by the polar magic of the Druids. To be sure,
there were incalculable other Realities to which he could withdraw by
Contiguity; he was frank enough with himself to own up that, hi doing so, he'd
sever a part of himself. In this line of thought, he'd been drawn more and more
into the effort to cast down the influence of the Masters.
Reacher was suddenly standing beside him, having come up without the slightest
sound. Van Duyn stifled his surprise. The King never meant discourtesy; it was
just that, peerless hunter and tracker, he went with an unlabored, unthinking
stealth. Standing just over five feet, lean and broad-shouldered, Reacher, it
was said, could cross a field without disturbing any blade of grass. His wild,
simple upbringing left him uneasy in the company of most people. IBs preference
for passing
234
among them inconspicuously had given him a rumored talent for invisibility.
Besides that there was, Van Duyn suspected, the matter of the King's reflexes.
The American had never been able to measure Reacher's response time, but it was
vanishing small. What attitudes and outlooks would he have developed, moving
through a world of comparative sluggards with something like instantaneity?
Anyway, nothing to make him outgoing.
"How soon?" asked the King forthrightly.
"I should say less than half an hour. They can catch us on open ground if we
withdraw, can they not?"
"Unimportant; they will not pursue. They will occupy this ground." He tugged at
his high, ring-mail collar. Reacher disliked panoply, being used to the brief
hunting gear of the Howlebeau who'd raised him, and whose foster brothers were
the huge wolves of the steppes. The King had often run with the packs, a member
among them. For .that he was sometimes called "Wolf-Brother.**
After the conference at Earthfast, Reacher had led his armies far down the
Southern Tangent, to the edge of Freegate's boundaries. The Horseblooded had
come, keeping their compacts with the men of the Free City and the strong bonds
their hetmen had with the King, Southwastelanders had been raiding and sacking
far into Freegate's territory, and retribution had been overdue.
The King's scouts had ferreted out the southerners* advance base, hidden hi the
heart of the wastes. Reacher had made a long march and taken the place by
surprise. On the same night, the Trailingsword had burned in the sky for the
first time.
The Masters were using a young and warlike race, the Occhlon. Though prisoners
had been reticent to the point of fanaticism, it had become clear that the Five
weren't simply fostering border troubles. This was some major effort, wherein
they were fielding every man-at-arms they had. Andre deCourteney*s warnings in
Earthfast stayed prominent in the King's mind.
Though communication with Coramonde had been lost, Reacher had heeded military
imperatives, decrees of legend, and his own wilderness instincts, letting the
235
Omen lead him toward Salami The Freegaters and Wild Riders had sent the desert
men flying, unable to match the northerners' numbers. This way station marked
the end of lands to which neither side had any claim, and the beginning of the
South wastelands.
"If they reoccupy this place they'll hold us back, won't they?" Van Duyn more
stated than asked.
"For a time. We here are too few to repel them.** He pulled the mailed coif up
over his blond hair. Van Duyn picked up his Garand and they went back down me
cylindrical stairway.
Departure was interrupted. From the last building to be searched, two warriors
emerged with a struggling man braced between them. The captive, sobbing and
pleading, was thrust on his knees before the King.
"This one was bound, gagged and hung by his sash,** explained the captain, his
longsword drawn. "There was a pair of laden donkeys also, which he says to be
his.** The captive waited like a mouse among snakes.
Reacher examined the Southwastelander curiously. The man was no soldier, and
hardly a spy. He was dressed in overused robes, his conical hat battered and
dusty, his beard matted and dirty. Around his neck hung a medallion stamped of
brass. "What else is there?"
"In the stable, my Lord? Nothing more.** The captain's gaze went south, where
the enemy's dust was nearer.
Reacher pointed to the medallion. "What emblem is that?"
The southerner's eyes slid away. "Only my employer's."
"A minor official's medal, Lord," supplied the captain, who knew something of
Southwastelanders. "This man would be an area newsgiver, and collector of
tribute."
"And what news did you give the sentinels here?"* Van Duyn asked. The King was
pleased his question had been anticipated. The prisoner hesitated.
The captain's edge flicked up under the newsgjvef s chin. The prisoner squeaked
and gabbled, "That all is well, and our armies hi firm control of the
wastelands. Th-lhat victory is assured."
236
Van Duyn grinned. "Only, as you passed that encouraging dispatch, we were seen
riding down; made you a liar, didn't we? So the angry sentinels left you for us,
apropos of your falsehood?"
The collector-newsgiver admitted it. The American chortled. "You poor sucker.
Your employers never told you what happens to propagandists when reality catches
up, did they?"
"I did believe it to be the truth, I swear upon my father's eyes! Why else would
I have stopped up here before turning south? Eee, spare me my life, I beg; I can
make good recompense."
''What payment is that?" pounced the captain.
"Do you but bring my donkeys, and I will show." When the animals were fetched,
he unpacked a long, thin sack. He opened one end, and spilled out a thin stream
of red powder.
"Earnai," the captain said, "Dreamdrowse." He rattled the newsgiver by gathered
lapels. "Why did the sentinels not take it?"
"Have mercy! Am I a madman, to risk my life by telling those provincial scum I
was transporting the product of a season? And later, before I could buy back my
freedom, I was gagged unspealdng."
Reacher turned to go. The discovery had no tactical significance. Maybe, he
thought, the Southwastelanders would find it and make themselves stuporous, but
he doubted that. The collector-newsgiver, released, slumped in astonishment.
They had no time to go slowly, with a prisoner, and it wasn't the King's way to
slay offhandedly.
But Van Duyn was stirring the red powder with his boot. He called the Wolf-
Brother back. "We could put this to work, you know." Getting no response, he
continued, **This is the form they call 'mahonn*, am I correct?"
"It looks to be," the captain agreed. "It is from the Old Tongue, meaning
'rescue.'""
"Very concentrated," Van Duyn went on, "quite flammable. Suppose we burned it
upwind, when the Southwastelanders came?"
They all struggled to absorb the idea, except the King. Arms folded across his
chest, he strolled over to
237
look down the slope to the south. "Would they not avoid it?"
The American frowned. "Very well then, scatter it among the grass and fire it.
Or better yet, egg them into charging upslope, and fire the mahonn as they pass
through it."
The captain spoke up, "If it does no more than afford us time it wUl be much, my
Lord King."
Readier turned back to them. "We have only some minutes," he warned; "therefore,
let us do this thing with all speed."
Prepared in the form of mahonn, the Dreamdrowse wasn't effective until burned.
Still, Van Duyn and the others tore strips of cloth and masked themselves
against the dust they would raise sowing their bizarre seed. It was stored in
long, thin tubes of canvas. Holding one end of a sack, they slit a corner at the
opposite end and cantered along, shaking Earnai in among the tufts of grass,
losing little to the wind. There were a dozen sacks hi all, the area's entire
refined product of "rescue" for this growing season. The captive couldn't bear
to watch; he sat rocking and wailing with the hem of his robe to his eyes. At
the bottom of the slope, sheltered by rocks, Readier and fifty men waited to
bait the trap.
Van Duyn finished, gave the command and sped back up the hill. The American and
Reacher's captain crouched and marked time.
They'd barely made it. The Southwastelanders* formation, less disciplined than
was the northern habit, appeared. It had extended itself in the course of a hard
ride; Reacher had counted on that. He slammed down his visor, dropped his lance
and charged, leading the way, but left it to his men to take up the war cry. The
Wolf-Brother and his little wedge of armored men hewed into the southerners'
left flank, throwing dozens of them down with their first strikes. Then they
fell hi among the surprised desert men with swords, maces and cavalry picks.
There was the wild, random exchange of blows. From the crest of the hill Van
Duyn watched sunlight flicker on metal and heard the screams of the wounded and
dying. The Freegaters had gotten to close quarters before the Occhlon could use
their maneuver-
238
ability, and Reacher's strongly armored men prevailed.
But more Southwastelanders came up quickly behind the first. The King gave his
trumpeter a yell. Retreat blew, and Reacher raced from the fray, his standard-
bearer and trumpeter close after. They swept up the hill, their horses still
fresh. Only a handful of desert men gave immediate chase; few really knew what
had happened.
When they topped the hill, the men of Freegate turned and gave battle again. The
captain spurred up in support, with the other northerners. While a milling
skirmish broke out beside the way station, the rest of the Occhlon regrouped at
the foot of the hill, and followed. Van Duyn noticed the southern banner for the
first tune, a black scorpion on a crimson field, the device carried by Ibn-al-
Yed, the sorcerer who'd died during the battle of the Hightower.
Reacher slid from his saddle and took the bow and fire-arrows that had been
readied. He took his first arrow, with its collar of oil-soaked straw tied by
wetted gut, and lit it from a fire-pot. He nocked, drew until the nock lay under
his right eye, sighted and released in smooth series. There were three more
arrows prepared, burning. Before the first had landed, heM fired them all.
Downslope, they thudded in among the clumps of sun-browned grass, scattering
embers.
Smoke appeared, the wind nurturing it, as Reacher completed his pattern with
three more shafts. The Southwastelanders, pouring up the slope, ignored the
burning grass as being too low and dispersed to stop them.
Van Duyn unslung his Garand, holding it at high port, watching the charging
cavalry worriedly. The King held up his hand though, to keep him from shooting.
"That might deter their charge," he said. "Few enough more will make it
through."
Prevailing winds rushed the fires down toward Hie enemy. The smoke took a
reddish tinge as the Dream-drowse was consumed. First wisps of it blew into the
body of the Occhlon, Van Duyn prayed the breeze wouldn't shift.
The charge wavered; some desert men actually drew rein. Then insanity broke out
in what had been a deter-
239
mined, competent attack. Horses threw their riders; men fell or jumped from the
saddle, colliding with one another. They ran screaming from imaginary terrors or
sat weeping. They cringed from each other or lunged together with murder in
mind, or sprawled out in a drugged stupor, depending on their turn of mind,
tolerance, and exposure to the mah6nn. Some in the rear weren't affected and,
divining that the smoke was more than it appeared, retreated. But the major part
of the force was engulfed.
Van Duyn stayed to one side, as defenders on the hilltop finished off those
Southwastelanders who'd made it to the top. He watched men below stagger through
the smoke in tears, nausea, hallucinations and hysteria. Those who were able to
lurched off the field to escape southward.
After several minutes, the smoke below began to thin as (he fire burned itself
out. The victors gathered. "That was no clean triumph," the captain alleged,
"but smacked more of conjuror's tricks."
"You have the high ground," Van Duyn grated, "and your casualties are small. The
enemy's in route, and has lost heavily."
Reacher, watching stricken Southwastelanders crawl from the field or huddle down
close to the ground, said nothing.
The last prisoners had been herded together when Katya arrived, the main body of
Freegate coming hi ranks behind her. With her was great Kisst-Haa and several of
his kin, the reptile-men. Bringing up the rear were the laughing, unregunented
Horseblooded, singing and cavorting among themselves. Spying Readier, they
forged ahead, calling, "Wolf-Brother, we are here!" They had given him that
sobriquet, as they'd named his sister Sleethand, the Snow Leopardess.
Now she vaulted from the saddle and caught Van Duyn and her brother up in a
boisterous double hug. "I did worry," she admitted, "but mounted archers were
hitting us side and side, and outran even our fleet Horse-blooded there, where
southerners alone know the twisty canyons. I perforce set them a little trap.
Staring hard, you may see the carrion birds from here. How went matters by you?"
240
"Well enough," Reacher allowed. He held up a captured standard, the black
scorpion on crimson field.
She puzzled aloud, "Why is this emblem still flown?"
The Wolf-Brother didn't know, but was concerned as much as she. But he
remembered to say, "Congratulate Edward; his inspiration gave us the day." She
bussed Van Duyn soundly; he hung an arm around her and returned it
enthusiastically. She was first to stop for breath.
When she got around to checking the lay of the land to the south, she was
delighted. "There is no fortress or impediment as far as the eye can see; only
open plains. With Horseblooded outriders and heavy Freegate knights, we will
make good way."
Reacher was still distracted. With Van Duyn's arm around her waist, the Snow
Leopardess took her brother's hand. "Leave off; a day's work is done."
The King went with them then, letting the defeated banner fall. But the black
scorpion had awakened a disquiet he couldn't set aside.
Chapter Twenty-six
In desperate matters the boldest counsels are the safest.
Livy Histories
SPRINGBUCK and Hightower sweated, coaxed, ranted and had the army off-loaded
within a day and a half. Shifts of men trudged burdens through breaking surf.
Flailing, blindfolded horses were set down by which, knee deep in the waves.
Among those was Fireheel, Springbuck's favorite. The long-legged gray, ill-
humored from shipboard confinement, went high-stepping, eager for a hard ride.
241
Hightower sent oat deep patrols while craftsmen assembled carts, water barrels
and other equipment from parts they'd brought. In the meantime, men worked
staleness and stiffness out of themselves.
In planning the route, Springbuck made himself think more as burglar than
invader; contact was to be avoided, and standup combat eschewed, unless there
were some clear advantage to it.
Early on the second morning after their landing, horns sounded and drums beat.
Tents were struck, columns formed, and for the first tune the Ku-Mor-Mai saw his
entire corps drawn up. They were formidable in their thousands, but hardly a
match for the hordes rumored to be in the Southwastelands.
Except for the war-drays, water wagons and baggage wains, the column would be
entirely made up of horsemen, including infantrymen who'd dismount to fight
afoot if needed.
Springbuck left the unmounted portion of his infantry as security for the city,
hoping to keep an escape path open.
Most of the men had removed part of their armor or cut up light blankets to
supplement the protection of their tabbards. Springbuck accepted Kalakeet's
ofier of a light robe makeshift-tailored for him. To the spare Al-ebowrenian
outfit, he'd added a hauberk of light rings suitable for the wanner climate.
Though it was early morning, the sun was hot, a demonstration of what was to
come.
He met Hightower and Gabrielle, who waited at the head of the formation. The
sorceress wore a white bur-noose, untroubled by the heat as she sat her
sidesaddled mare. At her cantle hung her brother Andre's sword, holding within
its pommel the gemstone Calundronius. Nearby stood Balagon, who'd mustered the
One Hundred of his Brotherhood. Springbuck called Brodur, and they trotted in
hasty review.
The Legions were ready with the preparation of a lifetime's professional
soldiering. Rank on rank of light and medium cavalry, mounted pikemen and bowmen
and panoplied knights, they were used to biding their time against the order to
march. Behind them, Alebo-
242
wrenian bravoes joked and boasted, decked out in their finery, calling greetings
to the Ku-Mor-Mai. Next, archers of Rugor tested their bowstrings and squinted
at the morning light.
The men of Teebra, hardy mountaineers, had raised their animal totems, and worn
their war bonnets of eagle feathers. Over their hauberks they'd donned their
necklaces, strung claws and fangs of beasts of prey.
At the rear, the war-drays of Matloo were drawn up. They were sturdy wooden
wagons, faced and strapped with iron. Their bodies were halved, articulated, to
make them more maneuverable. Their wheels, fitted with spikes, slashing rims and
hub-blades, could do terrible damage. Each was pulled by eight giant armored
war-horses bred for the job. The driver held his hand-fuls of reins hi a turret
at the wagon's prow, and his riders could either close their side plates for
protection or open them for the use of spears, bows and the over-long swords
they used. At the fore, astride the lead horse, sat the Lead-Line Rider,
practicing the most perilous, prestigious calling there was for a man of Matloo.
Without him to control and direct the team, the driver's guidance might be
inadequate. In rigorously puritanical Matloo, no one was more esteemed than the
champions who rose to that rank.
The men of Matloo were set to depart, all Lead-Line Riders in their high-cantled
saddles, but around them a dozen of the Yalloroon had gathered. Springbuck and
Brodur stopped. Drakemirth, the grim old step-chieftain who led the contingent,
was at words with Kalakeet the Speaker. Drakemirth was almost the size of
Hightower, his slate-gray hair and beard plaited and clamped in dozens of small
braids. He stood with mail-gloved fists on hips, listening to pleas that he let
some of the Yalloroon go with him hi the drays. Noticing the Ku-Mor-Mai, he
said, "Your Grace, here is a decision for you."
Springbuck got down. The little Yalloroon repeated the request "Kalakeet," the
son of Surehand said, "I promise your people will go with the ships if trouble
comes. What would it profit for you to come with us into the heart of Salami?"
Kalakeet was unswerving. "Protector-Suzerain, we do
243
not ask all to go; only a few. Who has endured more at the hands of the Five
than the Yalloroon? Who has a better right to send witnesses, to bring back the
tale of this faring? Any of us would risk it, but we know only a few may go. Is
that so much to petition?"
Springbuck found himself conceding that it wasn't. "What think you, Drakemirth?"
*'We can tuck along such small passengers as these," he granted. "We have four
drays, room enough for two of them in each. Speaker, mind you, do as you are
instructed and be no distraction to us, should battle come."
Kalakeet bowed low, but the Speaker's voice held an amused note. "Exalted
Drakemirth, calm hi the midst of peril is our single aptitude."
They went with all the speed they could maintain, raising choking dust in the
heat of the wastelands, discovering the special rigors of travel there. Scouts
came across what seemed to be a well-traveled route. It was decided that the
army would trace it to its source, paralleling it but keeping well off it. It
was Springbuck's order that they cold-camp each night.
On the third evening, the value of that was proved. They'd stopped early, on the
edge of a long plateau, to keep the advantage of high ground. Toward dusk a long
file of men and animals wound its way up from the south. It settled down for the
night, not three miles from them. Hightower pointed out that the northerners had
a clear advantage of numbers, saying they should take this camp for the
information they could gain.
Springbuck let another factor decide him, that there were many strings of spare
horses among that column, while his own forces lacked a single remount. The men
of Coramonde quietly resaddled in the gloaming. When night had come on, they
made their careful way down, and formed up on die plain. The wagons and war-
drays were left behind for consideration of noise. Advancing at a walk, the army
came stealthily to within a quarter-mile of the camp.
For the first time, the battle flourish of the Ku-Mor-Mai sounded south of the
Central Sea. Heavy lances were clenched. Men whooped forward at the gallop.
There were a few guards hi wicker armor wound hi leather, carrying light target-
shields and slim, straight-
244
bladed swords. Most had the simple sense to dive for cover. The ground shook
from iron hooves drumming in the darkness.
The attackers hadn't hit a military unit, but rather a supply caravan headed
northwest. Only a handful of its escorting soldiers ever got to their saddles.
Women who'd been cooking dinner or kneading camel dung into rings for fuel, and
men who'd been tending this or that chore, screamed and flattened to the ground:
Giant northern chargers soared out of the darkness, hurtling campfires. Pack
animals brayed in fear, fighting their tethers, their harness bells ringing. Any
man who raised a sword was struck down. Captives, most of them cara-vaners and
their families, were rounded up and guarded. The freight was unremarkable,
provisions and livestock bound for an army hi the field.
The desert men's gabbled responses were barely coherent, the only clear fact
being that they'd traveled for many days now.
In the largest of the tents, Springbuck assembled all the documents and maps he
could find. He'd learned from Gil MacDonald what a treasure house of military
information captured papers could be. He called in Kalakeet, who*d stayed back
with the war-drays and whose knowledge of the area, vague as it was, was
superior to his own. As the Ku-Mor-Mai and the Speaker bent over the papers,
Gabrielle came in, cooling herself with a silken fan.
As best Springbuck could make out, there lay between the northerners and their
way south a mountain range some dozens of leagues long, the Demon's Breastwork,
one of Salami's great natural defenses, a palisade of jagged, impassable cliffs.
To the west, it descended into a low-lying, searing desert called Amon's
Cauldron. Much farther to the southeast, the Demon's Breastwork ended, but that
circuit was a well-traveled convoy route, much patrolled, on which the
northerners would run a high risk of battle. The caravan had departed a major
fortress somewhere south of the Breastwork, its destination the northwestern tip
of the Masters' domain.
"You have been south of the Central Sea before," Springbuck said to the
sorceress. "Have you any comment?"
245
"I came by a far different path," she replied cryptically, "and went by it too.
Yet, that is the terrain as I heard it."
Springbuck was holding a document that, composed of paragraphs and lists and
bordered with official seals, bad the look of an orders letter. Neither he nor
Ga-brielle could read its southern characters, and Kala-keet's people had been
forbidden literacy, but at Springbuck's urging, Gabrielle labored over the date
of signature, set down in the eccentric lunar reckoning of the Southwastelands.
It was four days previous.
The Ku-Mor-Mai ruminated, *There is some discrepancy. The orders would have come
at this fortress we hear mentioned, not somewhere en route. Yet, how could a
shuffling caravan skirt this Demon's Breastwork in so brief a time?"
"There was once a passage through these moan-tains," Gabrielle recalled, "or so
the story runs in my family. But that was said to have been destroyed, to
further isolate Shardishku-Salama. Not destroyed, perhaps, but only hidden? And
now, when it is so vital to speed supplies up to their army in the Crescent
Lands, in use once more?"
"A question for the caravan leader," said the Ku-Mor-Mai.
Hightower brought the man, whose teeth chattered as he refused to give any
information, his terror of the Masters outweighing any threat the northerners
could bring against him. Gabrielle moved the Ku-Mor-Mai and the Warlord apart
with her soft white hands, slipped an arm through the astonished captive's, and
walked him out of the tent.
They watched her draw him aside a short way, fanning herself and speaking in
words too soft to hear. He listened, then shook his head no, violently. She
spoke again, leaning close, holding a palm up. The blue glow of deCourteney
magic came up off it, illuminating both then- faces. She let it fade, and
bespoke him again. This time, he seemed to yield. Leading the sweating,
trembling caravaner back as if he were her swain, she smiled. 'This one has seen
the blue light of reason. There is indeed a way through the Breastwork. Salama
246
is using it more and more to hurry troops and materiel to its campagin."
The caravaners had been taken through a tunnel under the Demon's Breastwork.
What had been a passageway ages ago was now known as the Gauntlet of Ibn-al-Yed,
because Yardiff Bey's mask-slave had converted it into a death trap. The
travelers had been blindfolded and taken through the Gauntlet by two guides,
each of whom knew only half the way. Guidance must be heeded exactly; the
passageway was filled with lethal pitfalls, snares and other deadly tricks. Bach
guide had gone blindfolded in that part of the tunnel that wasn't his to know.
Once the caravan was through, the guides had gone back the way they'd come, to
the fortress called Condor's Roost, beyond the mountains.
Hightower maintained, "Going straightway under those cliffs saved them a week
and more. Can we not do the same, guides or no?"
Gabrielle, unperspiring, fanned herself slowly. "The traps were engineered fay
Ibn-al-Yed. What that son of the Scorpion has worked, I can unwork."
'Taflure would earn us graves under the mountains," reminded the Warlord.
'Time's unsparing,'* Springbuck argued. "The days of the Trailingsword are hah*
spent. A shortcut is worth any dare."
The Ku-Mor-Mai never ceased to marvel at how problems could come up, and amaze
him, in retrospect, because he hadn't foreseen them.
His most immediate difficulty was keeping Ms prisoners alive. His soldiers had
met the Yalloroon and heard their sad story. Now, they wanted nothing more than
to rip into some Southwastelanders hi retribution; some even cried "Havoc!" in
defiance of Springbuck's command. It took shouted explanations, and more than
one man stretched out by the flat of Hightower's sword, to quell the uproar. To
forestall mass murder, Springbuck disarmed and released all the desert men
except the caravan leader, appropriating their horses, but leaving them then*
dromedaries and camels. That word of his landing would go abroad mattered
little; before southern troops could come down on his track, he intended
247
to be beyond pursuit, closing up this Gauntlet behind
him.
They were up at first light. Rows of horsemen moved through the dawn, honed
lanceheads playing reflective games with the intense southern sunlight. Bits
jingled and snorting horses registered impatience with tosses of their heads and
quick digs of their flashing hooves. The men of Matloo, under Drakemirth, had
spent part of the night fitting their dray-wheels with extenders, broadening
them, to make travel over the sandy stretches easier.
The Yalloroon had used all their available silks to make coverings for their
deliverers' armor and sweating horses. Springbuck wondered how taxing the
climate would be under combat. Worse than Coramonde in its hottest months, he
knew. IBs best scouts, prowler-cavalrymen, led the army through winding ravines.
The way was worn with the use it had seen since the war's outset; the prowlers
would have found it even without the southerner to show them. Faster than a
caravan, they arrived by late afternoon.
The army came to what seemed a cul-de-sac, but its end, hidden to the side, was
the mouth of Ibn-al-Yed's Gauntlet. Gabrielle .made them all draw back and went
alone into the darkness. The Ku-Mor-Mai and his Warlord both had reasons for
objections, but suppressed them.
An hour passed, while the sun sank lower and occasional bursts of the
sorceress's magic lit the end of the ravine. One by one she felt out the snares
and traps, extending her perception and control over them. She systematically
took over the Gauntlet, bringing all its perils under her own command, holding
them in abeyance wth spells and words of Enforcement
Afterward, she walked back to them, the strain bracketing her eyes. "The way is
safe, and I will hold it so. Yet, do not linger; Ibn-al-Yed's devices are
many.** Hightower gave orders; torches and lamps were kindled, and Gabrielle's
horse brought. The Warlord lifted her up, his big hands encircling her waist.
Springbuck detailed Balagon and his One Hundred to insure that no one stopped or
faltered. Brodur-Scabbardless was given charge over the rearguard. Total
silence, except for relaying instructions, was the in-
248
flexible rule. With Springbuck on one side and Hightower on the other, the
sorceress entered the Gauntlet.
The passageway was cool and dank after the desert, but filled with a sickening
stench. They'd expected to see bats or crawling things, but no living creature
would dwell in the Gauntlet. Hoofbeats echoed hollowly on rock, and red
torchlight wavered across it. "I like not this burrow," whispered Hightower
against his own orders.
The way wound on, partly through natural chambers in the mountain, but more
often tunneled. Horses snorted and were nervous, haling it here. The Gauntlet
seemed to go on endlessly. But at last, a breath of air reached them, wriggling
the torch flames. Gabrielle, reining in, halted them. "This is more than
midway," she declared. "I will stay here and put forth my influence in both
directions. Make all haste."
Hightower took the van. Springbuck, loathing it, knew he must stay in the
Gauntlet until all his troops were through. The ranks moved on, horses sometimes
tossing their heads and fighting the bit. Men's eyes, in the shadows of their
helmets, darted constantly. The son of Surehand peered continuously for Brodur,
but knew the rearguard would be a long time coming. In the damp coolness, he
sweated worse than he had on the desert The mass of the mountains hovered over
him.
The clans of Teebra clopped past. He was distracting himself by trying to recall
where they were in the order of march when Gabrielle screamed. Her cry, as if
she'd been injured or more, bounced back and forth in the passageway. Frightened
horses fought their riders, and men yelled in alarm. Springbuck roared for
silence. The sorceress swayed, a hand to her forehead, then slumped sideways.
The Ku-Mor-Mcd caught her, hearing the rock around him grinding against itself.
In a moment she came to, her breathing unsteady. Her hand gripped weakly at him
"Springbuck, some calamity is come. There was a great disturbance in the magic
of the deCourteneys, and now an abyss. I fear my mother is slain!"
Springbuck ignored everything but immediate danger. He shook her. "Can you
maintain the Gauntlet?"
249
"I—I think it so. But there is . . ." Her voice trafled away; he felt
convulsions threaten her. He commanded the march to continue, full speed. His
every nerve shrieked; his entire army was hi danger of being cut hi two, or
entombed. Gabrielle reasserted herself to gasp, **My energies are failing, they
flow away. Andre! Andre throws the whole of our magic at some enemy, more than
he has ever used before. I can barely withhold any."
Springbuck's flesh crawled as he heard the ponderous shifting of stone. There
was a crash, splintering wood, the death cries of men and horses. Fireheel half-
reared under him, the whites of the stallion's eyes showing.
The Ku-Mor-Mai called for all to be silent, hold ranks, but the terrors of cave-
in were there. Men and their mounts bolted forward while Gabrielle's face showed
the contortions of effort, holding back the mantraps. Springbuck pulled her back
out of the way, sheltering her and her horse with himself and Fireheel. He swept
out Bar; it caught the light of passing torches and even in stampede, men were
wise enough to give it wide berth.
The sorceress* features were crosshatched with pain. "Can you hold, Gabrielle?
Can you hold?"
Her lower lip was bleeding, where she'd bitten it hi the throes of her struggle.
She nodded weakly. "For the moment." He took hold of the hilt of her brother's
sword, hanging from her saddle, where Calundronius was kept, thinking the
gemstone might help. "No!" She batted at his hand feebly. "It would only
dissipate all magic in here, mine included."
One man blundered into him, and Springbuck seized him and held Bar at his belly,
demanding to know what had happened.
"I had been near a wain bearing barrels of water, but when I looked, it was
there no longer; the stone had dropped away beneath it, and it had fallen into
the breach. We never heard it hit, nor could we see any bottom to the gulf. The
gap was from wall to wall, too long for any horse to hurdle."
Springbuck, numb, let him go; the rest had escaped already, Gabrielle's face,
usually pale, was bloodless now, her hair clinging hi damp scarlet ringlets to
her
250
sweating cheeks and brow. Her eyes were screwed shut hi effort, lip again
clenched in her teeth.
He started back, to see if there was some way to bridge the pitfall. Fireheel
was unruly, unwilling. Gabrielle's eyes snapped open. "Springbuck, no! There is
no way back."
He stopped. Hightower appeared, torch held aloft. Seeing the sorceress, he
called her name. Her gaze went to him; the Gauntlet's hidden machinery could be
heard.
Fireheel reacted. The gray's gathered muscles uncoiled; tons of stone crashed
down where he'd been. Gabrielle, attuned to Ibn-al-Yed's ancient devices, flung
her hand out, crying "Hold!"
He reined hi brutally, and Fireheel's hooves struck sparks from the tunnel
floor, skidding to a halt. A long metal shaft shot from a concealed hole, its
point digging deep into the rock wall opposite. It just missed him, blocking his
way. He backed the horse, to see how he might get around or over it, and a
second shaft sprang from the floor, burying its head hi the ceiling. Now two
poles, perpendicular, stood hi his way.
Thinking he detected a pattern, he started to back again, afraid the next spike
would spit him where he sat. Gabrielle wailed his name again. "Come forward,
forward!" Breath failed her. He rushed up to the crossed shafts and two more,
obliques, intersected where he'd have been without her warning.
Hightower rode up, greatsword hi hand. It shone wetly in the dimness; he'd
thought there was betrayal, and killed the luckless caravan leader. Putting all
his weight behind it, he sheared one pole hi half, the pieces falling away.
Springbuck took his best swing with Bar, the sword called Never Blunted. He
cleaved the second shaft Behind him, the sides of the tunnel collapsed. Debris
and fragments ricocheted.
Gabrielle exerted her will over the Gauntlet again; most of the powers of the
deCourteneys had been exhausted hi the last few minutes as, hundreds of miles
away on the Isle of Keys, Andre launched a near-successful assault on the Hand
of Salama. Unknowingly, he had wrought disaster upon the army of Cora-monde as
well.
**I hold the Gauntlet," she panted, "but it cannot be 251
for long. Too many triggers have been sprung, trip wires broken, counterweights
activated. The ultimate deadfall, the mountain itself, will crash down when I
let go."
"Release your hold on those behind us as we go,M Springbuck said, "and thus,
conserve yourself." Those who'd been caught on the other side of the first
pitfall, if they'd been able to do so, must have gotten clear by now; she'd held
out long enough for that. He sheathed Bar with a clash and leaned low to take up
a dropped torch.
He and the Warlord slipped their shields onto their arms. Again, they took
places at her sides.
They galloped off, taking with them their circle of light and the tattoo of
hooves. As they went, Gabrielle loosened her hold on the traps they'd passed.
Steel darts whizzed in clouds, ceilings and walls collapsed, floors dropped
away, smoking acid showered down, and boiled into the pitfalls. Deadly fumes
curled up, too late, in their wake, and impaling-stakes sprung. Burning fluid
lapped across the rock floors, and poisoned arrows whistled. Ten thousand
murders were aborted.
The three burst from the southern mouth of the Gauntlet. The TraUingsword hung
brighter, nearer hi die night. Gabrielle, at the end of her enormous strength,
lolled and swayed. Lynchpins, keystones, counterweights and latches, freed from
her will, brought down their last trap. The mountain collapsed with a nimble.
Men and horses lost balance as the earth shook. Dust, gas smoke belched from the
tunnel's mouth.
Springbuck, face blackened, dismounted to stare back at it. "Is the area
secure?" he asked an officer offhandedly.
"Yes, Ku-Mor-Mai. We found no sentinels." Indicating the Gauntlet, he explained.
"They thought they needed none."
"My Lord Hightower, what do you think they'll do there, on the other side?"
The Warlord, looking up from tending Gabrielle, tugged his beard and thought.
"There is old Drakemirth back there, and Balagon, and not least of all is
Brodur-Scabbardless. They will take the long way, or perhaps even essay the
shorter way through Amon's Cauldron,
252
but they will come, doubt it not. With them will come the far greater measure of
our manpower."
"How fares Gabrielle?"
"She is spent, yet she will recover."
Springbuck stared at die Trailingsword, blurry to him. "Then, our route-sign
beckons."
A wide, mountain-flanked valley guarded the way south. Flat and scorched a
lifeless yellow, it reminded the crouching Ku-Mor-Men of nothing so much as a'
brass skillet. At its far end, just short of the pass that gave access toward
Salami, stood the fortress at which the caravan had gathered, among its rearing
ochre escarps, salients and battlements, Condor's Roost.
All told, Springbuck had less than two thousand souls in his separated element.
Only five water wagons had come through the Gauntlet, and almost none of his
lighter cavalry; he'd brought his heaviest chivalry through first, to resist any
attack that might have sought to throw him back. There were none of the regular
infantry he brought along on horseback, no pikemen, and too few archers. Still,
it had seemed likely the collapse of the Gauntlet would draw investigation, and
so he'd moved away from it. His scouts had left subtle signs for their
counterparts with the rest of the army.
Some fortune had offset the tragedy of the Gauntlet. A strong simoon had come up
to swirl sand and dust, obscuring the telltale cloud the army raised. It had
made riding hard, driving grit into mail-links, eyes, ears and clothes, but
Springbuck had greeted it with grudging pleasure.
Gabrielle lay on a litter in one of the few baggage wagons they had. She'd
regained her senses, but was exhausted by the siphoning of her energies. She'd
also entered a depression brought on by her mother's death, of which she refused
to speak. Andre's singular demand on the deCourteneys' mystic bond had lapsed,
and the sorceress was slowly recuperating. The simoon had died down a few hours
before, and now, at late sunset, the air was eerily calm.
Condor's Roost was an impressive feat of construction hi inhospitable wastes.
The late caravaner had said it possessed capacious cisterns, fed by both
springlets in
253
the mountains around it and the infrequent rainfall. Springbuck, beginning to
appreciate how pivotal water was in the Southwastelands, considered the need of
water the major reason to begin against the fortress now, rather than waiting.
His scouts had found no other source of it, and men and horses were using what
they had at an alarming rate. Too, there was the deadline proclaimed by the
Trailingsword.
But as intimidating as Condor's Roost was, it didn't quite span the pass from
side to side. The land to Springbuck's left was fissured, textured from quirks
of upheaval, defying fortification.
"An assault on those walls will cost us dearly," predicted Hightower, himself a
master of entrenchments. "We cannot mount the frontal assault that will carry
that pile by storm at the outset."
"Our scouts report no other way south,*' Springbuck replied.
The Warlord's brows knit. "And what will transpire, should the defenders duck
out their back door and bring aid?"
"Disaster, maybe. It cannot be permitted."
"More lightly described than delivered, Ku-Mor-Mai."
Springbuck squinted, eyesight badly hampered by the distance, at those crevasses
to the left.
"Bring me a man with the eagle's gaze. There may be a way."
A sharp-eyed archer from Rugor confirmed what Springbuck had thought. Those
wrinkles hi the earth's mantle might hold a way past, if men went carefully and
on foot. They could take the pass behind the fortress. Holding it would be
another question entirely.
"It would be a desperate position to man," High-tower said doubtfully, then
shrugged off misgivings. "It can be accomplished though, I trow. Hah! Whosoever
holds there will have a siege of his own to fight.5*
"I concede that, my Lord, but I think some resupply could be done by traversing
the back hills and ridge lines. What other way is there?"
The Warlord's iron gloves slammed knuckle to knuckle in a decisive clang. "There
is none," he said.
254
Chapter Twenty-seven
Let the gods avenge themselves.
Roman legal maxim
THERE was the subdued rattle of manacles. Four field marshals of the
Southwastelanders were ushered into the tent of their captor, the King of
Freegate, Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach.
They were attired more as kings than conquered. Their armor, covered with the
skins of the huge snakes and lizards of the deserts, shined with gems and gilt-
work. They were Occhlon, a cruel race fit to prosecute the wars of Shardishku-
Salamd, and they waited with elaborate indifference. After the victory of the
Dream-drowse, Reacher had taken their force unprepared.
There was disdain in the captives' manner for this rabble of mongrels who'd
dared enter these sacrosanct lands. The Occhlon had ridden out against invaders,
thousands of spears catching the sun, scorpion banners in rippling life. There
had been a collision in arms lasting a day and part of the next before going the
way of the invaders.
The field marshals studied their enemies covertly. None of them knew just which
was this monarch of Freegate. No single figure bad been identified as commander.
Alert, impatient in the brittle way of jungle beasts, they anticipated
humiliation. Subordinate officers and aides were coming and going, and men of
the Horseblooded, those amazing riders.
There'd been a shock of recognition between Occhlon and Horseblooded. Born to
the saddle, the two races had fought encounters of incredible savagery, with
feats of horsemanship and daring approaching insanity.
Senior among the Occhlon prisoners was a burly gen-
255
era! named Aranan. He quickly sorted out the functionaries and lower echelons,
and scrutinized the remainder. He thought he knew who his opposite number must
be, that tall one, whose thick mustachios spread across his face like wings. The
northerner took reports and gave terse orders, his forehead furrowing often hi
thought.
Besides those who might be this Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach and his
subalterns, there was a strangely matched trio speaking softly together to one
side. One was a sour-faced man, skinny, and not looking the part of a warrior.
Moreover, he had an odd metal framework hung from his ears, which held circles
of glass before his eyes. Doubtless a warlock.
The second was plainly a savage of some type, wearing only a cincture and
gloves, a heavy cestus on his left hand and a gauntlet with long, curving claws
on his right. The third was more noteworthy, a woman decked out in armor, with
knives strapped to her hips and a sword slung at her back. Her blond hair,
bleached nearly white by the desert sun, fell to her waist. A woman, thought
Aranan, allowed to go about as if she were a man? Really, the perversions of
these outland-ers! He hid his shame and fury, that a lowly female should witness
the disgrace of an Occhlon general.
In anger, he squared off before the tall warrior he assumed to be King. From
habit, Aranan set his left hand on bis empty scabbard. "We stand as your
prisoners today, my Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach, but you would do well to
remember balances; there is symmetry to war, as to the Wheel of Fate."
The man of Freegate looked him over carefully. "Whatwould that mean, pray?"
"That your grasp has overextended itself, and will be lopped off hi due course.
You have come too far."
"So? Never would we have raised the banner of war to you, but that you did so to
us."
The Southwastelander's face reddened under sun-browned skin. "My sword would
answer you, were we on the field. We are Occhlon, a warrior race, premier in
duty t6 our Masters!"
"Among others, you mean?" the outiander asked with honest interest.
"Lions among warriors!" the desert man barked.
256
*<There are the Baidii, but they are ancient, decadent and unworthy. And there
are the Odezat, who fight more for pay than pride, but before all others there
are the Occhlon."
"Your race lives for war, then?"
Aranan's chest puffed with pride. "Inspired to arms, we rose as the new
champions of SalamaV'
The mustache moved, a smile showing beneath it. 'The field is ours today."
"Your reversal is forthcoming."
The northerner caught his lip between thumb and forefinger. "Our full strengths
are yet to be matched."
Aranan spat on the carpet. "Strengths? Match yours against mine then, dung-
eater!" He held his right hand out, daring the Freegater to try wrists. The
northerner looked the hand pver speculatively, but restrained himself.
Another came forward, the savage whom Aranan had noticed. He watched the
Southwastelander for a moment, then threw his left hand up and took the
challenge. His fingers, in their cestus, interlaced with Aranan's. "If you would
try your might and main with the King of Freegate, your wish is now come as
fact."
The Occhlon's eyebrows shot up, "You?"
Reacher saw no need to repeat it. Hands bore down and wrists flexed. There was a
slight quivering as they stepped up their efforts. The southerner was shocked at
the absolute resistance he met. Aranan, ever a winner at the wrist-duel, huffed
and strove, but never gamed a hairsbreadth.
Reacher exerted himself. A sudden yielding, and their hands flip-flopped. It was
the field marshal's hand bent up and under, and he who cried hi pain. Reacher
let go and turned from him at once. Guards moved to take the prisoners away, but
the general resisted, addressing Reacher's back.
"Go into Mother Desert then," he invited, "go find your end. We are many, and we
are ready. And forget it not, that you are rousing older, more terrible wrath.
Do you think we fly the banner of Ibn-al-Yed idly, or that all his magic died
with him? Mother Desert, and the Five who rule her, have many, many secrets to
bring
257
out in their good time. The Scorpion Flag is not thrown down so rudely."
Readier, back still turned, gestured. The guards hustled the prisoner away. The
officer who'd refused Aran-an's challenge said, "Will there be aught else,
sire?" The King shook his head. They bowed, though he didn't face them.
His second-in-command, Karya, came to him. "Surely you pay that blusterer no
mind?" she pressed. "We have broken them; they have no men left in this land to
send at us."
"Which, I believe, is what your brother's fretting about," interjected Van Duyn.
"The Masters have sent the majority of their manpower elsewhere, it seems, and
you've dealt with what was left. Still, Td say it's obvious that they're
determined to buy time. Now, with no mundane resources left, to what will they
resort, d'you suppose? Reacher's wondering what else they might have in, urn,
reserve, just as I am."
The King confirmed it. The Snow Leopardess shook her head, white-gold
shimmering. "Borrow no trouble, brother." She took her casque up. "I will make
the rounds.1*
Van Duyn said he'd come, and she accepted cheerily. She wanted to hear more of
the tales he'd been telling her from medieval Japanese history. She thought
highly of that culture.
When they'd left, Reacher went to the flaps of his tent. The sun was setting on
the Southwastelands. He wished he were back with his lupine foster brothers,
running the High Ranges. What, indeed, would the Five send against him, now that
their armed resistance had been thrown back?
The King, stretching his fingers in their cestus and clawed glove, was plagued
by that
Making his uneventful circuit of the camp, the guard swayed now and then in the
saddle. Protracted battle had sapped the strength of every man hi the army of
Freegate, and the Horseblooded as well.
His mount stopped, sniffing the slow breeze. He could see nothing there, but
became more alert. It might be some jackal or other scavenger from the
battlefield
258
below, but again it might be an enemy. He clucked and advanced beyond the
torchlight ring to investigate.
His death, punctuated by his screams, roused that end of the camp. Two more
guards came, shields up, lances ready, to see what had happened to their
comrade. From the darkness came a rasping, like the uneven release of some
immense, ratcheted wheel. Red points of light gleamed. One sentinel veered
toward those, lance-head going before.
His weapon was seized and snapped like a splinter, he and his horse flung aside
with absolute force. The second rider bore in on the intruder's side, though he
couldn't make out clearly what it was. His lancehead was stopped as if he'd
ridden into a boulder, lifting him from his saddle; his horse foundered for a
moment, was grasped and raised in the air. There was a sound like rusty,
grinding metal, and the animal's sides and neck were crushed.
Horns blew, raising the alarm. Relief sentries grabbed torches and rode out
behind their watch commanders. In Van Duyn's tent, the Snow Leopardess and the
American awoke. They slipped on clothes, took up weapons, and threw back the
door-hangings. From there, they gaped out at the cause of the furor.
Some Power had dispatched a servant against the u> vading army, an old and
dreaded guardian of Mother Desert. While men rode in circles around it, waving
firebrands and yelling half hi provocation, half in terror, the enormous
scorpion moved with purpose'toward the slope leading to the King's pavilion.
This servant of Salama" had been set to slay the King of Freegate, removing the
motivating force of the invasion. Katya saw that the thing didn't swerve from
its course when archers swooped hi to loose their shafts at close range, nor did
it stop to rend the fallen with its chelicerae and feed on soft tissues and
juices. Its pharynx pumped, anticipating food, and its mouth frothed, but there
was only one man in the camp who would sate its hunger.
Arrows bounced off it; spears did no better, and sword cuts rebounded unnoticed.
Strident raspings of its pedipalps against its walking legs announced its anger,
but it wouldn't be turned aside. A horseman came too close; the monster picked
up his vibrations through its
259
pectines, pivoted with amazing agility and trapped him in its claw, snipping him
neatly in two. His companions fell back in horror. The scorpion dropped the
pieces and scuttled on quickly.
"He's seen it," the Snow Leopardess said. At the summit of the hill, Reacher had
appeared, staring down tight-faced at the monster. Katya wasn't so
contemplative; she took the first horse she came to, sword hi hand. Van Duyn,
looking around, could find no other mount. Shouldering the Garand, he went off
after her at a trot.
The camp was fully aroused, and more coherent defense took shape. A line of
pikemen grounded their weapons' butts and formed their hedge. The emissary of
the Masters crunched hi among them like a machine though, and the polearms were
turned aside or snapped off by its thick chitin. Several of the heavily armored
horsemen had been stung, and now the envenomed tail darted in among the
infantrymen, everywhere at once, passing through their mail. Soldiers heaved in
convulsions, their autonomic systems paralyzed. The blue of cyanosis was in some
faces already, from the massive doses of poison meted out. Death was nearly
immediate.
Kisst-Haa and another reptile-man lumbered up to block its way, their armored
tails thrashing. Kisst-Haa's first blow missed; the scorpion's movements were
too quick. It struck him down with a claw, and he lay still. The sting curled
in, quick as thought, transfixing the other reptile-man, piercing the scales of
his breast. He went down, filled with poison; the monster clambered on over his
body.
Off to one side a ballista cracked, one of the many captured war machines. Its
long shaft went true, but rattled off the thick plates covering the creature.
Karva broke through the lines of demoralized soldiers. She galloped behind the
thing, knowing its pedi-palpi and stinging tail could only strike to the front.
She cut at the busy tail as hard as she could, but only notched her sword. The
scorpion whirled hi an instant, catching her horse's leg. She jumped free, but
the animal died with a pitiful whinny. The thing started for Reacher's pavilion.
The King waited, analyzing its attack.
260
Van Duyn came up with his M-l, to bar the way. The Garand belted against his
shoulder over and over, empty shell casings flying from its breach. He used a
whole clip, but the scorpion was unscathed. Its tiny median eyes and the smaller
clusters on its side margins might be vulnerable, but they were impossible to
hit at this range in torchlight. The monster swarmed past the helpless American.
Alone now in his pavilion, Reacher collected a pair of javelins and a long
firebrand, and loped toward the captured siege machines. He knew scorpions
usually lie in wait and seize their prey rather than give chase, and had
incorporated that in his plan. Moments later the monster plowed into the
deserted pavilion like a reaping machine, flailing and snapping with its
pedipalpi, shredding thick fabric, crushing tentpoles. Finding its prey gone, it
reversed field and backed out of the ruin, its pectines listening, making its
rasp of agitation.
The monster had detected Reacher now, charging off on his trail. The King had
gotten to the ballista, now left unmanned, its crew gone to join their captain.
Dropping his javelines and propping his torch in the sand, he began spuming the
winch to prime the colossal bow-engine, his back and arms bunching with effort.
Hand over hand he turned the wheel that drew the great nock back.
He heard rasping and left the machine as the scorpion flailed out of the night
at him. Reacher grabbed the torch and a javelin and dashed out onto open sand,
moving over it lightly, his stride resilient. The creature came after, wallowing
a little in the looser sand, away from the summit of the camp. The King raced in
a wide arc, drawing it along. When he had a fair lead on it, he dug his heels in
to stop in a spray of granules, and grounded the torch.
He poised, took a few running steps and cast hard at his pursuer, then sped away
again. The weapon clattered at the thick carapace, glancing near the tiny median
eyes. The scorpion stopped, rasped in furious challenge, then hurried after. But
Reacher had dashed ahead, circled and come back to the half-cocked bal-h'sta. He
jumped to the winch, taking the wheel through full turns at a time.
261
Other warriors caught up now, but he waved them back; no weapon they carried
could serve his purpose. The clash of chitinous armor came from the night. The
King found the last prop he needed, a thick-beamed brace, like a sawhorse of
logs, part of a disassembled trebuchet. He jerked it cleanly, to carry it at
chest height, walking step by slow step to set it in front of the ballista.
As the scorpion came into the light again, on his fleet trail Readier snatched
the remaining javelin and another torch. The scorpion sidled around to block
him, anticipating his moves now. He broke to the right, releasing the other
javelin, pivoting off his follow-through. The barbed head struck in among the
foaming pharynx, making a wound this tune. The grating of the monster's wrath
drowned out all other sounds, as it ripped out the javelin.
It tried to close on him, but its claws clacked shut on empty air; Readier had
circled off to the right. They began a hair-raising dance, the King trying to
stay away from his foe by staying close in behind it, the scorpion whirling
madly to catch him. Van Duyn and Katya arrived, but couldn't intervene or shoot
hi the darkness and constant, unpredictable motion.
Reacher leapt, backpedaled and changed field. Spinning on its pairs of walking
legs, the creature came near but never quite caught the monarch of Freegate. Bit
by bit he teased and baited the monster to the position hi which he wanted it.
He skipped to the right, ducked under the claw that swung at him, and threw the
torch into the chattering pharynx. The scorpion hissed, but he disappeared just
before the sting smashed into the sand where he'd stood. Reacher whacked the
sickle tail with his cestus and, spinning on his heel, dashed away.
The scorpion scuttled after, driven mad by the taunting. Reacher sprinted toward
the ballista, arms and legs pumping, head rising and falling hi steady rhythm.
Behind him came the pounding of the beast's walking legs, the creak of
unlimbering claws eager for his flesh.
Just before he got to the ballista, he took to the air like a hart, and used the
brace as a springboard. The scorpion, an instant behind him, scrambled up with
its
262
pincers spread. The King perched on the ballista's long muzzle for a single
glance back; the monster was hauling itself up hastily, all in its rage, sure it
had him. Its walking legs clicked on the brace, its pincers clamped on the
ballista's huge wooden stave, tilting its snout down.
Reacher gathered himself and dove flawlessly over the rear end of the siege
engine, catching the halyard as he passed, tugging it free. The titan's-bow
released.
The shaft, longer and heavier than a knight's lance, tipped with steel, sprang
point-blank into the scorpion's underplate, where its carapace was joined. The
monster's breath whistled; its limbs thrashed, and it toppled, to writhe on its
back in the sand. Sluggish juices ran from it. It struggled to right itself, the
primitive nervous system surrendering to spasms. Soon, all its movements were
random, erratic. Gradually, they became feeble. The King edged closer; Van Duyn
and the Snow Leopardess joined him, along with revived Kisst-Haa. The side-
margin eyes seemed to pick the little monarch out, burning with impotent hatred.
The tumult had been heard hi the prisoners' tent but, shackled to then-
tentpole, surrounded by glittering spears, they were ignorant of what it meant.
Aranan thought he knew though; in a way, he felt sorry for the King and his men,
that they must go down to a Summoning, and not the proper force of arms.
The curtain was tossed back. The King of Freegate strode into the room. He had
Aranan unchained, then hauled him to his feet. Reacher turned and went back put;
a foot taller than the King, a hundred pounds heavier, the general was tugged
along helplessly, like some gangling adolescent.
Reacher dragged him down the slope and flung him headlong to the ground before
the quivering body of the scorpion. 4ts legs and terrible claws waved aimlessly,
all but still. The long ballista iron rose from its carapace like a bare
flagpole. The general tried to form words, but no sounds came.
The King went down on one knee beside him, taking the edge of his breastplate
and yanking him close. As ever, the words came softly.
263
"There is your emblem itself cast down.** Aranan mouthed like a fish. Reacher
shoved him, and he fell back in the sand under the stars and the Trailingsword.
"Tell me now,** Reacher invited, "how your Mother Desert will deal with me."
Aranan, in a fit of childish pique, burst out, "Hold this deed in your heart;
you will have no other like it. Brave acts of arms wUl avail nothing if you are
ill-starred enough to win through to—" He caught himself. "Go on with it," the
King provoked him, "finish your threat"
Aranan yielded to the baiting. **March south then, you overweaning savage.
Shardishku-Salama' has that protection through which no mortal may win, the Host
of the Grave."
Reacher, his emotions veiled again, left the man there. He went to stand among
the wreckage of his pavilion, head bent hi thought. The phrase took up residence
in his apprehensions: the Host of the Grave.
Chapter Twenty-eight
All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody sun, at noon . . .
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
THERE*D been no patrols from the southerners. They must fear little, Springbuck
thought, here at the inner door to thek heartlands. The Ku-Mor-Mai had thought
to lead the flanking party himself, but Hightower had gruffly pre-empted him.
Ironically, the added light of the Traflingsword became a complication.
Hightower decided to minimize the danger of discovery by keeping to the shadows
along the base of the crags forming the valley. He'd
264
gone among the thousands, picking whom he wanted, five hundred men with infantry
experience.
Armor had been lamp-blackened, boots muffled, and metal sollerets and all
needless trappings abandoned. Scabbards were wrapped with dark cloth to prevent
sound. Each man had a light pack of provisions, climbing rope and water skin.
Most bore lances to serve as pikes, but some had bows and quivers.
They set out under a new moon, bent to inspect the ground over which they must
find their way, each within arm's reach of the man in front of him. At the
fissures, they would rope themselves together. The gradual coiling of then1
march went slowly. Springbuck, seeing how difficult it was, hoped they'd have
time to reach their goal and dig in before daylight. Scouts had already been
sent to find another way, however precarious, to the end of the valley. The
chaotic peaks and falls of the region made it dangerous, even for practiced
mountaineers.
Two hours passed, during which Springbuck constantly revised his estimate of the
positions and speed of his flankers. He went back to his concealed camp twice,
to inquire after Gabrielle*s condition. She'd left the trance or coma into which
she'd fallen and entered natural sleep.
Came the glowing of fire, with distant shouting. The fortress* gates were thrown
open. A patrol exited, passing burning cressets in the bailey. The Ku-Mor-Mai
waited for their traveling lanterns to send back just one fatal reflection from
his Warlord's contingent But the patrol passed down the valley, fifty strong,
without incident. With it came strings of spare horses, replacements.
An officer voiced Springbuck's own thoughts, "Lord, if they go that way they
will certainly come upon their ruined Gauntlet."
"Aye, but it isn't to be helped. They aren't many, and there are none in this
territory to whom they can take the tale. But we must beware that they don't
come down on us by raid or sally.**
He wished he could send some men after that patrol; he badly needed horses, and
the intelligent, courageous war mounts of the southern breeds would have
outvalued mere gold and gems. However, he needed every
265
man, and held them at their places. Tired as they all were, they got little
sleep. The first remote hint of dawn lifted their spirits somewhat.
The air brought a resounding crack of boulders shifting, the tremor and scrape
of a rockslide. Springbuck knew Hightower and bis men, heaving and levering with
lances, had managed to block the pass at least partially. Men in the ramparts
could be heard faintly, calling to find out what had happened.
The northerners were all ahorse, meals gulped and prayers recited, by the time
day was bright enough to be of any use. They cantered out to wind their way down
onto the flatlands below, blowing trumpets and unfurling banners. The tip of the
sun watched the scene hi minor arc. They drew up and gusted their challenge. At
first the enemy commander thought them mad, but knowing something had happened
in the pass at his back, he reserved judgment He sent a mounted party out die
south gate, to look into the disturbance he'd heard last night, and kept the
rest of his men ready, some at the ramparts and others assembled on horseback in
the bailey.
Springbuck came forward after a time. His trumpeter blew defiance, and a herald
showed the snarling tiger banner of Coramonde, crimson on black.
"What alien blazonry is that you do display?" the commander shouted.
"Coramonde," Springbuck supplied.
"You are a long way south, stranger; a foolish trip, only to die."
"There is scant office for words here, southern man. We mean to pass through
this place."
"Do you? Demand our swords from us then, and you shall have them, but not hilts
first!"
"As you wish. We are at your disposal; prove your words on us.** He threw an
offhanded salute, but the commander ignored it. The Ku-Mor-Mai thought that the
enemy, if he were wise, would wait and see how the situation in the pass looked
before committing himself. Springbuck pictured it as he went back to his men. A
scouting party going up the pass would meet the jumble of boulders, still-
shifting gravel and blowing dust from fallen, powdered rock. They'd be permitted
to come
266
close before men of Coramonde struck hi ambush from high ground. Arrows,
boulders and other debris would be as deadly, thrown from the heights, as the
guns of Van Duyn and Gil MacDonald. It would be a mauled reconnaissance detail
that returned to the Condor's Roost.
Passing time, the Ku-Mor-Mai had his men withdraw to the opposite end of the
field and dismount to rest horses. The sun climbed and grew wanner. Many men
broke out the light silken awnings given them by the Yalloroon, to spare
themselves the heat. Seeing the distance an enemy must sally to reach them,
Springbuck made no objection.
It was late forenoon when the distant sound of drums and cymbals came. The men
hi the fortress knew they were under siege. Awnings were snatched down with
wispy haste from the lances supporting them. The orderly confusion of
preparation was carried out hi seconds. Springbuck led his men out again,
shifting his grip on his lance, settling and resettling his shield on his arm.
His supple mail had become uncomfortably warm.
The sunlight had become acute, wincing-bright. As always, the Ku-Mor-Mai had
sharp-eyed aides nearby to inform him of anything his own poor vision might
miss. The castle's drawbridge dropped. Southwasteland-ers came out with a
whooping and howling, whirling scimitars and longswords over then* heads in
gleaming circles, their lances carrying many battle streamers. These, prisoners
had told Springbuck, were Baidii, men of a race that, unlike the Occhlon, had
lived hi this region throughout history, longtime retainers of Shardish-ku-
Salama. They were fewer than a thousand, so Spring-buck gave the order that one-
third of the elements left to him stay back hi reserve.
The Baidii came in thick groups, not the precise alignments of Goramonde. Their
panoply featured flaring ridges and much scalloping; their headdress-helmets
were upholstered with silk and linen and leather, to shed heat. The northerners
found intervals and spacings and continued a slow advance; the Ku-Mor-Mai wished
to conserve his horses.
When he saw the gap was small enough, he gave the word and touched spurs to
Fireheel. The gray shot for-
267
ward as the battle flourish blared. Visors clanged down, lance points aligned
with the foe, and rowels went into flanks. In each man's mind the wide valley
became an arena, his own corridor of it filled with a thousand perils and
possibilities. Fallow yellow earth was gouged by flashing hooves as horses,
scenting combat, lengthened stride.
Springbuck felt the eroding confidence he always knew before mass combat. His
imagination was too vivid not to toss up scenes of his death.
The two groups crashed together. The weightier men of Coramonde bore through
lighter-armored Baidii. Lances hunted for direct routes past shields; many found
them. The uproar came, compounded of neighs and screams, jockeying hooves and
striking steel.
Men kept to their standards as best they could, the Coramondians with more
discipline than the Southwaste-landers. They went together over and over,
zealots of war. Springbuck's spear turned from an hourglass-shaped shield, the
Baidii's own lance sliding from his. They came around and went at each other a
second time.
The southerner, perhaps thinking the Ku-Mor-Mai lacked skill or heart, swung his
lance in the long, side-sweeping stroke that could only be used safely on an
inferior opponent. Springbuck knew what it meant about the man's estimate of
him. He grasped his spear with conviction, tightening at the last moment, and
struck just when he should, clamping knees to Fireheel and keeping his seat in
drill-field style. His foe's longer, side-on stroke hadn't reached him yet.
The son of Surehand slipped his point past the hourglass shield. The lance
struck through the man's paul-dron and drove him back off his horse, Fireheel's
speed and power delivered along its shaft. The weapon, fixed in the Baidii's
chest, was torn from Springbuck's grip. He looked around; the fight was about
even. The Baidii, more lightly armed, were born to the saddle, masters with
lances. But now the moment of the lance was over, most spears being broken or
left in an enemy's body. Men of the north worked with heavier broadswords,
picks, maces and axes. They could take
268
and deal greater punishment, and that decided the melee.
Springbuck, with Bar drawn, kept close by his standard, trying to watch what was
happening. The sabre was busy, as Springbuck made the acquaintance of the
southern scimitar. He dealt a thrust, standing in bis stirrups as Fireheel
battered, teeth bared, against a south-em charger. He never heard the braying of
the ram's horn that called the Baidii to break off battle.
They withdrew in good order, too fast for the jeering men of Coramonde to catch.
The enemy commander had seen all he wished. Now he'd consider his next move,
letting Mother Desert do his work in the mean-tune.
Coramonde carried its dead and wounded from the field. The clash hadn't lasted
ten minutes. Springbuck had the southern dead dropped at the far end of the
valley, just out of bowshot of Condor's Roost. The few Baidii wounded who hadn't
managed to withdraw with their fellows asked, and were given, the grace-stroke,
knowing they were of no further use to Salami.
The full weight of the sun's glare came down. The northerners spread awnings
again and found or made what shade they could for their horses. Waterskins were
passed. The Ku-Mar-Mai was forced to order that men conserve water, for their
own and their mounts' sakes both. There was no fuel for fires, but they were
content to dine on cold food and talk of victory.
The sun soon had them loosing then- armor. Springbuck allowed it, but forbade
any man to remove his panoply. He himself stayed fully ready, though he wanted
nothing more than to lie in the shade with a little something to drink. Instead,
he squatted with his buttocks on a rock and a scrap of silk draped over his
head, plumed war mask on the ground at his feet. It would take more men to
settle a true siege. If Brodur and the rest were long delayed, this effort might
end hi disaster. He rose presently, and went among the injured.
Late that afternoon three scouts came back. They'd found what they thought to be
a roundabout way to the pass where Hightower held, but it could only be
negotiated by descending a cliff face and climbing another. Springbuck took
aside a dozen men of Teebra, who
269
were at home hunting and fighting on rocky crags. He ordered them to contact the
Warlord, whatever it took to do so. Other scouts reported no water sources or
alternate routes past Condor's Roost.
Night came on, and the Trailingsword. Springbuck shivered in the darkness, still
surprised at how cold these sun-broiled lands could become, calculating the time
it would take the rest of his corps to arrive. Seven days, with luck? More like
ten, or even fourteen, if they met intense resistance. He commanded that all
water be put under a senior captain, whom he designated Water Officer, and
rationed out each day to the leaders of the various elements under him,
Wind rustled sand against his heels. Now he perceived that other enemy, ally to
the Southwastelanders. How many men. he asked himself, had Mother Desert
vanquished before she'd come to grips with him?
Springbuck's vision wouldn't keep focus. It hadn't come to his attention before,
because rising waves of heat played with every image meeting the eye hi the
inferno that was midafteraoon. As always, the sky was burned a cloudless blue.
It was the eighth day following the battle before Condor's Roost. Rations of
water were down to sips per day. Men stinted their energy, not moving much. They
ate lightly; dry, parched throats made it difficult and left even greater thirst
hi the wake of food. Everywhere, horses stood with drooping heads under awnings
the men had been forced to erect to keep the sun from them. Unused to the
desert's oppression, some of the chargers had already died. The animals, too,
were on drastically short water allotments. The last of the oats and feed had
been eaten days ago. Now horses dined on what their masters could spare.
The desert furnace sucked strength from the Ku-Mor-Mai as he sat. His lips, like
everyone's, were swollen, cracked and peeling. His tongue moved viscously in his
mouth; talking was an increasing effort.
Gabrielle was hi the improvised tent he'd had fashioned for her. She'd regained
much of her strength, but her arcane energies were gathering to her more slowly.
270

He'd asked if she could help then- situation, but after an evening of effort,
she'd confessed that she could avail little. Condor's Roost had been imbued with
its own wards and defenses against occult assault. She would be able to
penetrate them, given time, but not soon enough to be of use. Her one attempt
had endangered her with total collapse.
In another day or so, Springbuck knew, there'd be no option but to try frontal
attack, unless it was to try to get through the pass at night, past now-vigilant
Baidii. He'd sent a second group of mountaineers, two days before, to ask his
Warlord if they oughtn't withdraw completely or link up, but had received no
reply. He had to presume the message had never arrived. It mattered little now;
they'd never make it back through the desert without water. Their only chance of
getting some lay hi making it through the pass or, if they could get into it, in
Condor's Roost. For the latter, he'd lost most of his hope.
He damned the delay in his reinforcements, more by rote than hi passion.
Vultures rested in the heights, waiting for the carrion due them from then*
Mother Desert. Several men had tried to catch one, to drink its blood, but the
birds were wary, and the Ku-Mor-Mai had ordered it ceased, to preserve energy.
That had been yesterday; now he didn't have to command anyone to keep still. His
men were surviving on their last reserves. Before evening, he must make some
decision.
His bolder subordinates counseled storming. But there were no rams, no towers or
ladders or catapults, few archers, a total absence of cover and little stamina.
Still, that was rapidly becoming the only option.
He heard cymbals and shook his head, thinking his hearing had been affected.
They came again on heat-distorted air, with the paying out of heavy chain. He
dragged the silk from his head and got unsteadily to his feet, shaking men
around him and pulling them to theirs.
The gates of Condor's Roost were opening, its drawbridge lowering across the
dry, stake-defended moat. Springbuck went to Fireheel, whose head was lowered in
unaccustomed indifference. The big gray
271
barely responded as his master climbed clumsily into the saddle. But then
Fireheel snorted, and livened somewhat.
Men were scrambling ahorse now, awkward with haste and depletion. They fell in,
not the same iron warriors who'd ridden so fervidly against the Baidii that
first day. Mother Desert had daunted them.
Gabrielle stepped from her tent. Seeing Springbuck, she half-raised her hand, as
if she would have waved, then let it fall. He'd had a horse prepared and left
for her, with some water and a few provisions. It made him less despondent,
thinking she, at least, might leave the valley alive. With the camp so crowded
and privacy so scant, he'd avoided her. Now he wished, too late, that they'd
spoken.
There were more Baidii today, he saw, supposing the garrison was out to end the
siege at one blow. Perhaps Hightower still had the southern route sealed;
Springbuck no longer cared, hoping the old man would find some way to get south
with what was left of his unit
The Southwastelanders formed ranks more carefully this time, archers at the
rear. Springbuck had his men drawn up, but knew they could never charge. The
horses* endurance was gone; they could only save what moment's vigor might be
left, and deal with the Baidii at close quarters.
The Ku-Mor-Mai wondered if the rest of his army, if it still existed, would be
stopped, to end the expedition against Salami entirely. He was bitter; SalamA
had done well against him, while he'd barely gotten to strike.
The Baidii advanced, undulating eerily in the heat waves. Men of Coramonde
readied themselves, but didn't move. Springbuck took one last look around,
execrating Mother Desert. His shield dragged at his arm; chain mail weighted
him. Men around him hoisted their swords and bucklers; there weren't many lances
left among them.
The Baidii hit like a flash flood into a hapless orchard. For dozens of the
Coramondian chargers it was the last exertion. Unable to cope with heat and
dehydration, their hearts failed and they fell even as they tried to answer the
bit one last time.
272
The surge of battle sparked hidden remains of Springbuck's endurance. He met his
foe with a good, accurate strike. The man's falling weight dragged the lance
from his hand, and he yanked out Bar. He was glad the enemy hadn't stood back
for an archer's duel; the Southwastelanders wanted to repay their injuries sword
to sword, a transaction Springbuck welcomed.
They filled the plain, losing formation, gathering to this or that banner to go
against some other. The Baidii were darker and leaner than the Occhlon, burned
by centuries in the oven of the desert. They were ready to retest themselves
against the invaders. Men of Coramonde responded with cold fatalism, taking
whatever strokes or wounds they must, patiently waiting out their chance to lash
out again. The Baidii, out to prove they could stand their ground against the
northerners, found that in truth they couldn't. Then1 pride and confidence in
Mother Desert had brought them to grips with tenacious, dogged enemies.
Springbuck and his men, accepting that they were to die, were borne up by that
terrible emancipation.
Fighting was ferocious and all-encompassing. The Baidii, in their vanity,
ignored the drums that ordered them back. If they hadn't, archers could have
sent showers of steel-headed death at the northerners. But arrogance won; the
Southwastelanders elected to stay and test their mettle.
Springbuck's arm began to ache, something that hadn't happened to him since he'd
been in training as a boy. More and more northern horses were dropping from
exhaustion. Everywhere, men of Coramonde began to show signs of final fatigue,
but struck in heavy, killing blows that clove light desert armor and dark
southern skin. Blood from both sides covered the thirsty sand and splashed on
horses' fetlocks.
At last Springbuck drew back, telling his standard-bearer to follow. He meant to
withdraw what men he had left, and form a last line. A cry went up from the
enemy, to see the remaining banners carried back, clustered in desperation.
There were no more than eight hundred northerners against half again that many
Southwastelanders. Springbuck had no brave words,
273
and couldn't hove shaped them through his swollen throat if he had.
The sun seemed to be burning its way through the back of his war mask. With it
came eerie calm. The son of Surehand thought a lobster might feel so, in the pot
where it meets its boiling end. The Baidii came on again, though their officers
forbade them halfheartedly. The Southwastelanders were ordinarily well
disciplined, but now they were at retribution, not war.
Men of Coramonde, stirrup and stirrup, withdrew step by slow step, backing their
horses. They surrendered one hundred yards over the next quarter-hour, the
hardest fighting Springbuck had ever seen. Suddenly patience and common sense
ended. Death was the only coin hi which he cared to traffic.
His standard-bearer was resisting the mandates of wounds that must, the Ku-Mor-
Mai knew, claim him. Springbuck snatched his crimson tiger banner, throwing
aside his crumpled shield to take it up. Fireheel, feeling his rider's moribund
mood, pushed forward. The Ku-Mor-Mai voiced a challenge through his tortured
throat and went among the Baidii, with the sword called Never Blunted hewing his
way.
Behind him were men of Teebra. In the custom of their tribes, they threw down
then* own shields, drew out the heavy short swords that hung at their sides, and
accompanied their Protector-Suzerain with bright blades in either hand. In a
moment the entire remaining force had cast itself after him.
Springbuck slashed and drove, dully curious. From which quarter would the final
enemy come? Then he felt a certain change in the tenor of the engagement.
Dismayed cries spread through the southern ranks from the rear.
Up from behind them came a frost-haired giant on a coal-black desert charger,
and the men who'd stood at the pass with him, weapons rising and falling with
fresh enthusiasm.
The Baidii, outraged at what they took for some warped deception, turned to
fight on this second front. The Ku-Mor-Mai collected the men left to him and
held his ground. Many Baidii ran. They couldn't imagine what kind of maniacs
would fight until they were
274
nearly obliterated, for a military deceit. They didn't know Springbuck and his
men were as surprised as they.
In time the onslaught stopped, Hightower faced Springbuck as yellow dust
settled, and the younger man -slowly considered the fact that he was still
alive.
Springbuck pushed himself from the saddle and half-dismounted, half-fell.
Sitting there, he wrenched his war mask off with a sigh and threw it from him.
Many others did the same, bunking as if awakening from sleep.
Hightower unhorsed. He offered the Protector-Suzerain a scrap of dampened cloth
and Springbuck drew it across his tortured lips, squeezing excess water into his
mouth greedily. Only then did the Warlord offer him a short drink from a small
skin at his belt. There were other waterskins; Springbuck's troops thronged to
be next to drink.
"How?" was all Springbuck had the strength to wheeze.
"Not easily," conceded Hightower. "Come to your feet and walk a bit. Tis
improper for a leader to sit about when his men have not been seen to."
"It isn't for this one," Springbuck husked, in his abused gullet. Still, he let
the white-maned hero pull him to his feet.
The story came in starts and stops as Hightower gave orders for them all to
withdraw to Condor's Roost. He and his few hundred had taken it. He sent a
detail to fetch the wounded and bring Gabrielle.
From his position, the Warlord had looked down at preparations for the sally out
of the fortress. As High-tower had known he must, the opposing commander had
stripped his command to put together the force he needed. The Warlord had, in
preceding days, readied scaling ladders for this time. That confused Springbuck,
who'd seen no trees worth the name.
"Well, I know something of war," Hightower admitted, "and old ideas sometimes
serve." Using long, stout lances, he and his men had bound up serviceable
ladders with climbing ropes and strips of leather cut from empty drinking skins
and their own gear. Springbuck later saw one, with cleverly leather-hinged
tripods for legs.
275
"But stfll, those walls are so high," he said.
"Aye, high and hazardous. But I evened that considerable with another rockslide;
it took us days to prepare that. We had long lines on the ladders to steady 'em,
but two toppled anyway and I lost men. The walls cost us too; these Baidu are
men for a fight, regular razors when they are aroused. Someone was drumming for
the men out there on the field to retreat, but they thought it had to do with
the fight in front of them, so they kept at it from pride. We took the horses we
needed, and here we are. Are you fit to ride now, my Lord?"
They all rode or limped or carried one another to the fortress. Motionless
bodies on the ramparts and in the bailey attested to the heat of the struggle to
take Condor's Roost.
The Ku~Mor-Mai stayed awake long enough to command that the injured be tended,
the dead buried, scouts sent out, guards posted, horses cared for and all the
other things that would have been done anyway. There were drinking spigots and
troughs, and men crowded by these and waded into them, too weak to rejoice,
dousing themselves and gulping reverently. Hightower posted some of his own
troops to make sure no one made himself sick.
Springbuck trudged -off, leaving Hightower in charge. He found at last the
quarters of the enemy commander, who'd died resisting the Warlord's sally, and
bolted himself into it. It was set off a cool courtyard, shaded and quiet. Water
trickled from a fountain into a cool, green basin. He plunged his head in, and
his crackled skin ached wonderfully. He drank slowly, then filled a goblet from
it. Torpidly, he stripped mail and gambe-son, boots, vambraces and sword from
his body. Cool air began to lift the reek from his naked skin.
He lay down on a couch, unclothed to the fragrant breeze that came through the
fretwork. With a last sublime sip from the goblet, he fell asleep.
' The lock-bolt slid back softly on its carrier, obeying a disembodied will. The
door opened silently on oiled hinges. He flinched awake, sweat covering him,
alarm on his face.
Gabrielle stood there, looking down. She regarded
276
the bruises, cuts and lacerations, his sunburned face and raw, split lips. She
studied his eyes in their hollow settings. She drew the sash from her waist and
opened the bumoose, shedding her clothes like white plumage.
He hid his questions from himself and took the moment as it occurred, fearing
that if he spoke it would elude him like an evaporating vision.
She joined him on the couch, for a passage at love that proved their flesh had
forgotten nothing. She drew away as much of his pain, healed as much of his
suffering as lay within her province to do.
In time she told him, "I came south with him long ago, Springbuck, when
Hightower was all hi his prime, and together we strove. From the best motives he
presumed to overstep the things the Bright Lady had said we might accomplish.
For that he was made bund. Hightower remembers what he and I had between us then
as love, and who am I, who owe him so much, to deny it? Yet loyalty and
indebtedness are not love; and I understood that when the traps almost took you
from me in the Gauntlet."
Afterward he slept. She rose, took the billowing robes and left him, closing the
door softly after her. Condor's Roost was as warm. She found Hightower where he
was in conference with subordinates. He saw what had happened from her
expression; she discerned no disapproval in his. She stood near him, taking his
hand, her head on his arm. They communed unspoken grief.
277
Chapter Twenty-nine
Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound
Isaac Watts Hymns II
EXCEPT for those duties considered indispensable by Hightower, the army rested
and tended its wounds for two days. They slept, bathed, ate and slaked their
thirsts with as much water as they wanted.
Condor's Roost kept a bulging pantry against time of war. They dined on
unfamiliar southern dishes; jellied meats, shrimp in sweet syrup, spits of
highly garnished goat and dog, and honeyed parrot. Debris was cleared away from
the pass to open the way south. There was sufficient manpower to rotate crews
frequently, so no man had to work more than an hour or two each day.
The fortress' forges came to life, as northern smiths began reshoeing those
horses needing it. Gear was being repaired, food and water supplies readied.
Springbuck threw himself into preparations, determined to keep the appointment
of the Trailingsword. There were now two weeks left in its seven times seven
days.
On the third day following the end of the siege, he was called to the ramparts.
Hightower was there, shading his eyes against noon's punishments; he showed the
Ku-Mor-Mai where, at the end of the valley, a column of fours had come riding.
An alarm was made. This could as easily be bad news as good.
When the newcomers were halfway down the valley and the fortress' walls crowded
with its former besiegers, sharp-eyed watchers began to call the blazonry that
was arriving, the snarling tiger's mask. But there were many others, more
soldiers than there'd been in the sundered element. Springbuck directed that the
gates be kept
278
closed and the drawbridge up until they had proof that this was no ruse.
Another device could be seen, a green unicorn. Ga-brielle strove to see who was
under that flag. The end of the column appeared, the four war-drays of Matloo,
and Springbuck's misgivings began to subside. Another emblem was visible, a
raised fist holding a length of broken chain, showing Freegate was there.
On the open ground outside Condor's Roost, there were unexpected reunions.
Brodur was there right enough; Hightower thumped him on the back like a proud
father, for having brought his men through. With the Scabbardless was a haunted
Andre deCourteney bearing Blazetongue on his hip, and Reacher, King of Freegate
with his sister Katya and Edward Van Duyn and allies in thousands. But it was
clear that they'd been through bitter battles.
Andre saw that Gabrielle already knew the very worst tidings he had for her.
The arrivals* formation dissolved rather than being dismissed. They pitched camp
in the valley, with the men of Coramonde giving what help and hospitality there
was. The newcomers had fought all three of the races who served as military arm
to Salami. Now they rode with Odezat war banners for saddle blankets, and
jeweled Baidii daggers or Occhlon scimitars hung from their cantle guards. There
were profusions of bright silks covering such armor as they chose to wear.
Still, it was clear enough that this was an army in retreat.
After the disaster of Ibn-al-Yed's Gauntlet, Brodur had decided, in concert with
Drakemirth and Balagon, to skirt the Demon's Breastwork at its southwest end.
He'd sent word of what had happened back to the city of the Yalloroon, then
begun a forced march.
But not all bad luck had come to light by that time. There'd been survivors,
apparently, of Hightower's very first skirmish, and they'd managed to escape to
the west, Occhlon and Baidii, massed all through that region to repel the
landings they'd expected after losing the Isle of Keys, had made an instant move
to throw Coramonde back into the ocean. The ships from Sea-guard had stood out
to sea, safe for the moment, with the remaining troops and the Yalloroon aboard,
and
279
Brodur's messengers also. There'd been no time to get word back to the
Scabbardless.
The following day, the Mariner fleet had come on the scene, propelled by winds
called up by Andre de-Courteney. When matters were sorted out, Andre had decided
to go on, making his landing nearer the end of the Demon's Breastwork, where he
could rendezvous with Brodur. The vessels from Coramonde were to stay on station
off the city of the Yalloroon, in case any part of their army attempted to
withdraw in that direction.
But Occhlon trackers had evidently picked up Brodur's trail, though he was
unaware of them, and the bulk of the southerners had gone after him. The
Scabbardless was moving as quickly as he could, not knowing how well or ill the
Ku-Mor-Mcd had fared beyond the Gauntlet. As he'd neared the end of the
Breastwork, his scouts had begun to pick up signs of a Southwastelander ambush.
The trap had been directed the other way; Brodur had nearly blundered into it
from behind.
Reacher's army was coming down from the northeast. The southerners were laying
the sort of trap they preferred, built around the water holes and oasis at the
end of the Breastwork; strategic ground was of less importance to them than
control of water. Readier, in search of both a way south and water for his army,
had been led by the terrain straight into the ambush; even his Horseblooded
outriders had failed to discover it. But Brodur had struck from the enemy's
rear, dislodging the Odezat, Salami's mercenary divisions, from their positions.
The engagement had lasted a day and most of the night, ending in the
annihilation of the Odezat and the linking of the two northern armies.
With that Andre deCourteney had arrived, looking for one ally only to find two.
He'd given his news to them, and scouts had confirmed that the major part of
Salama~'s army was coming on from the west, with the four or five men for each
Crescent Lander.
With the Horseblooded, Glyffan lancers and other light cavalry buying time and
hampering the enemy advance, the allied armies had dashed south, determined to
keep the schedule of the Trailingsword, though it had meant letting themselves
be bottled up, away from the sea. By the time they'd gotten to Condor's Roost,
their
280
pursuers had been no more than a day behind them; it had cost many lives to win
even that little lead.
As they tallied it all up, assembled in the fortress* officers* mess, the
various leaders who didn't know one another came to do so. There were stories
ancillary to it, told in brevity, but one that was recounted in full was the
fall of the Trustee of Glyffa, illustrating Bey's increased prepotency and the
Masters' feelings of invulnerability. Gabrielle had already cried all her tears;
she listened to it now, unflinching.
When Andre had done he turned to Swan. The High Constable still wore her white-
winged, mirror-bright bascinet, and the blue cape of her office, but her armor
had seen so much use and damage that she'd appropriated an Occhlon general's, a
fine suit cut from the scaly skin of a giant wastelands serpent, all sinuous
browns and blacks and grays. She rose now, with the Crook of office the Trustee
had carried since the old woman's adeptbood, covered with sigils and scrollwork
of Power. Swan bowed, and put it into shocked Gabrielle's hands, saying, **Now
the daughter takes up what the mother has bequeathed. Glyffa attends your words,
oh Trustee."
Gabrielle took it, and it was as if her mother were near. Much of her grief fell
away; the Crook felt familiar in her white hands. She looked to Swan, whom she'd
never met, but whose name had reached her in her mother's communications. "I
will need all support, to employ this well."
Swan clasped her hands behind her back, as was her habit, thinking of all that
was left to accomplish both in Glyffa and the South wastelands. "Your legacy
will be human weal, and fulfillment." A tear caught in the long lashes; she
repeated the pronouncement, "And your name will live forever."
Gabrielle made no remark, but was willing to wager Swan could play a demanding
game of chess; the Trustee had chosen her lieutenant with typical perception.
Even Katya, who'd had her frictions with the sorceress, beamed cordial approval.
Springbuck thought one of the more notable events of the gathering went
unnoticed; Balagon and Angor-man sat side by side, and if they weren't overly
281
friendly, at least they had put their animosities to rest On the weary, perilous
ride south, their two sects of warrior-priests had, of necessity, come to the
mutual peace of allies. A reconciliation of the two leaders seemed only logical;
the two accepted it hi the Bright Lady's name.
All courses were locked hi now. The Ku-Mor-Mai said, "Gathered, we may, at the
minimum, have the satisfaction of confronting the Five. But it will only be if
we go with greatest haste."
And re replied, "Speak with more hope. The Trail-ingsword conjoined us hi this
certain time, under precise circumstances, by the Bright Lady's ordination.
Salama* has much to fear from us, even without the Lifetree. As for their
armies, the Occhlon and the others are kept together by fear of the Masters; if
we can diffuse the power of the Five, Southwastelander alliances may well
unravel."
Andre tried to feel as hopeful as he sounded. Reacher had mentioned that phrase
the Occhlon general had let slip, the Host of the Grave, but no one recognized
it Hightower thought it might be another name for the huge armed array now
following them south, but Andre privately doubted that.
Van Duyn was considering the news of Gfl MacDon-ald. Somehow that made the
scholar feel tired; he'd very much have liked to be back in the Highlands
Province, building a life.
They moved through the pass that evening, after stripping Condor's Roost of
whatever provisions, water, weapons, horses and fodder and feed they could use.
Crews worked through the night, reblocking the pass with every rock they could
pry loose. Word came down to discard all excess burdens; Mother Desert had
taught them her lessons. The first Southwastelander scouts were seen coming into
the far end of the valley by the last men to come down off the heights.
In the area they entered there was more greenery, and more water. They cantered
along past fields and irrigation ditches, meeting no resistance, but abundant
eye-popping. Many workers ran for their lives, but most stared in undisguised
astonishment Defended by
282
\
Mother Desert, they'd never seen an invading army before, only their own men
riding out to serve Salama.
The army went quickly, no longer troubled by the hardships of the wastelands.
Springbuck kept outriders, mostly prowler-cavalry and Horseblooded, far in
advance and wide on either flank, and maintained a well-manned rearguard. They
kept strong security when they bivouacked, but no attacks came. The country had
been drained of virtually every man able to bear arms. Now it was the very old
and very young men, along with the women, who kept life going in the
Southwastelands.
Gabrielle seemed a different woman now. She rode with the Sisters of the Line
around her, the Crook of office in hand, conscious of the weight of
responsibility that had fallen to her. She kept intimate company with no one
now, not the Ku-Mor-Mai or his Warlord either. And when she spoke of Salami,
there was a light hi the sorceress* eye that belonged in a hawk's.
Swan kept close, to advise or assist her. The Constable's horse, cleaned and
curried now, was recognizable as Gil MacDonald's chestnut, Jeb Stuart.
Springbuck, who'd heard something of her involvement with his friend, made it a
point not to bring the American's name up, unsure if she thought of him as dead
or alive.
They came to the end of the thriving farmlands hi a week, having passed through
the eastern corner of them, and entered an unfilled, arid stretch, unpopulated
and frequented only by the occasional vulture or jackal. Springbuck became
nervous, and stepped up his patrol activity.
But when they'd been in the badlands for four days, disheartening word came from
the rearguard. South-wastelanders had pursued them down through the fertile
regions, closing much of the lead the northerners had gotten at Condor's Roost.
The desert hordes were less than a day behind, outnumbering them badly.
Springbuck's allies were split into two schools of thought. One espoused by the
Snow Leopardess, urged that a portion of the Crescent Landers stop and hold back
the southerners while the remainder went on to Salami. The other faction, led by
the deCourteneys, said every man and woman might be needed hi the Necropolis;
splitting up their force would invite rum. The Ku-Mor-Mcd held
283
this the wiser course, to push on and strike with full strength at the Five.
Reacher concurred, and Hightower and Swan. Katya accepted it, though she'd meant
to command the delaying action herself.
They picked up their pace, hoping the enormous corps behind them would be
slower. Rearguard scouts reported that the gap was closing, though; the South-
wastelanders had stripped themselves of all their slower elements. Within
another day their vast dust cloud was visible.
At the end of the arid stretches, the northerners came to a plain that extended
as far as they could see, like the bottom of a dry, dead sea carpeted with gray
ash, hot and still. Banners hung limply, and the moisture on their skin and in
their mouths was cooked away as soon as it formed. Looking up to estimate the
time, Springbuck saw the sun was gone. The sky was light, but as monochrome as a
bowl of lead.
Gabrielle said, "We are come to the precincts of Shardishku-Salama." Andre's
hand felt of the scabbard of Blazetongue.
The northerners rode out onto the plain, but as soon as the last of them had
come, they all heard a sustained skeletal rattling, as if uncounted bones were
clacking together. Not even the deCourteneys could guess what it meant The
Crescent Landers went on, but they'd passed beyond day and night Here, it never
became dark, although no special spot of light in the gray canopy indicated the
sun.
In then* wake, many hours later, came the hordes of the Southwastelands. The
desert men drew up before the desolate plain, spent from their chase. They
looked among themselves, arrogant Occhlon, aristocratic Baidii and wily Odezat,
having followed as far as they dared. This place was under the direct scrutiny
of the Masters, prohibited to all. The rulers of the Necropolis would exact
punishment now, and doubtless show displeasure to their lapsed guardsmen, the
Southwastelanders, as well. It would take much penance and sacrifice to appease
them.
The desert men reined around and went back the way they'd come. There was
nothing else to do; in their minds, the intruders were already dead. No one
could
284
survive or escape from the lifeless plain where lay Salami, The southerners
passed back up into the arid regions at a lesser pace, sparing their beloved
horses, but anxious to be gone. When they'd left, and their dust had settled, a
single man led his weary mount out of concealment. He'd come south behind them,
unable to pass them and their patrols to join the northerners.
He climbed tiredly into the saddle, his horse bravely summoning what reserves
she had. Ferrian, once Champion-at-anns over the High Ranges, patted her dirt-
encrusted neck. He'd had to steal her, last of the many horses he'd ridden since
he'd come, late, to the Southwastelands. She'd carried him courageously, but he
wasn't sure she had the stamina to overtake the other Crescent Landers. He had
long since stopped regretting that Wavewatcher and Skewerskean hadn't overtaken
the Mariner fleet before its troops had disembarked. He couldn't think of
setbacks now, though; the final remnant of the Lif etree had gone in beneath the
umbra of Shardishku-Salama.
In the rose garden of the Library at Ladentree, Silver-quill looked up. His
mouth fell open. The Birds of Accord gathered in a great flock, circling the
Library.
As he watched, they turned south, called by then: ties with the Lifetree. The
Sage shaded his eyes, watching the Birds vanish to mere specks, and whispered
the most earnest prayers he knew.
The plain was dead, antiseptically so, without so much as an insect to be seen.
The northerners came to feel they'd left the world of the living altogether.
With no way to take bearings, Springbuck was given directions by the
deCourteneys, who appeared to sense where they were going. He lost count of the
rests the army had taken, and had no way to measure progress accurately. Water
supplies dwindled steadily, and everyone began to show signs of exhaustion
except Reacher, Gabrielle and Andre.
A crunch under his hoof made Fireheel flinch. The Ku-Mor-Mai flicked at the ash
with the tip of his sword. A length of brittle bone, a human femur, was there,
broken by the gray's step. Springbuck stared at it
285
for a moment, then stirred up the soot around it. The rest of the skeleton,
unguessably old, lay among scraps of harness and bits of metal trapping.
Hightower had come up and his horse, too, snapped bones beneath its tread.
They'd wandered into the last resting place of a slaughtered army. Probing the
soot with lances and swords, they exposed rotted shields and corroded armor. One
skull was still circled by a gleaming fillet, holding a big black pearl to its
white brow.
. No one was inclined to scavenge. Springbuck got them moving again; for more
than a mile they wended their way among remains, hearing the fragile cracking of
an army they took to be a kind of predecessor. Once beyond the relics, the Ku-
Mor-Mm took his followers a long way beyond the bonefields before he let them
stop again.
Andre was first to notice it, an indistinct irregularity on the horizon. As time
went on, it became a serration-line of silhouettes, eerie designs difficult to
discern. The still air made distances deceptive, and their approach toward that
outline seemed to take days.
Then they had their first sight of Shardishku-SalamS, the city taking on
definition of a perplexing, somehow distorted sort. Some of the structures there
were lit with wavering flame.
A dark line had appeared, extending across their route, between them and the
city. Some began to say it was a treeline, end of the desolation. Springbuck
couldn't make it out, but Hightower could, saying he thought it no treeline. In
time, they realized it was another army, nearly spanning the horizon, coming
closer.
They gaped in disbelief at the sea of foemen. Numbly, they groped for shields
and donned armor once more.
A half-mile separated them when the opposing force halted. They flew no banners,
and there was no sound of horns or challenges. Springbuck could see little,
except that his force was outnumbered overwhelmingly. He called for Hightower
and a standard-bearer, and rode up. Reacher fell in beside him, and the Ku-Mor-
Mai was glad for his company. He felt a chill despite the hot, stagnant air.
286
No parleying group came from the other side, so Springbuck rode on. He heard a
sharp inhalation from the herald, and his own caught in his windpipe. His
nerves, trapped between the primal need to run and a firm decision to go on,
threatened to fail him. Drawn up before him hi their terrible ranks were those
who could only be the Host of the Grave.
They stretched away to either side, as far as he could see, eyes glowing in
black sockets. They waited in perfect silence with nothing to say, nothing to
fear, desire or question. Severed forever from happiness or grief or thought,
they waited, ideal household troops of Shardishku-Salama, like so many statues
of slate.
Springbuck summoned up saliva, licked his lips. "Do you contest our passage?"
One figure broke formation and advanced. He was wearing panoply that had once
been rich and burnished, beautiful to see. Now it was green, crumbling with age.
He sat a cadaver-horse, whose eyes were lit like its rider's. A reek of charnel
decay wafted from them both.
Springbuck's skin crawled as if it were too tight on his bones. Fireheel snorted
and dug at the sooty ground. The corpse was implacable and unhurried.
Springbuck's horror fought hard to take control of him. The face he saw was
rotting, areas of bleached skull showing through. The voice, when it came, was
toneless, a whispering rattle from a throat-box long unused.
It said, **Where your horses' hooves stand, that is as far as you ever go toward
Shardishku-Salama.**
With defiance he didn't feel, the Ku-Mor-Mm answered, "That has been said
before. We have come for our just returns."
The whisper-rattle came so mutedly that they had to bend forward to hear. **We
tend the affairs of the ages here. Die."
There was the metallic complaint of its sword, grating out of its sheath.
"Back to ranks!" shouted the Ku~Mor-Mai. All four of them yanked their reins,
and rushed madlv back in a shower of soot. Hysteria went at their backs. What
eood would lancers, swordsmen, war-drays and warrior-sisters do, when their
opponents were alreadv slain? Springbuck cast one look backward, and shrank from
287
what he saw. The corpse-army was coming on, not slowly and not quickly, but
irresistibly.
When Springbuck and the others reached their own lines, their enemies had
covered half the distance in pursuit. The Ku-Mor-Mcd snapped orders to arrange
his formation. He'd thought for a moment of withdrawing, but to what avail? The
dead would never tire or pause; they'd simply roll across the plain until they
eventually engulfed their exhausted enemies.
He explained quickly what they faced. "Gabrielle, can you do anything?"
She balanced the Crook in her hand and traded glances with Andre. "I do not
know," she confessed, "how can one affect shadows and carrion-meat?"
Springbuck racked his brain for a' way to stave off that attack or escape it.
Then, on his own, Fireheel caracoled, and again, turning and rearing at the
onrushing Host, whistling his fierce invitation. He didn't care who was coming;
the gray only wanted the chance to fight.
Springbuck whipped Bar, the Obstructor, from its scabbard; the sword left a
white swath of light hi the gray air. Hightower bellowed invective of his own,
sweeping free his two-handed greatsword. Red Pilgrim came up, and Blazetongue
and the myriad weapons of the Crescent Lands. Some found comfort hi a gesture,
crouching behind lances or dropping visors. Others just eyed the Host, seeing
that the die was cast, and accepted it in their hearts.
The Host of the Grave made little sound, riding as if from nightmare. The living
dreaded their touch more than the bite of their swords, but spurred their horses
on.
That singular onset began, men and women in death-lock combat with corpses.
Beyond the desolation, in timeless Shardishku-Salamd, the Five, assured and
imperturbable, awaited the battle's inevitable outcome.
»ARTV
Symmetries of the Firmament
288
Chapter Thirty
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate And the Warder is Despair
Oscar Wilde
"The Ballad of Reading Gaol"
GIL MacDonald passed some intangible landmark that told him he was leaving
behind something too sinister to be called unconsciousness. He felt excruciating
pain in his eyes.
He tried to move, but couldn't, and so tried some more. In the end he did, but
his fumbling hands were slapped away brutally. The pain returned. He tugged,
tossing his head, fighting blindly. There were immovably strong hands clamping
his head steady, thumbs pressing in at his eyeballs. He thrashed, moaned, and
the hands retreated at last. Much of the pain remained. He rubbed his tortured
eyes, and finally blinked them open.
Light blinded him. Peering through the narrowest slits he could manage, he saw a
room in darkness, but he lay in a cone of light. Beneath nun, he felt rough
stone. He heard a raspy voice he didn't like at all. "You see, my Lord? Enough
pressure on the eyes would awaken a man even from the Dreamdrowse."
A second voice spoke. "Adequate, Flaycraft." The tone was placid, fear-
provoking, as the cold malice of a snake. Shapes wobbled into definition. The
first person Gil saw was the closest He shook his head, disbelieving. This one
was of the tribe of man, maybe, but a simian extreme. Squat, with long, shaggy
brown hair that was almost a pelt, he slouched, bandy-legged. He was heavy with
muscle, beady-eyed beneath ridges of thick bone. His fingers were long, hirsute
and black-
290
nailed. From him came the odors of instinct, of life at animal level. It came as
no surprise than he was unclothed.
Gil tracked his gaze to the other, making himself confront him. Yardiff Bey was
calm, secure in his own environment. The cold ocular shone in the dark room;
Bey's face held an icy pleasure.
Gil's stomach contorted hi fear, and his bowels threatened rebellion. He doubled
over for a moment, but the spasm passed. He couldn't imagine how long he'd been
out. He sat up and swung his legs around. He was sitting on a stone slab that
managed to combine the clinical with the sacrificial. His head spun, and he
could see nothing outside the cone of light.
Yardiff Bey watched the play of the outlander's thoughts, each predicted, in
sequence. The last of them, renewed fear, pleased the sorcerer. The creature,
whom Gil took to be Flaycraft, was toying with something on his chest, a
necklace. Gil saw it was the Ace of Swords, on its chain. Flaycraft grinned,
displaying long yellow canines.
Gil lurched, grabbing for his tarot. "Okay, ape-guts; give it here." Weak, he
lost balance. Flaycraft, shorter than the American but broader, eluded him
easily and kicked him as he went down. He curled up and groaned. The beast-man
seized him by his hair, yanked him to his feet, flung him back on the slab. Gil
filed the information that Flaycraft was one strong animal.
"So, that is your tarot now?" Bey asked. "The Ace of Swords? Reversed, I should
think."
Gil rubbed his aching head. "Where's Dunstan?" he managed.
"Near." Something like a smile crossed Bey's face. At his side hung Dirge,
recovered, apparently, from the wounded Acre-Fin. Those events all came back in
a jumble.
The sorcerer purred. "You do Dunstan and yourself ill service by being
difficult. The regimen here is strictest compliance; punishment is Flaycraft's
trade. You erred in going against me and the convections of destiny. Your
friend's well-being as much as your own rests in your submission."
The dark-robed Hand of Shardishku-Salama glided 291
away, silent and stately as a manta-ray in deep water. Gil wanted to answer, but
was preoccupied with the twin assertions that his friend was alive and that he,
Gil, must behave. It begged the question, why was he still alive? The sorcerer
would only tolerate him for some well-defined purpose, and was obviously using
the Horseblooded for leverage. Goddam Bey, always knows just which button to
push!
Flaycraft watched him now, a cat with a new mouse. Got a crazy one here, Gil
reminded himself. The beast-man caught his arm in an excruciating grip, shaking
him like a doll. "Disobey once, I entreat you. Then, I can school you in lessons
of torment. Already, I have taught your friend DunstanI"
He let go. Gil's arm throbbed from that one brief squeeze. Flaycraft went off
behind his patron. Gil wobbled after them a few steps, stopping at the edge of
light. He saw Bey framed in orange radiance at the end of a passageway.
Flaycraft went to stand by his side. Yardiff Bey waved a hand, and the
passageway walls rumbled inward. In seconds, the corridor had contracted shut
with a vibration that traveled through the floor.
Gil took a few steps, groping at the blank wall. All he could feel was solid
rock, nicked and chipped by ancient tooling. He blinked up owlishly at the
light, but it was far overhead; he couldn't make out just what it was or how it
worked.
Then he realized he wasn't alone. In the silence left by the closure of the
passageway, he heard breathing. He edged back to the slab. His pulse pounded
behind his ears and beat at his temples.
"There isn't cause for alarm, Gil MacDonald. This is a sad thing, seeing you
here.*'
Gil strained to see. The voice had been quiet, familiar. "Dunstan? Hey,
Dunstan?"
"Yes, I, my friend." Gil stumbled into the dark again, tracing the words. "Just
ahead of you. Pause a moment, sit, accustom your eyes to the dark."
Gil felt his way to the wall. A low shelf, like a bench cut from stone, ran
along it. He sat. Gradually, he made out his friend's outline. Dunstan was
seated with his back to the wall, vague in the dim wash of the beam
292
focused on the slab. Finding Dunstan lifted some of his anguish and fright, but
robbed him of words. He blurted, "Oh man, man, I'm sorry. I was going to spring
you, but I screwed it up good."
He couldn't see the Horseblooded's wan smile, but heard it in his tone.
"Berating yourself is unfair. Few men ever came alive to Shardishku-Salama";
none ever imposed his will here."
"Salama? This is it? Lay it out for me a bit at a time, okay?"
"You broach two long and separate stories."
"Oh. Look, let's go back into the light, huh? I'm not much for the dark,
personally." He labored to his feet, but Dunstan stayed seated. "What's wrong?"
The other was long in answering. "I have been confined here far longer than you,
Gil. Bey proved his genius, restraining and punishing roe with a single spell."
Gil groped for him. "What are you, tied or something? Maybe I can—" He snatched
his hands away. "Oh, sweet Jesus Christ!" He'd felt down the Horseblooded's arms
for shackles or bonds, but where the wrists should have been, he'd felt only
columns of stone. He touched again, gingerly. "Dunstan, your arms; what' s wrong
with your—"
"Not arms alone. It's as I said. Yardiff Bey fettered me by his arts, as only he
would think to do."
It was true. The flesh of Dunstan's arms gave way to cold stone, and his legs
were the same. The sorcerer had joined him to the perpetual custody of naked
rock. Gil backed away and sat, head hung in defeat. "How long have you been like
this?"
"I do not know, and do not wish to. My foremost aspiration has been to forget
time. I think I was close to success, but perhaps I was only on the rim of
madness. I am in no pain, and hunger and thirst do not come to me, nor any agony
of the body. But the unknown progress of time, that was a terrible affliction."
Gil began to tremble. "Does that mean I'm gonna be ... will he do that to me?"
He was ashamed, but it was his overriding thought and stark terror.
"I think not. You were awakened for a different purpose than torment."
Awakened? The last thing he recalled, and that none 293
too clearly, Bey had plucked him up. He'd thought he'd recognized an astounded
Andre deCourteney. Then something had hit him like megavoltage.
"Dunstan, I've been down for the long count, haven't I?"
"Yes. You were brought to Salama unliving, I understand. I only heard a little
besides what passed between Bey and Flaycraft. A mystic bolt and a Dismissal
struck you concurrently, and balanced one another."
"/ died?"
"No, you are no ghost. Magics in contention will eliminate first those elements
common to both. When those forces are canceled, the remaining energies compete.
But in your case, both the bolt and the Dismissal were Andre's, and held all
forces in common. Thus, all energies, all influences, were neutralized. All
activity stopped; you were neither dead nor alive, until Yardiff Bey quickened
your life once again. There is one who wishes to speak with you, you see,"
'With me? Who?"
"His name is Evergray. He is a Lord of Shardishku-Salam£; not one of the
Masters, but high in authority."
"And he's why Bey brought me around? But what's it for?"
Dunstan sighed, resting his head on the stone behind him. "After Yardiff Bey
captured me, he fled to Death's Hold in Cloud Ruler. It was the only place that
would receive him; a few of his adherents still lurked there in hiding."
"Yeah, Gabrielle and I thought you were there. She did this thing, this stance-
like."
"I was interrogated by Flaycraft. Under his hand, I told whatever little I
could. I was put to great pain, and lost all bearings. I gather that Bey
regained his Masters' favor, and I was moved here, to Salami, but for long and
long I thought myself still to be in Death's Hold."
"What about this Evergray?"
"I was placed here by Yardiff Bey, but one day Ever-gray came, having heard
about me from Flaycraft, who is his servant. Prisoners, outsiders of any kind,
are almost unknown in Salami. He wished to question me about the world. Until
then I had sat in the dark, for there was no light until Evergray came. I used
to sit and
294
sing, sing every saga and ditty and ballad I knew, just to fill the blankness."
"And Evergray?" Gil encouraged gently.
"Yes. He wanted to know what my songs were, at first. He treated my every word
like a report from an undiscovered continent. On one visit he mentioned that
there was another outsider here, enemy of Yardiff Bey, hi a mystic coma. He
asked me if I knew the man, but when he described you, I said I thought not.
When last I saw you, Gil, there was no burn-mark on your cheek, nor any scar cut
in your brow."
"Got 'em in Earthfast the night we raided."
"Ah. I was in the Berserkergang then, and took no notice. Strange to say, the
Rage has never come upon me again since that night. There were many moments when
I might have welcomed it."
"It isn't in you anymore, Dunstan. It passed to me.**
The Horseblooded was silent for a few moments. "Now I must make apologies to
you.'*
"Not your fault. It saved my life once, I think. Anyway, it doesn't matter here.
But why'd they stick me in with you, if Bey was keeping you shut away in the
dark?"
"Because Evergray wanted it, perhaps. Or it may be that the Masters are
eavesdropping on us. I don't know, but your company is welcome, even though I'm
sorry to see you here."
Gil rubbed his hands together, feeling them wet and slippery. "That passageway's
buttoned up tight, huh?"
"I have never been able to inspect it, but I presume so, yes."
The American found he felt constricted. "I was never locked up before, y'know? I
mean, I've been confined to barracks and like that, but nobody ever shut me in
before. Hard to take."
He felt stupid, complaining to a man who*d once had the freedom of the High
Ranges and then been fastened to the rock in unending night. Dunstan asked, "How
fared my kinsman Ferrian?"
"They couldn't save his arm of course, but they pulled him through. He came
south with me and Andre deCourteney and some others. We had to leave him
295
with the Sages of Ladentree, but he didn't seem too put out about it."
Dunstan chuckled, a strange sound. "He always loved chinwagging, and old
stories. Odd, hi a Champion-alarms, to be so—"
He stopped, interrupted by vibrations hi the walls and floor. A vertical crack
of orange light materialized where the passageway had been. Gil scrambled to
his-feet and stumbled toward it, planning to take whomever it was from behind
when they entered. But he was stiff and sore. Before he could do it, Flaycraft
sprang into the chamber. The torturer moved nimbly, but without grace. He had a
long wooden club, studded with spikes, in one hairy fist. He saw Gil, and gave a
moist, grunting
laugh.
"Yes, try it! Try often; bare your teeth, little mutt!" He waved the club over
his head, making the air whistle. The American, still weak, knew Flaycraft would
maim or kill him, given the chance.
Another figure came up behind, filling the passageway, blocking most of the
light from it. Flaycraft's club lashed out again, and Gil jerked backward.
"Little mutts do not stand," the torturer snarled, 'Vhen Lord Evererav enters a
room."
Gil leaned back against the slab, goggling at Ever-gray, scion of Shardishku-
Salama.
296
Chapter Thirty-one
When half-gods go, The gods arrive.
Ralph Waldo Emerson "Give All to Love"
HE—if Evergray was hi fact a man—was tall, close to seven feet. He wore loose
robes that broke different colors from their highlights, and a complicated metal
headgear, half crown, half helmet, with loops, spires and projections; it seemed
just a bit loose.
His face was long and inexpressive, a smooth face without wrinkles or creases, a
mannequin's face. Eeriest of all were the eyes, red-pupiled, with whites showing
all around them, as if their owner were hi a constant state of fascination.
The American muttered, "What have we got here?" Flaycraft made an irrigated
guttural sound, starting forward with club raised. Gil backed away hastily.
Evergray waved the beast-man aside. "Stay your hand, good Flaycraft." His voice
resonated hi the room, immediate to the ear, but without the bass pitch Gil
would have expected from a giant. When he moved to inspect the American more
closely, Gil decided to stand and see what was going to happen.
Flaycraft snarled. **He should be on his ugly face before you, great Evergray."
The giant stopped a few feet from Gil, examining him. "Of what value is his
obeisance to me, faithful one?" The torturer shot Gil a look of sibling hatred.
Evergray went on. "Is it true, what has been said? Are you, in fact, from a
place outside this line of Reality?"
Gil hedged. Information looked like his only com-
297
modity of life right now, and he wanted the best rate of exchange he could
wangle. "Why should I tell you?"
"Flaycraft can make you tell. He would enjoy it; he detests you."
"Then yeah, I come from another Cosmos."
"But you have free will?"
"Uh, I guess so. Why, don't you?"
Flaycraft yelped, "You are here to answer, not askl" He charged forward and
rammed the tip of the club into Gil's belly, too fast and strong to avoid. The
American folded and groveled on his knees, distantly registering Dunstan's
words.
"Matchless Evergray," the Horseblooded said, "please understand: He is a
stranger, unfamiliar with proper decorum. I shall explain, and he will mend his
ways."
Evergray wasn't paying attention, though. His face was half turned, as if he
were listening to something from the passageway. The others heard nothing. "The
Masters summon me," the giant said. "This discussion will wait." He exited.
Flaycraft, who'd been hoping for the command to continue his work, relaxed now.
Panting, Gil sat back on his heels, holding his stomach. He gasped, "This isn't
. . . over yet, ass-face . . , You and me are ... gonna go round and round, one
day.*'
Flaycraft chortled, and followed his Lord. The passageway thundered shut Gil
grabbed a corner of the stone slab and hauled himself up. He staggered back to
Dunstan. "Thanks for talking up. Flaycraft was about to put a monumental hurting
on me."
"He enjoys pain, and hates you."
"What for?"
"He knows you are Yardiff Bey's enemy, and he is Bey's servant as well as
Evergray's personal attendant. And he is jealous, I think. He resents the
Scion's interest in you.**
4IWell, they're welcome to each other, for all I care."
"Are you feeling better?"
"A bit. I picked up assorted dents and dings, getting here." He fingered the
swollen injury on his head, from his fall aboard Osprey. "Listen, what's that
nut talking about, this 'free will' stuff?"
Dunstan explained. Evergray had held long, ques-298
tioning conversations with him about the nature of Choice, and volition, and
whether men truly possessed them. He was obsessed with the topic. The Horse-
blooded told Gil, "For him, all things center upon Ever-gray; he has been taught
to think that way. Notwithstanding, he has also been taught it is the nature of
Reality to limit free will. Our fates are all determined for us, or so the
Masters hold it. Evergray has begun to doubt that, though, and wants to know if
free will exists. When he heard that you come from outside this Cosmos entirely,
he pressured Yardiff Bey to awaken you.'*
"That doesn't sound like Bey. He might want to keep me around for a hostage, but
he'd leave me on ice."
"But he is Evergray's father; you are now in Yardiff Bey's mansion."
"Evergray is Bey's third child? The one in the prophesy?"
"So it is said. Evergray will talk about himself endlessly if he is inclined. He
is not a true offspring, in the sense of being born of the body. He seems to be
a construct of sorts, brought into existence by Bey's magic, animated by the
Five."
"A construct? Like a machine?" "More the product of occult skills and alchemy,
as is a golem. I am Horseblooded, Gil; I can't explain, for I don't ken it
myself. But Evergray is alive by Yardiff Bey's skills, and looks upon him much
in the way of a child toward a father. His thoughts do not operate as ours do,
and I find it hard to comprehend him."
"He wants my advice, sounds like. How do we use that to get out of here?"
"I am at a loss as to that. My plight is less easily remedied than is yours."
"A lot of people will be gunning for the Masters soon; when I was with the
Mariners this Omen appeared, what they called the Trailingsword." "The
Trailingsword? Peculiar tidings indeed." "When he nailed me, Bey said the
Trailingsword doesn't matter. The last piece of the Lifetree was destroyed;
nothing can stop the Masters."
"Only a renewal of the Lifetree can end Salami's in-299
fluence, I understand, but the Five can stfll be foiled or frustrated."
"Lifetree, Great Blow, Trailingsword—what have they got to do with Evergray?"
"Of that I am as ignorant as you. Centuries ago the Lifetree bloomed very close
to this spot, fed by the one arcane spring whose waters will sustain it. Rooted
in,the earth, reaching to the sky, it kept the world hi harmony. There were
celebrated wizards and warriors here in those days, the Unity.
"But some hungered for overlordship. Amon sought them out. They worked treason
by night, uprooting the Lifetree and destroying it, striking down the most
powerful members of the Unity. Then they began the incantation that would
liberate the hordes of the Infernal Plane, the Great Blow. An antithetical spell
was shaping hi what is now Coramonde. The Bright Lady set the Trailingsword over
the place where her supporters gathered. Whoever opposed the new Masters
gathered there to defend, while her adherents worked their counter-spell. In
seven times seven days, the final contest of magic came to pass. The Great Blow
was stopped, but the world was upset and tottered, and changed."
"And Bey's afraid a branch of the Lifetree survived. Or was. It would have
stopped the Masters for good?**
"And stripped away every strength they have acquired over the centuries."
"You said the Trailingsword appeared, uh, forty-nine days before the last bout.
I must have seen it weeks before I was bagged. I'd give my right arm to know how
much time went by while I was out"
"In any case, the Trailingsword promises momentous events."
"The problem's how to use that on Evergray." The passageway ground open again.
This time, Gil stayed put. Flaycraft waddled in, club hi one hand and a bucket
hi the other. He laid the bucket on the stone slab and brandished the club at
Gfl. "Exalted Evergray will question you later. Therefore, hold yourself ready."
He turned to go.
"Hey, Flaycraft," Gil called. The torturer paused "Was your mother really raped
by a fur carpet?"
The beast-man growled and raised the club. He saw
300
the American brace himself, and laughed. **You will be most, most unhappy when
mighty Evergray has no further questions for you!" He backed into the
passageway. Seconds later, it closed.
In the bucket, Gil found a bottle of water and a bowl of cold, gooey stuff like
gruel. The purpose of the bucket, m a featureless stone room, was evident. He
offered some of the food to Dunstan, but the Horse-blooded shook his head. 'Tve
no need of it."
"You're not missing anything. IVe squooshed tastier goop out of bugs." He forced
himself to eat a little, and drank greedily. "What do you suppose Evergray's
doing?"
"From time to tune he is summoned by the Masters of Shardishku-Salama."
Again Yardiff Bey stood in the ring of light. But where he'd been the Accused
months before, he was once more the Hand of Shardishku-Salaml With him stood
Evergray. The Masters* incorporeal voice came once again, speaking to the giant
"Sdon of Salami, are you prepared to begin your Assumption?"
Evergray's head remained erect, light splashing from the horns and projections
of the crown-helmet. The Masters pursued their point. "Why do you not respond?
The subject here is a majestic legacy."
"Why was I interrupted?" the giant burst out. "I had questions yet to ask the
mortal."
The collective voice of the Five betrayed cold irritation. "Mortals will wait,
but the affairs of the ages will not. Soon, now, you must be filled like a water
vessel with Our great power, to wield it over the earth at Our command."
"But that moment is not yet come, when you Five will Ascend to the godhead."
"Neither is it far off. Transference of our energies will be done by portions,
for to do it all at the once would overtax even you. The first portion will be
done now. Go to the chapel that is appointed for you and await it."
Evergray didn't budge. "Tarry not," the Masters told him. "Submit to Our will,
as you were created to do.**
301
The giant stared into the blackness with wide, red-pupiled eyes.
At last he said, 'The Masters' wish has always been law in Salami" He left the
ring of light. Bey waited patiently, head thrown back in thought, the ocular
gleaming. When he was sure his progeny had gone, he spoke.
"Have no misgivings. All is well with Your great plan."
"Our Scion becomes truculent. It must not come to disobedience."
"And shan't; I have arranged against that. The mortal will be the key. Through
MacDonald I will insure Evergray's hatred of free-will creatures. The Scion will
yield himself up to your designs."
"We tolerate no miss-moves. We will be endowing Evergray with great forces for
safekeeping, forces of which we must divest ourselves in the final moments of
our Ascension."
Bey nodded impatiently. And when They had Ascended to godhead, Evergray must
accede to them. "It will be so. The Lifetree is perished," he reminded them,
"and there is no counterforce."
'There is no counterforce. The alien will behave as you plan?"
"He may do any of several things, but all are foreseen, and serve my purpose. I
perceive that the Rage has passed from the Horseblooded into this one, and that
makes him altogether more suitable. Far better Ever-gray believes he has chosen
to obey, rather than risk injuring him with Compulsions."
"He must bend to Our will, and turn others to his. Your part in this will not be
forgotten."
Bey bowed deeply. "As you new gods shall serve Amon and his infernal deity, so
Yardifi Bey will serve you, and so shall Evergray rule the Crescent and South-
wastelands by your command." He bowed again, ecstatic, on the brink of every
ambition.
Gil spent an unknown period waiting for Evergray to show up. He ate, slept, had
marathon talks with Dun-stan, and began the cycle again. His sleep time changed,
in circadian adjustment, into naps, and the tension of
302
:
imprisonment penetrated his dreams. His vitality came back and he began to
exercise, though he felt guilty that Dunstan couldn't.
Flaycraft, when he came, told them nothing. Gil baited him, but stopped short of
provoking a fight. Reacher could have taken the beast-man apart; High-tower
would certainly have broken him over one knee; but Gil was nowhere near their
class, and had been drained by the things he'd undergone. The torturer would
bear his canines and make ominous threats, then leave a new bucket, taking the
old one away. Afterward, Gil would find his hair on end, his hands shaking.
Finally, the Scion of Salama' appeared. The passageway rumbled open and,
backlighted by the orange radiance, Evergray beckoned to Gil from beyond it. The
American came haltingly, not quite believing he was permitted a small taste of
freedom. He had a moment's indecision about leaving Dunstan alone, but figured
he'd have to play Evergray along.
Outisde, Gil blinked in the light of a corridor as wide as a city boulevard. The
cell-side of it was solid rock; the other wall was opaque glass or crystal, lit
from the exterior by a molten orange luminance, rearing up hundreds of feet.
The passageway shut, and Gil could see no opening where it had been. But
indicating its position was a glowing rune, suspended in air by the stone wall
of the corridor.
"We will speak elsewhere," Evergray said. "The confines of your chamber are not
pleasing to me."
"Dunstan and me don't think much of it either."
The giant had already started off. "We will not discuss that; it has no
importance to me." He was more imposing now, with a more distant air. His red
pupils had shrunk to mere pinheads, and he radiated strength. The crown-helmet
was steadier on his head.
They passed through a series of galleries filled with curious and odd objects
the American couldn't identify, some like abstract sculptures, others like small
icons that stood in niches hi the walls or on stands. Perspective and the sizes
and shapes of the objects and the rooms had been tampered with, distorted.
They came onto a broad terrace, looking out over 303
Shardishku-Salama'. It was built of towers and monoliths, pylons, obelisks,
bizarre palaces and structures inexplicable. One was a building constructed in
the image of a spread-winged bird of metal, its feet planted among the other
structures, its mouth opened to show a forked tongue. Next to that, a tower
rose, fashioned from what looked like colossal bones. The building beside that
had hundreds of minarets, showing different colored lights in each. Beyond was a
titanic globe of basaltic rock, iron, ivory, gold, jade, and chalcedony; from
its top a crown of flame roared into the air, the orange fire that had lit Bey's
glass-walled corridor. On the wall of another, Gil saw a heroic bas-relief,
hundreds of yards on a side. In it, figures swarmed and soared around a tree
that grasped and clutched at them like a malign octopus. The figures were
striking at it with thunderbolts, tearing at its roots, fighting bravely. This
was the Masters' depiction of their treason to the Lifetree.
Bey's mansion itself was a single block of stone, a gigantic cube set down in
the middle of the city. Farther along the vast balcony, Cloud Ruler sat, its
fires cooled. "Where is everybody?" Dunstan had told him the few citizens of
Salami hadn't many mortal servants, or much use for them, according to Evergray.
But Gil hadn't expected the place to look so empty.
Evergray pointed to the flaming globe. "There, in their Fane, the Masters called
me, and I must go again soon. Yet I have more questions about free will."
Gil said he'd try to answer. Evergray sat on a wide bench of flint, chiseled to
his proportions. "What has your free will done for you? Has it answered enigmas,
ennobled you, extended your spirit or increased your powers?"
"I ... it doesn't work that way. It's only doing what you want. It's only about
being able to pick."
"One does anything at all, on impulse?"
Gil held up his hands helplessly. "In theory, I guess. Evergray, I can't see
what it is you're leading to. Are you telling me you never made up your own mind
about anything?"
"Only in the smallest sense of choice among prese-304
lected alternatives. Never in the greater sense of invoking change of my own."
"But you want to?"
"I am unsure. It is a capacity I have, but will not be permitted, when the
Masters rule. Yet it is a part of me, of my greatness, I think. I have the
ability; it seems undesirable for any aspect of me to go unused. My every facet
is the function of perfection; why, then, must part of me be suppressed or
ignored? It is inappropriate."
"How'11 you lose it?" Gil was amazed; this wasn't ego Evergray was displaying,
it was psychosis.
"The Masters will accomplish their spell soon, and their powers will be remanded
to me. Then, untainted by earthly ties, or energies of earthly origins, they
will rise and fill themselves with the might of the Cosmos. They will reshape
the face of the Crescent Lands and the Southwastelands, and rule their new
domain. Over them will be Amon, who will control all planes, serving his
Infernal Deity, our ultimate Lord. And I will control all mundane things in the
name of the Five."
Gil was dumfounded, and his thoughts became dense, trying to cope with what
Evergray had said. The red haze he'd known came down over his vision. In the
storm of his emotion, the Berserkergang began to take hold.
Evergray noticed. "Ah, is this some seizure of the free will? But no, I see: It
is simple, unmonitored Rage. Uninteresting." He waved a hand; the Rage was
snuffed out like a candle.
The American stood, gaping as if he'd gotten a bucket of ice water in the face.
He rocked back on his heels.
Evergray made no summons, but Flaycraft had come up to them. "Take him back to
his chamber," the giant said, "for I must go to receive more of the legacy of
the Masters." Flaycraft stepped toward Gil, who brought his hands up.
"Evergray, at least take Bey's spell off Dunstan, won't you? He's been helpful
to you."
The gjant sounded angry for the first time. (tSubmit! Offer no resistance to my
faithful friend." The torturer gave the Scion a look somewhere between gratitude
and adoration. "He is my cherished, steadfast Flaycraft,"
305
the giant went on, more calmly. "I will speak to you again when I have more
questions. The Horseblooded is of no importance to me."
As Flaycraft herded Gil away with glee, Evergray stood and gazed at the Fane of
the Masters, fingering the crown-helmet on his head.
Chapter Thirty-two
/ have seen them gentle, tame and meek, That now are wild, and do not remember
That some time they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand.
Sir Thomas Wyatt "They Flee from Me"
GIL related everything in detail, partly to tell Dunstan what their situation
was, and partly to consider it more closely himself.
"This tells us more of Evergray," Dunstan admitted, "yet, of what use is it?"
"I'm not sure; what do we know? First, the Masters are aiming for divinity, or
something like it. Second, to do it, they have to 'Ascend,' whatever that means.
They have to get rid of any taint of their own humanity. So third, they're going
to put all their earthly power in Ever-gray and make him their stooge, ruling by
their instructions." He stopped, considering. "But why allow Evergray free
will?"
Dunstan leaned his head back against the stone. "He is to exert control, is he
not? Then, a certain capacity for will is implicit. How can an unquestioning
machine dominate, as Evergray is to do?"
"You got it; a zombie's no good to them, and the Masters can't rule directly
because it would taint them again. That's probably why Bey, and not the Masters
306
-. I
themselves, brought Evergray to life; their power and Evergray's will be
separate. It will make it easier to keep him hi line."
The Horseblooded nodded. "It was clever of them to have Evergray created, rather
than entrusting Yardiff Bey with their power."
"Hell yeah. He's too liable to figure out a way to buck them. So, fourth,
Evergray's been kept in Salami, almost incommunicado. Wait a minute; is
Flaycraft a free-will type?"
"He is indentured to Yardiff Bey by his soul."
"I see. Well, Evergray's got this oh-wonderful-tne attitude, and he's getting
muley. The Masters must be nervous; without him they're stuck, Lifetree or no
Lifetree. But once they put on their new godhood they'll be hi absolute command.
And maybe that's why they really want him to have free will. Without it, they
haven't got a slave, just a dummy. And the Masters need their slaves, or how
could they be Masters?"
"Quite reasonable."
"Our wild card is Evergray. He's already gotten some of their force; he's got
this aura, like electricity." He saw Dunstan didn't know the word. "He almost
looks— No, no, he is; Dunstan, he's bigger! When he came here that first time
after I woke up, that crown thing he wears almost brushed the passageway
ceiling. But this time, when he called me out from the corridor, he was
hunkering down to look in. And the crown itself is tighter now. He's grown!"
"Swollen with his legacy, you mean?"
"Oh, and get this: He stopped the Berserkergang."
"Impossible. It may be shortened, but not Dismissed. The Rage isn't possession,
but rather a venomous side of the individual taking over. It is a
susceptibility, not an affliction."
"Tell that to Evergray. He flipped his hand at me and stopped the fit dead."
"That is prepotency indeed, which even the deCourte-neys couldn't match. His
prepotency comes upon him now."
"Yeah, he's changing fast. We may not have much time."
"It is my fear, my friend, that we have none at all." 307
Gil made a thorough inspection of their cell, but found no opening or seam to
it, even where he knew the passageway must be. The walls offered no hand- or
footholds, so he never got to climb high enough to see just what kind of
arrangement the cone of light was. He presumed there was ventilation of some
kind, but that it, too, was out of reach.
Monotony set in. Now Gil began stalking around and around their chamber, working
arms and legs, doing sets of exercises from sheer frustration. Then the two
would re-dissect what they knew of their situation. After a time the American
would eat, nap, and begin again.
"In taking our pleas to Evergray," the Horseblooded pointed out, "you will
encounter one obstacle over and over: Yardiff Bey."
"That's it. Bey's smarter than I am, smoother than Til ever be. For everything I
say he'll have twenty counterattacks and rebuttals."
"Unless," the Wild Rider proposed, "you make no declarations."
"Huh? Oh, you mean just use questions, right? I dunno though; I'm no shrink."
"There exists no alternative."
"Just one, and that's jumping Flaycraft when he comes in. If you get his
attention for a second, maybe I could put him away. I don't think he'll be
looking for it."
"His sort always expects violence. And he is more dangerous than you think.
More; even though our words have been soft, they may yet have been overheard."
"But it's the only other way out."
Dunstan didn't replv. Gil knew he was thinking about the utter solitude he'd
have to endure again. "Dunstan, we've got to go with what we've got. Wh'en that
passage-wav opens aeain and Evergray comes through, call out to him. Make a
racket."
The Horseblooded sounded despondent for the first time. "Very well. But sit and
rest; it may be some time."
Gil sat near the snot where the passaeewav would open. He felt alert and strong
again. He'd only planned
308
to relax, too keyed up to rest, but somewhere along the line he fell asleep.
Dunstan's warning snapped him awake. "Gil, beware." The passageway opened again.
Gil waited to one side, balanced, hands and feet ready. Evergray's voice echoed
loudly from the corridor. Gil went warily.
This time there was no doubt that the Scion of Salami was metamorphosing into
his new form. He was two feet taller than he'd originally been, and his eyes
were blazing crosscurrents of red and white. He was surrounded by a crackling
aurora, and the crown-helmet was very nearly a perfect fit.
"I have come into much of my legacy," he told the American. "Soon I will receive
that last and greatest measure. But I wish to hear you respond to my questions."
They went again to the balcony to look at the Fane of the Masters. Evergray
wanted to watch it as he awaited the command to join the Five for the final
time.
"Mortal, what have you to tell me about the free will? Yardiff Bey has said your
claim to it is false, and you, too, are moved helplessly by events. But I think
you have free will. Is there any value to it that you can mention?"
"One or two; it's a mixed blessing. But think for a minute. Is there any other
facet of yourself they want you to abandon?"
"None. My strength and intellect, my imagination and perceptions are to remain
my own."
"D'you think your free will could be some kind of fault then?"
The response was angry. "I am without flaw."
Gil pretended elaborately that the next thought was impromptu. "Evergray, could
the Five be jealous of you?"
The Scion's fist hit the balcony's rail, making it quake. "This thought may be
so! I feel I have their enmity, and harbor that same suspicion."
"They've never dared to let you decide anything for yourself?"
"No. Always, the will of the Masters has been set down."
"But what could they gain, barring you from using free will?"
309
"Mortal, they would keep me from being all that I might."
"But they're already making you their prime servant. Do you deserve to be more?"
"Yes, and yes again! I am worthy to be their equal!" The enormous hands were
clamped on the rail now, arid hatred was in the radiant eyes.
"Well, then," Gil suggested softly, "why don't you exercise free will?"
Evergray calmed a bit. "I am unsure. The Five have always worked for my well-
being. Defying them, I risk disaster."
You understand better than you think, Gil observed, but said, "Is there any
other way to use free will?"
"None. When they have Ascended to the godhead, the Five will control my every
act, forever."
"How much time is left?"
"It is already begun. Do you not hear the festive music? Soon I go to the
Masters."
Low and far away, it could barely be heard, an eerie, dissonant music that rose
and fell unpredictably, celebrating the Ascension. "Evergray, couldn't you
perform one act of free will? You'll never have another chance, will you?"
"No, but it is too late. External assault has failed, and the Masters' plan
proceeds."
"What assault? Where?"
The giant pointed. For the first time, the American noticed shadowy mass
movements on the desolate plain. "There, beyond the Necropolis, an army of
mortals is come. Soon now, they will be trampled under by the Host of the Grave,
which is our guard."
This is it, Gil thought. He asked, "Evergray, couldn't you just walk out? Take
charge of that army, make your own destiny?"
"I am Scion of Salami. At least the Five will permit me to rule. What would
those creatures out there offer?"
Gil plunged ahead with a lie. "Loyalty, worship, acclaim. You're perfection
itself; we need a leader like you, Evergray, to guide us and rule us all."
"I find that difficult to accept, sensible though it is. Your kind is
intractable, impossible to deal with."
310
"Ask Dunstan! Go on, ask him." "I cannot leave. The Five will summon me at any
time."
"Then let me bring him to you, and he'll tell you the same thing I just did."
The giant inspected the American for a moment, eyes flashing, aura pulsing. Then
he raised one big hand. "It is done. Go, fetch the Horseblooded here. Haste; the
music rises, and the final moment draws nigh."
Gil dashed away, through turns and angles of the deserted galleries of Bey's
palace, apocalypse at his heels. He came to the last chamber before the
corridor. It was a wide, vaulted room with levels of balconies stretching away
above, its walls lined with figurines and icons.
In the center of the room, blocking his way at the worst possible moment, was
Flaycraft, toying with the Ace of Swords that hung around his neck. A hate-mask
grin split his face. There'd be, Gil saw, no reasoning with him.
"Well, little mutt, will you run away from me now? Go! Your last run is
started!"
There was no way around, no time to appeal to Ever-gray. Gil pushed down
astringent fear and stepped out into the room. "C'mon; there's no wall between
us."
Yardiff Bey's servant launched himself across the room with a howl. Gil braced
to meet him. Ducking grasping paws, he bobbed up behind the torturer and landed
a chop to his ear. Flaycraft roared, whirling.
Gil stayed just within jabbing distance, tagging two shots to the other's face.
Flaycraft stopped short, more in surprise than pain. The American bore in, knees
bent low, delivering the bottom of his elbow in an upward blow under the edge of
the beast-man's sternum, his forearm and fist coming up like a goose neck. He
followed with the heel of his hand to his opponent's chin, reversed directions
and soun-kicked Flavcraft's stomach going away, a perfect little demonstration
in hand-to-hand.
But Flaycraft didn't go down. He wasn't even hurt much. He came after Gil,
ripping at his shirt. The American abruptly saw what he'd gotten himself into.
He pivoted back around and launched a side-kick to the
311
torturer's groin. The flat-footed authority of the kick stopped Flaycraft.
Gil back-fisted his knuckles into the beast-man's face, and chopped at his
throat. Flaycraft screamed, shook his head angrily and locked his hands
arountf'his foe's throat, bearing him backward, knocking over a pedestal,
sending a figurine bouncing. His brute strength was amazing; the hirsute body
hid the power of an animal, or a madman. Feeling that, Gil panicked. He locked
his hands and struck at the other's wrists. Two swings did no good, and his wind
was shut off. Long black thumbnails had broken the skin at his throat. He was
only conscious because the blood flow to his brain hadn't been pinched off by
the clumsy choke.
He thought the blurring of his vision was unconsciousness coming on. Then he
knew it was the first wave of the Berserkergang.
He brought one foot up and set it at the juncture of Flaycraft's hip and thigh,
swinging his other leg through the torturer's. Rolling backward, holding
handfuls of brown chest hair, he flipped the beast-man over his head. The deadly
grip peeled itself off, backward. He was free, gasping, holding clots of long
hairs. Flaycraft slammed down, but bounced up again, very much the angry
primate. Gil struggled to rise.
Flaycraft tackled him, bearing him down. Sounds of their struggle drifted up
among the darkened balconies. They sprawled, and the beast-man's grip swelled at
the American's throat again. Gil tried to sit up, heels scrabbling for purchase,
but Flaycraft rammed, him down. In moments, blackness would close in for good.
Gil slapped out his hands to break his fall; his right hit something hard, and
fumbled to grip. Small and heavy, it filled his palm, the figurine that had
fallen. He swung it blindly. It connected with Flaycraft's head, and the choke
weakened for an instant. He swung again, and again. The hold faltered, fell
away. Gil surged up, free.
Flaycraft held his head as blood welled from his scalp, matting his thick hair.
Panting, Gil threw the figurine as hard as he could. It ricocheted from the
torturer's shoulder. Flaycraft wiped blood from his eyes and a growl started low
in his chest. Gil backed away, hyperventilating both from the Rage and to
recover
312
£
from the choking. He wouldn't have left the fight now if he could.
Flaycraft charged again. Gil backpedaled, working hand combinations dredged up
by the Berserkergang, chopping and snap-punching, evading clinches. He tried for
the nose and piggish eyes, but heavy ridges of bone protected them. The
torturer's scalp wound, looking worse than it was, had covered his face and
shoulder with blood and marked the tarot at his breast. Gil kept chipping away,
using elbows and knees when he could, ducking and sidestepping. His nerves
jumped and hummed with hatred. He was unaware of how much his expression
resembled his enemy's.
He blocked reaching hands with a wide, rotary motion and threw a snap-punch to
the high ribs, index knuckle cocked forward. He had enough room to slam an elbow
in after it
Paul ignited Flaycraft He threw himself on Gil, unstoppable, yellow canines
snapping close to the jugular. Gil caught the chest hair again, holding him
away, trying for a hip throw. They were too intertangled. Gil changed grips to
the shaggy ears, to hold Flaycraft's head steady. Then he crashed the top of his
own skull into the snarling face. He felt bone give, and was himself staggered.
Flaycraft reeled back, his broken muzzle reddened, his wide, flat nose
shattered. Gil blinked, seeing stars, and retreated to bring his back up against
a wall.
He understood the match dimly. Flaycraft wasn't, and never had been, a standup
fighter. His trade was abusing prisoners already bound and subdued. He was
unaccustomed to open combat; but the beast-man was willing, and horribly strong
and determined.
The moment's intellectualization was swallowed up again in the Rage. Flaycraft
teetered, wiping blood from his bone-visored face, left eye swelling closed. He
growled through torn lips. "You have a bite, little mutt," he slurred, "but now
it is time to leash you again,"
Gil heaved his shoulders, standing free of the wall. He topped Flaycraft by a
head, but sensed, even hi seizure, that the other would tear him apart if the
match
313
went on much longer. He brought his hands up again, but his vision wavered.
The beast-man rushed him, arms spread. Gil faked left awkwardly, ducked right
and put everything he had into a stiff-fingered left to the other's midsection.
He chopped with the right, but it might as well have been a pat on the head.
Flaycraft, arms wide, caught him in a bear hug that ended breath and threatened
to splinter his ribs.
Gil dug thumbs under the lower corners of the torturer's ears, behind his jaw,
but Flaycraft persevered. The American swung cupped hands in to pop them into
the beast-man's ears in detonations that must have burst his eardrums. He only
tightened his hold. Gil was starved for air.
Gil's nose was bleeding, as were his many lacerations from Flaycraft's nails.
His eyes had focused down to a narrow circle surrounded by darkness; his head
wobbled aimlessly. But the Rage bore him up with ferocity. He pushed his thumbs
into the inner corners of the torturer's eyes.
The beast-man tried to avoid it, burrowing his bloodied head into Gil's chest,
trying to sink his fangs in. The American forced his thumbs past the muscular
opposition of lids, into the vulnerability behind them. Flaycraft screamed in
pain. Gil ripped his thumbs away, tearing before them all that was in their way.
The torturer released him, stumbling away, hands clapped over both eyes. Gil
fell to the floor and breathed in huge gulps, desperate for a few critical
seconds* consciousness. Flaycraft groped back toward him with no other thought
but to kill his enemy.
He tripped over Gil's legs and they both rolled on the carpet, one trying to
keep distance, the other to close. Gil scrambled free. Flaycraft jumped to his
feet. Blinded, deafened, he waited for smell or some vibration to tell him where
his antagonist was. His face was unrecognizable; blood flowed from his ears, and
his eyes were sockets of ruin.
Gil now believed the torturer could go on indefinitely, but the Berserkergang
whispered that death would end it. The American spotted the figurine's fallen
pedestal, a double spiral of metal rod with small circu-
314
lar base and platform, and went for it. Flaycraft sensed that somehow, charging
with a roar. The beast-man took him from behind as he stooped for the weapon.
Fingers locked on Gil's throat again. With no more than four or five seconds
left, Gil swung the pedestal wildly over his head, unable to aim. There was
blunt, violent collision of bone and metal. The grip weakened. He fumbled clear,
swung again, and grazed his enemy.
Flaycraft shook his head angrily, dazed. Gil's world was blacking out; the Rage
couldn't keep him going much longer. He brought the pedestal over his head in an
arc of calculated hate. Even the beast-man couldn't take the blow without
damage. He fell, the side of his skull opened, blue-white bone dashed in. The
carpeting was sodden with his blood.
Gil, too, had fallen to his knees with the force of the swing. The torturer
swayed before him, gurgling and growling, ruminating somewhere in the depths of
his fury. He extended a cautious hand sightlessly feeling feebly, still seeking
the grip that would let him kill.
Gil shifted his hold on the pedestal and swung again. It was his last effort; he
never felt it end. He only saw the hated darkness rise.
Lying headlong, he held his aching throat where blood ran from nail wounds. Near
him lay Flaycraft, sprawled dead. Between them was the pedestal, bent in the
middle from the last blow, its base stained with blood. Some of Flaycraft's
brown hairs still clung to it.
He toiled to his feet in the weakness that followed the Berserkergang. Something
caught his eye, the Ace of Swords covered with Flaycraft's gore. He leaned over
unsteadily, took it and put it on with bloodied hands, hiding the tarot under
his shut. He passed down the long gallery slowly, breathing deeply.
But at its end he realized that, in taking the Ace, he'd left proof positive
that he'd killed Flaycraft. If Ever-gray noticed it on him, the Scion of Salamd
would be suspicious, even if he didn't know what had happened to his servant.
With a sudden thought to hide the body, he returned to the other end of the
gallery.
One look around there convinced him it was futile. There was blood everywhere
and no immediate place of
315
concealment, even if he could move the torturer's bulky corpse. His breathing
had begun to even out; now he heard the celebratory music of the Masters, louder
than before, as if its crescendo were near. He lifted the beast-man's head and
tossed the Ace of Swords beneath it.
"You wanted it, Flaycraft. Now you've got it" Listing dizzily, he went to free
his friend.
Chapter Thirty-three
All theory is against free will; all experience for it.
Samuel Johnson
GIL went along the rock face of the corridor until he came to the rune hanging
in the air. Nothing more was necessary. The passageway dilated by Evergray's
previous command. At the far end, a figure was outlined against the cone of
light.
"Dunstan, c'mon; you*re sprang.**
The Horseblooded shielded his eyes from the orange light. He leaned weakly on
the edge of the passageway. The gaunt face, like a sad clown's, achieved joy and
sorrow at once. "The words you needed must have come to you."
"I made a few points, but he's not convinced. Wants to talk to you.**
Dunstan stood upright, gazing at his hands. "I heard a voice call my name, and I
was whole once again. Do you suppose I was never truly part of the stone?
Perhaps Bey only made me see and feel what he wished. Mayhap I was imprisoned by
what I believed, and could have walked free at any time."
Gil had been working with his tongue at a tooth that had been loosened in the
fight. He spat it to the floor with a gobbet of blood and saliva. "What's it
matter? You're free now."
316
That fact penetrated at last. "I am free!" He threw back his head, crowing his
triumph. He leapt into the corridor and began a jig, hopping, stamping his feet.
The music of the Masters swelled, but he used it for his fling, locking elbows
with the protesting American, swinging him do-si-do. And what matter if the tune
was played hi demon's tri-tones? He laughed and sang, clicking his heels in the
air, his long horsetail of hair flying; Gil's objections went unheard.
Then he saw the red stains on Gil's hands and clothes, and how he had his arm
clamped to his side, feeling as if some of his ribs were cracked. Dunstan
stopped. "What's happened? What have they done to you?"
"That's what Tm trying to tell you! Evergray sent me to get you, but Flaycraft
tried to stop me. It was him or us, so it was him."
Dunstan's face was bleak again. "Almost, I could hate you for that. Simple death
was ten thousand times easier than he deserved; it was damnable largesse."
"Give it over; the clock's running out. Evergray's got to go back to the Masters
for his last session any time now."
"Come, lean on my arm." "I'm okay. HI fill you hi as we go." But when they re-
entered the gallery, Evergrav was standing beside the torturer's body, with
Yardiff Bey nearby. In the Scion's hand was a greatsword nearly his own height.
And thafs the end of it, thought Gil. Evergray no longer showed a smooth,
emotionless face; now it was taut with righteous anger. He saw the two.
"Mad creatures, this was my friend," he boomed, his voice hurting their ears.
"He was my teacher, my companion, my guardian, my servant. What have you done?"
Gil didn't evade. "Only what he would've done to me, tried to do to me."
"Of course you did, MacDonald." Yardiff Bey transferred his calm stare from the
mortals to his progeny. "I knew it as soon as I happened upon the corpse. It is
in his free-will nature to slay and maim, and bring suffering without thought or
pause." Gil glowered, knowing his
317
appearance must suggest the red-handed butcher Bey was making him out to be.
"How many lives have you taken, MacDonald? You murdered in those first seconds
that you were in Coramonde. You have been murdering ever since."
"Shut up, Bey! What about you! For God's sake, what about your killings,
centuries of them?'* He floundered, unsure that it was any defense at all.
The sorcerer's tone stayed calm as a tranquil river. "I? When have you seen me
kill?" He knew the American had been too dazed at the Isle of Keys to note the
death of the Trustee.
Gil couldn't find a retort. For all the deaths with which Bey was connected, Gil
could cite no time when he'd seen the Hand commit murder personally. As he'd
told Dunstan, Bey was smarter, smoother. The sorcerer spoke to his creation
again.
"Understand, child of my arts; free-will beings are treacherous and ungrateful.
I knew that when I besought you to arm yourself. It will be no loss when the
memory of free will is wiped away forever before the glorious New Order. There
is death in everything they touch, just as there is ruin implicit hi that tarot
MacDonald wears.'*
Gil broke in. "Spare the tears, Bey. How many people died to suit your plans?
Quit splitting hairs; you're just as guilty as—"
Insight came to him. "Oh, right! You're not here by accident, and neither was
Flaycraft. You bastard! You set me up again, didn't you?" It was clear now,
Yardiff Bey had used Gil one last time, to dissuade Evergray from bis
stubbornness about free will. The sorcerer had arranged the fight.
"Evergray, don't you see what's going on? You, me, Dunstan, Flaycraft; Bey's
played us all off against each other. If Flaycraft killed me, fine and dandy;
I'd have looked erratic and everything Fd said goes out the window. And when I
won, it was all the same: You still end up hating mortals and going along with
the Masters. It's fail-safe."
"He is mad," Bey intoned placidly, "and the mad will claim anything."
Gil snarled furiously. In the back of bis mind, some-318
thing had been yammering for attention. Then he had it
"Bey, what did you just say, something about the tarot I wear? Flaycraft took
that from me. Why did you think I was wearing it again, unless you saw me take
it off himr
He grabbed the ragged front of his shirt and tore down the rotting sealskin.
Flaycraft's toothmarks were all he exposed. Bey was nonplussed. "He arranged it
all. He must have watched from somewhere up there in the dark, one of those
balconies. Evergray, he witnessed the fight. Yes, I took the Ace, and he saw it
and left to get you. But he wasn't there when I came back and left it here."
The sorcerer had composed himself. "It was only misstatement. No minor confusion
of mine can palliate what you have done—"
He was drowned out by the American, screaming to Evergray: "Roll Flaycraft
over!"
The giant brushed the squat body over with one hand. The Ace of Swords lay in a
red puddle. Yardiff Bey's disclaimers stopped. Evergray clenched his fist,
shrieking into the air. The other three clapped hands to their ears, their
hearing jeopardized. He pointed a long finger at the sorcerer.
"My one companion, my only friend. His life mattered not at all to you. Now hear
my troth: Your plan will never come to pass!'* His head snapped around,
listening to his Masters. At the top of his lungs he bellowed, "Never!"
He pointed at Gil and Dunstan. "These death-lusting mortals are unfit to shape
their lives. In like wise, the Masters are worthy of no godhead." A circle of
radiant, crackling energy sprang up around the horns and projections of his
crown-helmet. "There is only one entity with the power and sanity to bring order
to the world, and he is Evergray. / am the synthesis of Might and Right. Both
sides will be abased to me. To me!"
He faced Yardiff Bey. "Stand aside. The armies of the north are engaging the
Host of the Grave, but I shall take them under my command. The Spell of Spells
will be stopped, and all will yield to me."
319
The sorcerer stood to stop him, half-drawing Dirge. "What my magic has made, my
magic can unmake.** Evergray raised his own weapon. Bey hesitated, seeing it.
The Scion snatched Dirge from the sorcerer's grasp, handing it aside carelessly.
Gil took the deathblade with all caution. Bey's fingers flew to the ocular he
wore where his left eye had been.
Evergray set his feet firmly, his aura crackling brighter. "Use that last
desperate resort, father, but be warned; if you de, your life lies upon it.**
Knowing Evergray was filled with the energies of the Five, Bey let his hand fall
from the ocular. His shoulders drooped. Gil stooped and snatched up the Ace,
shoving it into his waistband. It had brought him a convoluted rum of luck; he
was unwilling to abandon it. Then he stood, Dirge in hand, to face Yardiff Bey.
But a tempest came up in the sorcerer's mansion, the Masters' efforts to stop
their Scion's defection. They'd put too much of their power into him though, and
he defied them. Wind and lightning broke around him, but didn't touch him. The
fury of it drove Gil, along with Dunstan, into the shelter of Evergray's magic.
When the American looked again, the sorcerer was gone.
"Come!" Evergray commanded over his shoulder. The two/iell in close behind,
having to trot to keep up with the aroused giant while the wrath of the Five
crashed around them.
Evergray led them out onto the balcony, to Cloud Ruler. No guards appeared to
interfere; if the Masters couldn't halt Evergray, no show of arms would. He
spoke a syllable, and the flying craft's hatch rolled open. They boarded.
Inside, Gil and Dunstan gazed around at the rich appointments of the command
chamber. The giant seated himself before an enormous lens, straddling the
command chair which was too small for him. He put his sword aside, set hands on
knees, and went into deep concentration, breaking the vessel free of Yardiff
Bey's control. Cloud Ruler shuddered, belched flame and
lifted off slowly.
The demon-ship rocked turbulently for a moment, then steadied again. Evergray
laughed. "He tried to liberate the fire-elemental entrapped in Cloud Ruler's
320
bowels, but I contained it again instantly, by my arts. I am mightier than the
Hand of Salama!"
Gil peeked around Evergray at the lens. Salami shrank in its convex fish-eye.
The American could see dark masses moving on the desolate plain. Off in the
distance was the hill where the Lifetree had bloomed.
One lone figure came out to stare up from the balcony. From this height, Bey
looked insignificant, almost pitiable. After all the centuries, Yardiff Bey had
made his greatest error. Eager to summon Evergray and accuse Gil, he'd left the
gallery too soon.
The only time you've ever been careless, Bey, and now it's all coming unglued.
The American found he couldn't savor the irony. The tiny figure was barely
visible.
Don't go away; we'll be back.
Chapter Thirty-four
The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things
James Shirley "Death the Leveller1*
ON the desolate plain, swords rushed in ritualistic curves, approaches and
interplays of war. With no effort to defend themselves, the Dead attacked
relentlessly.
Springbuck's first match was definitive. The dead soldier came at him, eyes
glowing, skin decayed, armor corroded. It swung a notched sword; the Ku-Mor-Mai
blocked with his shield and responded with Bar. In a moment, they were trading
strokes. The corpse-warrior wasn't particularly strong, nor certainly a clever
swordsman, but its off ense was ceaseless.
Springbuck and his opponent wheeled around each 321
other, angry Fireheel setting his shoulder against the spectral mount's. The Ku-
Mor-Mai saw the Dead would be as avid to fight, unwearied, an hour or a day or a
year from now as at this second. His army could match any mortal opponents, but
how long could they stand against these insatiable foemen?
He caught the sword on his shield and got a blow in. Bar dug deep, severing an
arm. The specter dropped its shield and plucked a rusty mace from its saddlebow,
coming on again. Springbuck intercepted the mace, the blow numbing his shield
arm, and buried his blade deep in the corpse's side. The dead man twitched with
the impact, but lifted its mace again.
The Ku-Mor-Mai tugged wildly to free Bar. The mace fell with unflagging resolve.
Springbuck was able to hold up his battered shield long enough to ward it off.
The Obstructor came loose; he cut again. This time the hand that held the mace
dropped, parted from its arm. The corpse fought on, grinning, ghastly, clubbing
with the stumps of its arms. Springbuck caught its rotting harness and pulled it
from its saddle. It crashed to the ground and began to flail its way to its
feet. The ^on of Surehand leaned low and struck off its head with one slash. The
head rolled hi the gray soot, but the body continued to struggle, losing balance
and falling, never stopping.
Springbuck backed Fireheel out of the way, to see what was happening. Up and
down the front, it was the same; the Dead couldn't be stopped short of
dismemberment. The northerners were cutting their horses or their legs from
under the enemy, or literally disarming them. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes
not
Springbuck saw Angorman not far away, leading the Order. Red Pilgrim whirled and
cut around him, felling the Dead with its steel mandates. By Angorman's side,
Balagon swung Ke-Wa-Coet the broadsword he'd consecrated to the Bright Lady. The
Order and the Brotherhood, select champions of the Crescent Lands, hacked and
hewed. In their section of the battle, the Dead made slow headway.
Rank after rank waited to fill gaps in the line of the Dead. They would triumph
by attrition; the northerners were far too few to carve them all. Springbuck
could
322
order a withdrawal, but to where? The Host of the Grave would run the living to
the earth.
Engaged along a wide front, the Crescent Landers met enemy after enemy. The war-
drays of Matloo careened through the fight, hub-blades threshing through the
Host. Heavily plated Lead-Line Riders guided the armored teams on; the crews
licked out with their long, two-handed swords. The Dead fell in rows. The Yallo-
roon crouched inside the wagons, their terror outweighed by their awe of the
outlanders for daring challenge Salami to come out and fight.
The other northerners were falling back as they battled; they couldn't stand
then- ground with severed arms clawing at then- horse's shanks. Springbuck was
thankful his army was mounted; infantry "would have been engulfed. The living
sustained losses; the Dead fought and silently fell only to be replaced by other
uncaring, animate corpses.
A wide breakthrough occurred, the Crescent Landers' line pierced by a wedge of
the Dead. Brodur-Scabbardless saw it and, cursing the luck that had given him
the responsibility of command, brought up all his reserves, three squadrons of
heavy cavalry. With those thousand ironclads at his back, he cast himself into
the gap. The Host rose to meet them, and the Scabbardless was swallowed up hi
the melee. The breach closed for the time being, and more reinforcements were
hurried there, but only a part of the reserves could fight free again, and
Brodur had fallen.
Reacher's flank, at the extreme right, was falling back in good order. His
mainstay, Kisst-Haa and the several reptile-men, plied their colossal blades and
_ flayed with their flanged, armored tails. Their foemen were stamped flat by
broad, scaled feet, halved or cut off at the knees by broadswords, plucked up
and torn by mighty claw-hands, or smashed by caudal armor. Even the Dead were no
match for them, yet Kisst-Haa and his kinsmen must tire hi time, and couldn't
hold the entire flank themselves.
Even wildhearted Katya saw this was no time for charge and sally; she fell back
with Van Duyn and her brother. When the Horseblooded had seen that their
323
wailing arrows were of no avail, they'd swept out keen scimitars.
Reacher, the only man afoot, leaping and dodging in the midst of it, slashed
with his clawed glove and struck with his cestus, hurling corpse-soldiers aside.
Seeing how hard it would be for his men to resist the Host, he tried to be
everywhere at once, helping as many of them as he could. It was a mistake; no
one man could do it, not even the Wolf-Brother. He found himself encircled,
standing atop a writhing pile of cadaver parts, lashing out to every side. The
mound grew as he fought, but more and more of the Dead turned toward him.
Katya saw, and rode in to bring her brother out. But a sword took her horse in
the side, and she went down. Kisst-Haa, who'd been following her with one eye,
made a steam whistle of alarm. One of the Dead loomed over the Snow Leopardess,
an ages-old axe raised.
The reptile-man bent, picked up the spiked-ball head of a broken mace, reared
back and threw it with all his muscle. It passed completely through the dead
man, hurling the body back ten feet. Van Duyn appeared, to raise his shield over
her and help her up. Reacher leapt down to them, and Kisst-Haa and his kin moved
in, greatswords thrashing. The Snow Leopardess recovered her weapon, and the
group withdrew in hedgehog fashion, defending at all points.
Springbuck, trying futilely to keep his line dressed in withdrawal, saw Andre
and Gabrielle in among the Glyf-fans. He left his place, and Hightower held the
gap with enormous sweeps of his blade, swinging a morning star with his left
hand.
"There is no hope but you," Springbuck told the enchanters. "Our lines will
dissolve soon. We've no reserve, nor any place to take a stand." He noticed that
Andre wore his own sword again, brought south by Gabrielle. He was holding
Blazetongue in his hand. "Andre, your sword has Calundronhis in it. Would the
gemstone work?"
The wizard shook his head. "It might clear some small space against the Dead,
but not defeat them in numbers."
"Then, what of Blazetongue?" 324
The wizard was surprised. "What of it? It has done its last office, calling up
the Trailingsword. We lack the means to summon its lesser fire."
"Is there nothing you can evoke from it?"
Those words brought back the Trustee's. Andre turned excitedly to Gabrielle.
"Our mother said she thought Blazetongue might have a last service left in it,
to render up when it is unmade."
She considered that. "But can we accomplish it?"
"Its magic is akin to ours. And surely here, directly beneath the
Trailingsword's marker, we have a propitious place, even though that Omen isn't
in view."
"Try, try!" pleaded Springbuck, seeing that he must return to his place. Andre
hefted Blazetongue; Gabrielle lifted the Crook, which glowed with the blue maejc
of the deCourteneys. Brother and sister went forward, holding their talismans
high. Swan and the Sisters of the Line came to guard their Trustee.
Hightower opened a way for them. The Dead, pouring in, were stopped at once by
the brilliance of the Crook. They persisted though, falling in piles before
Gabrielle deCourteney. She had a hard time urging her frightened horse forward,
so Springbuck rode in to take its bridle, leading it on. Andre was at his
sister's other side.
When he'd gotten to the center of the melee, Andre dropped from his saddle.
Blazetongue in hand. Taking the greatsword by its thick quillions. he stabbed it
deep into the sooty ground. Gabrielle had dismounted too, in a ring of
swordswomen. She struck the weapon's hilt with the Crook, and blue sparks shot
out; struck it a second time, and beams of light shone from it, making the Dead
shield themselves. She struck Blazetongue with the Crook a third time; the sword
turned to blue incandescence, not burning, but discharging all the energy bound
up in it. Flames spread outward, consuming their way through the Host of the
Grave, driving them back from the living, guided by the deCourteneys.
The balefire spread left and right, racing along the battle line. Any of the
Dead whom it touched became momentary torches, drooping into piles of ash. Men
held their cloaks or shields to fend off the heat, but the fire didn't seek them
out. A barrier of blue burning
325
sprang up from the dust. The bulk of the Host of the Grave was held back by it,
unable to get at their antagonists. But there were still many of the Dead on the
other side, the Crescent Landers'. Springbuck demanded, "Will it hold, this wall
of magic?"
"While there is anything left of Blazetongue," Ga-brielle assessed, "but then it
will end.**
Unearthly combat continued, the living taking the offensive mode. Those of the
Host left on the northerners' side of the flames were now outnumbered. The
living rode them down with charges and a rising and falling of arms. Many of the
Dead had been consumed by Blaze-tongue's released energies, but many more waited
beyond a curtain of flame that now burned lower. Springbuck, gazing out at them,
saw their hungry, glowing eyes, like a night of stars. They were biding their
time until they could take up where they'd left off.
A shout came from Hightower, "See!" They searched, and saw it riding high up, a
silvery shape on red pillars of demon-flame. Springbuck thought of Bey, watching
and gloating aboard Cloud Ruler, and channeled his resentment into his right
arm.
But the flying vessel swooped lower, and lower yet. It banked and came back, its
fire splashing off the ground. Ship of the holocaust, it trailed its red blast
through the Host of the Grave. It withered the Dead like insects in a
bonfire.
Cloud Ruler cut a path of annihilation from one flank of the Dead to the otber,
leaving behind it the stench of cremation. The Dead wavered. Cloud Ruler came
around for another devastating pass, and a third. The northerners hewed down the
Host remaining on their side of the conflagration like so many executioners. The
demon-ship swung back and forth, carpeting the ground with the seared Dead.
Springbuck couldn't speculate how that vessel might be coming to his support,
nor could Andre, nor Gabrielle. At the moment, that was unimportant
Evergray brought the sky ship around for another run. Gil and Dunstan had lost
count of the passes he'd made through the Host of the Grave. There were a few
stragglers escaping Cloud Ruler's purging fire. Except
326
for those few, though, the ancient sentinels of the Five had been incinerated.
Cloud Ruler circled for a landing. Below, the last of the curtain of flame was
dying. Where Blazetongue had been planted, there was only a hole, the ground
around it a glassy fusion. The Crook of the Trustee was quiescent. Breathing was
a trial; fumes were the residue of the Host of the Grave, a thick, smoky reek
that permeated hair and clothing and choked the lungs. When they
disembarked, Gil and Dunstan coughed, rubbing their eyes and staring at the
charred field. Evergray stood, fists on hips, satisfied with what he'd done.
"In this moment, the Masters must feel their weird upon them," he declared
loftily.
Springbuck arrived with the deCourteneys, High-tower and the others from
Coramonde, Glyffa and Ve-gana. The Ku-Mor-Mai dismounted and rushed to the
American and the Horseblooded, pounding their backs, gripping hands and shouting
amazed greetings. Gil was careful with Dirge, unsure if its spells were still
active. Questions and explanations were lost in the confusion, but the
deCourteneys became concerned, seeing Ever-gray, who was smiling, his aura
flickering.
Swan arrived, and Angorman. She saw Gil and called out his name; even in the
tumult he heard it. She came down off Jeb Stuart, removing the bascinet, its
white wings and mirror brightness smudged now. Her snake-skin armor showed signs
of the battle, and he was still marked with Flaycraffs blood. Neither of them
knew
what to say.
"You found your friend," she ventured at last, "Did
you slay your enemy, then?"
"No." He looked to Dunstan, who was joyous as his nature ever let him be,
talking to Springbuck. "But I guess it's all right. You?"
"The Trustee fell hi conflict, and Gabrielle has taken her place. Yes, I have
survived; more than many were allowed to do." He brushed her hair back at the
side, where the birthmark ran. She flashed her smile and
took his hand.
Evergray broke off his gloating, interrupting reunions. "Who reigns here?" The
words hung, imperious, in the smoky quiet. All looked at last to Springbuck.
327
"I am Springbuck of Coramonde, Ku-Mor-MaL There are only free equals, met here.
Yet I have led as much as any."
"That being the case, you may marshal all the freewill forces for me. But all
other decrees will be mine."
Gil saw the anger that drew all around. "Hold it, Ever-gray. They want what you
do, to stop the Masters; you just can't take over like this though. Outside
Salamd they do things differently. We're all—"
"Silence!" The giant's face shone in fury, eyes blazing. "No free-will creature
may defy me. I am Evergray of Shardishku-Salama. I will stop the grand design of
the Five, and impose my will on them, as they would have done to me. My
authority transcends all others." He shook his enormous broadsword at the city.
"Be ready, then, to perish!"
"And your word outweighs all others?" Angorman spoke up, leaning on Red Pilgrim.
"And the gods?"
Evergray's burning gaze went to him. "You mortals never saw how the gods'
destinies hinge upon your own. When I have thrown down the Masters, I will
topple the shrines of the gods, and none will survive!"
Angorman brought his greataxe up in a flash. "For the Bright Lady!" He rushed
the giant.
Evergray brought his weapon around, stopping the legendary axe with a blade-to-
blade intrusion. Sparks shot from the meeting. Before anyone could act, Ever-
gray drove his point through the Saint-Commander. Angorman sank with a shedding
of blood. Gil, horrified, called the old man's name. The warrior-priest's eyes
fluttered shut.
Hightower attacked, his sword uplifted, but Evergray parried and, as they went
corps-d-?corps, dealt a blow with his free hand that flattened the Warlord. Swan
was calling for archers.
There was an explosion of arcane blue, as Gabrielle's Crook spoke. Evergray
shrugged it off, and sent a coun-terspell at her. The Crook strobed harsh
colors.
Gil saw that Evergray could never endure or even understand the mortals he'd
decided to rule. And it was Gil MacDonald who'd brought him here. The American
brought Dirge up before he himself became a target, and sank the deathblade deep
into the giant's side.
328
Evergray threw his head back and screamed in agony. Dirge hummed angrily; black
smoke roiled from the wound. The giant spun, yanking the hilt from the
outlander's grasp, and slapped him to the earth like a rag doll.
"You," the Scion accused, unbelieving, "whom I freed!" He was swaying, leached
by Dirge's malevolent enchantments. He pulled at the sword clumsily, but it
resisted him. At last he yanked it loose, fighting for balance, knowing what
terrible wound he'd taken.
"MacDonald, did you mean my death from the first? Ah, you have gulled me. Die
with me, then!"
Hightower, back on his feet, leapt to interpose himself. But Evergray, even
wounded, was too strong and fast. Bey's sword struck through the old Warlord's
guard and his armored body, driving him down to the dust atop the stunned Gil.
Dirge slid on, out the back of Hightower*s mail, into the American's side,
irresistible invasion of steel through complacent flesh.
The Warlord groaned and writhed; Gil felt as if he'd been butt-stroked in the
ribs. There was a rushing sensation to it, noise and feeling both, air leaving
his punctured left lung.
Evergray drew Dirge out brutally, eliciting another cry from Hightower, to
strike again. Now Gabrielle blocked bis way, and she struck Dirge with her
mother's white wooden Crook. There was a bright splash of magic, staggering
Evergray, who dropped his weapon and closed his huge hands on the Crook. Archers
held fire, and even Andre couldn't interfere where the Trustee's Crook was
concerned. Strands of mystic brilliance played up and down the rod of office,
flickering over them both, as she diverted the giant's energies, drawing them to
her through the staff. His aura grew dimmer, while hers increased.
Andre, Dunstan and Springbuck eased Hightower off Gil. The wizard and the Ku-
Mor~Mai looked to the Warlord while Swan and Dunstan bent over Gil, all of them
wary of the duel erupting nearby. When they saw the damage Dirge had done Gil,
the Horseblooded's sad clown face seemed about to come apart from grief; Swan
made a low sound of woe, suppressed far back in her throat. The American got
himself up on one elbow,
329
keeping his good lung, his right, uppermost to help breathing. His wound sucked
and bubbled with his respiration. He clapped a hand to it, sobbing in pain, eyes
bulging. With a flood of horror he realized that the weapon Evergray had used on
him was the dread blade Gil himself had carried south.
Evergray harbored more power than even Gabrielle could absorb. She released her
Crook, sinking to the ground, but the giant stumbled back and forth, unable to
let loose of the staff. He couldn't stop the outrushing of his own vitality.
Brighter and brighter he flared, like a nova. Then the light went out.
He fell, blackened, the crown-helmet tumbling from his head, no longer fitting
him; he'd shrunken with the loss of his power. The Crook of the Trustee was now
a row of cinders.
Gil lay near, fighting shrilly for air. Evergray focused on him stuporously. "I
truly had no allies, had J? Nor kin, nor friend, nor any who wished to be."
The crosscurrent radiance in his eyes died. GU, also under Dirge's sentence,
hung his head down in defeat.
Chapter Thirty-five
For better than never is late . . . Chaucer "The Canon*s Yeoman's Tale**
THERE was an explosion on the plain; Cloud Ruler disappeared in a red fireball.
Yardiff Bey had removed his spells from the elemental within it; now that
Evergray's no longer held it, it burst free. Hovering for a moment, a searing,
raging globe, it took its bearings while those below crouched from its heat,
then blazed into the sky, away from its long imprisonment. From above, from all
around, a choir of frustration 330
and venom filled the air. The Masters lamented for themselves, and the Spell
ruined by Evergray's death. Their hatred rolled across the plain, trembling the
tatters of cloth that clung to the fallen.
Gabrielle sprawled in the dust by Hightower's side. The old man couldn't staunch
the blood that flowed from him, though his clamped hands shook with the effort.
She tried her enchantments, though she knew nothing would reverse Dirge's
malice.
Van 0uyn arrived, with Reacher and Katya. With them came some of the Yalloroon,
staring wide-eyed at the aftermath of battle. Two of the little people had died,
along with the crew of the war-dray in which they'd ridden, when their vehicle
was overturned and overrun by the Dead.
Swan knelt by Gil's side as he tried to hold his breath and re-expand his lung
by pressure, hand covering his wound. But the function of Dirge's magic made it
impossible to seal the injury. He gave up and looked at the High Constable.
"You were right in Final Graces," he labored, breath short. "About risk."
Springbuck appeared over Swan's shoulder. His eyes flicked to the wound, then
met his friend's candidly, holding no hope. Gil tried to smile, but failed. "I
know. I should have listened.to you. Forget it. Bey's still back there in the
city."
Andre had left Hightower, for whom the wizard could do nothing. Now he led
Balagon away from where the warrior-priest had closed Angorman's eyes forever.
The Divine Vicar had taken up Red Pilgrim; Andre took it from him gently,
handing it away to Van Duyn, who stood nearest him. Hearing GU, Andre nodded.
"That is no less than true. There is still Bey. Gabrielle?"
She still held Hightower's hand, but said, "The Masters await. There is yet time
to act."
"Are you not spent?" Springbuck asked anxiously.
"Not so," she replied. "I took in a measure of the force escaping Evergray. The
rest is fled at random. The Five's resources are diminished, but they will draw
more to them, or be given of Amon's. We have only this moment."
331
Hightower sighed weakly and squeezed her hand in approval.
Their losses had been heavy. Because some must care for the injured and because
the number of horses was reduced, Springbuck had fewer than seven thousand
functioning mounted troops. He began rapid orders for assembly. Then he halted
as an emaciated mare bore toward him through the drifting smoke and stench. She
came to a stumbling stop and her rider dropped to his feet.
"Fenian!" Dunstan flew at him. "Kinsman!1* They gripped forearms.
"We are peculiarly met," observed Fenian, eyes sweeping the scene.
Many Wild Riders came to their former Champion, saluting, pressing his hand in
theirs, but he broke away, and came to Springbuck. When he'd heard what had
happened, Ferrian motioned to Gil and Hightower. "Though Angorman and many
others on the field are beyond help, these two here are not, for in Ladeatree I
learned many things. Yonder, east of Salami some small way, is the hill where
the Lifetree blossomed. Down within it He those particular waters which fed the
Tree, and would remedy Dirge's magic.*'
Andre was unconvinced. "Those are for the Lifetree. I doubt any other influence
could summon them forth.**
"Carnage wrought by ordinary steel cannot be undone," Ferrian answered, "but
these of an eldritch nature, these might be. It would be ill of us not to try."
Gil knew a flash of hope so poignant it stripped him of his stolid resignation,
slim as the chance was, and Swan's face came alive.
Springbuck knew he must be the one to say it. 'The Masters will not defer that
long, Ferrian. An hour's delay will be the death of us all." That same hour
would kill Gil and Hightower. He searched Gabrielle's face for vindication,
desperate that she understand two lives were balanced here against many, as well
as the fate of the Crescent Lands.
Ferrian shook his head. "The gods have us on schedules all their own. But there
is a third choice, Ku-Mor-Mtd. Let those who must press on to Salami, and let
332
but a few of us detour, bearing these two comrades to the hill."
Dunstan seconded it, saying he would go. Springbuck's expression showed how
welcome that proposal was. "WeU thought on. But how to transport?"
The latecomer pointed to where the overturned war-dray of Matloo had been
righted. Its tongue-hitch had been twisted and broken, but the team had been
recovered, and hasty repairs made by septmen. "There is the method."
Springbuck ordered the dray brought over. Gabrielle took Swan aside. Low, she
commanded, "High Constable, go with them. I hold little more confidence in this
than Andre, but it must be tried." Swan didn't conceal her eagerness to obey.
As the dray was brought up, Ferrian turned to Van Duyn. "You are Gil's only
countryman. Will you not come too?" The older man hesitated, then murmured that,
of course, he assuredly would.
Katya took his arm. "We both will go. And Readier too, will you not, brother?"
The King afiirmed it, staring strangely at his old friend Ferrian, his
wilderness sense telling him there was more here than was being said.
Springbuck asked if they would need a driver from the men of Matloo, or an
escort. "No," Ferrian answered, "for all danger here will be directed at the de-
Courteneys. The last contest will be of magic, and in Salama; thus we should go
unmolested." Ferrian thought for a moment. "Still, my kinsman Dunstan is
unarmed. If Andre will not need his sword, perhaps he would lend it to a
weaponless man?" He fixed the wizard with a strange look.
Obeying a sense of inspired impulse, Andre unhooked the scabbard from his belt
and gave his sword to the surprised Dunstan, commenting, "I wish no one to be
... unprotected."
The dray was beautifully made, meticulously planed with its joined timbers
reinforced with armor plate, braced and strapped with metal. It was articulated,
flexible hi its center, to lend maneuverability. Its port-plates were raised,
from combat against the Dead, and there
333
were red stains on its polished wooden deck and bulkheads, drying to brown.
For this ride, the northerners agreed, they needed no Lead-Line Rider. Being
lifted aboard, even by so many careful hands, made Gil wince in pain. Van Duyn
knew that wound was killing his countryman quickly, filling the pleural space
with blood and pressure that had probably started a mediastinal shift, pushing
toward the uninjured side, straining the heart and placing even greater demands
on the overworked right lung. Gil hadn't gone into shock yet, but that might
happen any second, and against the magic of Dirge, no conventional technique of
aspiration or drainage could avail.
Hightower was even worse. The steady loss of blood had covered his midsection,
and coated his mailed legs. Gabrielle helped strap him in on one of the benches
that ran the length of the dray, while Gil was eased down on the other. She
kissed the Warlord, patted the American's shoulder, then walked stiff-spmed to
her horse.
"To Salama," she said.
Katya and Readier rode up, leading Van Duyn's steed. Ferrian took Red Pilgrim
from Van Duyn and handed it aside to Dunstan, who crouched in the dray. Swan had
mounted Jeb Stuart.
Springbuck groped for words. "Grace of the Lady upon you," he finally bade them.
Ferrian answered, "I bid you good fortune, son of Surehand. Here under the
shadow of the Five, where every word and deed is heard and seen by them, I say
it. May the deCourteneys carry the day." He climbed into the dray as Dunstan
stood to the vehicle's armored prow and gathered handfuls of reins.
The men of Coramonde were drawn up hi their squadrons, interspersed with the
other war-drays of Mat-loo. Behind them were women of Glyffa and men of Vegana,
units of Freegate and gathered clans of the Horseblooded. Springbuck joined the
deCourteneys at the head of them all.
Gabrielle needed no divination to read his mind. "Would your presence not mean
much to MacDonald?" she inquired. "And to Hightower?"
"The armies must be led," he evaded.
"We deCourteneys have a smattering of talent for 334
that, as has been seen. But you can do little in Salama save sit and wait. Go
with your friend."
Andre spared him further agonizing by shouting the order to ride, slapping
Fireheel's croup. The big gray sprang aside as the ranks moved by. Joining the
others at the dray, Springbuck found that a weight had left him. Dunstan
clucked, flicked the reins, and started off eastward as the rest feU in behind
and beside.
The northern armies rode through the obsidian arch, a quarter-mile span, that
was the entrance to Shardishku-Salama. Andre had a small contingent fall out
here, to guard and keep watch on the plain.
Then they continued, clattering up boulevards hundreds of yards wide, past the
vacant palaces and deserted towers of the city. They met no opposition; the
Masters, guarded by the Host of the Grave, had never thought they would need any
defense but their own powers. Now, after the huge drain caused by the death of
Evergray, the Five were conserving those. They might have made feints, or even
tangible attacks, but that would have cost critical amounts of energy, and the
outcome would have been in doubt. In their own arena, in their own tune, the
Five would confront Andre and Gabrielle, whom they held to be the only serious
threat.
The armies flowed between the soaring structures of the city. In silence, they
viewed the stupendous bas-relief depicting the destruction of the Lifetree. Most
of the residents had fled and others had expired when the Masters, pressed by
demands on the strength left to them, withheld it from their subjects.
The Crescent Landers drew up before the Fane, its vast curve sweeping out above
them. Its doors had seemed small, in proportion, from the far end of the
boulevard. Now they stretched upward, higher "than a donjon, of cold dark metal
that gleamed like onyx. Here the deCourteneys left the massed warriors, telling
them to stay back from the magic that dwelled within. They were well and quickly
heeded.
Leaving their horses, the two spread their arms before the doors. They sensed
the might of the doors, the Masters' first test.
"Masters of Salamd," Gabrielle challenged, "we are
335
for earnest combat. For preliminaries, we care no more than this!" With that,
she spat on the doors. Where it landed, blue essence of her magic sizzled and
popped, spreading to the hairline crack between the two portals, racing up and
down. The doors quaked, caught in the conflict of wills between the deCourteneys
and the Five. Thick hinges rang like tuning forks. In that first contest, the
Masters found that the new Trustee was indeed worthy of her office. The Five
didn't exert every effort, but let the deCourteneys put theirs forth. The doors
burst open, swung wide.
Andre and Gabrielle walked together into lightless-ness. When they were within,
the cyclopean portals swung shut. No one outside tried to stop that, nor could
they have done so.
Though Dunstan kept the ride as smooth as he .could, the passengers were still
swayed and jounced. Gil was feeling cold, his respiration shallow and fast, his
chest screaming for ah-. Hightower seemed to have lost consciousness. There was
a yelp from Ferrian who, for some reason, stared back across a flat landscape at
Salami rather than ahead.
"The glows of thaumaturgy are there," the Horse-blooded shouted. Dunstan hauled
on the reins. Ferrian, with a hair-raising Horseblooded whoop, dropped through
the rear hatch while the dray was still rolling. He pointed back toward the
Necropolis, calling jeers to the Five.
The others looked. Ripples of enchantment and anti-spells disrupted one another,
sending multicolored distortions through the skies over Salama. Springbuck and
the others turned worriedly to Ferrian, and Dunstan clapped a hand to his
shoulder.
"Kinsman, have your senses fled?"
The other Rider shook his head, the long tail of his hair flying. "Oh cousin,
no. I held back a secret from you all, for the Masters hear every word and see
every deed here, in their inner domain. But their battle with the siblings
deCourteney is in full career. I will explain all, as I dared not do before."
They heard him out in assorted states of skepticism or befuddlement, even Gil,
who watched through the
336
rear hatch. "When I was recuperant at Ladentree, I saw a strange thing. The
Birds of Accord had brought forth hatchlings, yes, a thing they can do only
under influence of the Lifetree. I bespoke SUverquill, the Senior Sage, and he
remembered the Birds had lit on the Crook of the Trustee. We reasoned the rod of
her office was wood of the Lifetree itself."
"The Crook was consumed," Katya pointed out, "stopping Evergray." Springbuck
closed his eyes in sorrow, seeing salvation appear and disappear in moments.
"But hold," Swan objected, "the Trustee had been many times in Ladentree. Why
did the birds not respond before?"
"The same occurred to us, and so that scholarly process of elimination came into
play. We started with a different, theoretical answer, and proved it by diligent
research through the library, piecing together Rydolo-mo's secret in reverse, as
it were, and had a bit of information even Bey lacked. At the Lady's
instigation, a limb of the Lifetree, cut to Her likeness, went northward as
figurehead to the bow of a ship. Do you understand?"
Gil blinked. Shaped like the Bright Lady? "Angor-man's axe," he blurted. It lay
where Ferrian had put iV under Hightower's bench.
"No other. The helve comes of a fragment of that figurehead. Wildmen burned the
rest but did not know, and hence Bey never learned, that one vestige survived."
Ferrian drew the greataxe out of the dray, its haft looking like ordinary
ashwood.
"The Lifetree," he declared, "come south by dint of the Trailingsword, when the
Masters think it safely consumed." He pointed eastward. "And under that hill are
those healing waters it will call forth, and in which it will thrive. We must
take it there, sink it into the ground. If our star fails us not, it will
flourish again."
Hightower, clinging to life by insistence alone, produced from somewhere hi his
ruined depths a spasm of a laugh. "Now must yon webmakers of Salami be a-spin!
Duped, like any bumpkin, by the Lady!"
"I should have brought more troops," Springbuck muttered.
"Untrue," Ferrian corrected. **The Masters can only
337
stop us by their arts, if at all. Thus, I took this."* He handed the axe to
Springbuck and showed Andre deCourteney's sword from its scabbard at Dunstan's
side. Unscrewing the pommel, he pulled out the mystic gem-stone Calundronius. He
held it up, chatoyant on its chain. "This will negate all spells, but can
protect only a few. So, I contrived a purpose to keep our number small. Our only
word now is haste, our one purpose to see the Ufetree replanted. Not all our
lives nor any other price matters against that."
"We should tell the Trustee," Swan suggested.
"No tune," Gil coughed, head spinning. "It's just us. Springbuck?"
"Precisely. If no one objects, I will go in the fore with the stone, and let the
rest range round the dray.'"
As Fenian relinquished Calundronius, Katya asked, "What if the Five muster some
pursuit? Were it not sound policy for one or two to stay back, to repel that?
Edward and I are well suited.*' Van Duyn cleared his throat, resettled the M-l,
and agreed.
"And," added Ferrian, "the team will need a Lead-Line Rider now, a job for a
Horseblooded."
Ferrian drew himself up onto the wagon's tongue. Nimble as a tightrope walker,
he made his way along, flipping shut each horse's blinders. Used to that, the
huge animals waited, knowing they'd be expected to do their hardest work now.
Ferrian mounted the special saddle on the left-side leader's back. In the Lead-
Line Rider's perilous station, he whistled sharply.
Swan had stopped long enough to lean in and brush Gil's lips with hers.
Hightower exerted himself to say "That's it! No one will take this life from us
now, laddie!" But his own face twisted hi pain.
Springbuck, settling Calundronius around his neck, wondered if the deCourteneys
could engage the Five for the needed time. If not, what hue and cry might the
Masters set on the northerners' heels?
338
Chapter Thirty-six
The desire of rising hath swallowed up his fear of a fall.
Thomas Adams Diseases of the Soul.
AT the center of the Fane, supporting the stupendous bowl of its roof, was a
titanic column of granite, dozens of paces in diameter. A small ring of light
showed, far up the looming pillar, a spread-eagle figure, hung upside down by
the ire of the Five.
Yardiff Bey, shorn of the accumulated powers of centuries, had been set there to
wait. When the moment's emergency had been dealt with, the Master would exact a
slow, precision-pain revenge.
But that must be postponed; the armies of the Crescent Lands were already within
the gates of the city. And if the might of the Masters was decreased, if the day
had already seen reversals undreamt of, still the brooding Five, defended by
their spells and their Fane, had few misgivings. Here, of all places, the Five
couldn't lose.
Yardiff Bey, bones vibrating, sinews close to snapping, stifled his pleas.
Almost, the subsequent punishments of the Masters would be anticlimax; thev'd
done the worst when they'd stripped him of every favor and cast him aside like
used goods, discarded by the Lords of Salama.
The Masters readied themselves, in that cold unanimity Bey had always idolized.
Their common will began to coalesce; and weakened as their prepotence was, it
still awed the sorcerer. But hi the midst of that amazing marshaling there came
a sound that even Yardiff Bey had never heard.
339
The Masters, in one voice, wailed dismay. A single image slipped through their
guards and Bey caught what the Five had sensed on the plain outside their city,
a sky filled with singing, soaring Birds of Accord.
There were multifold things hi the gathered minds of the Five then: confusion,
panic, anger. And there was a hatred of the sorcerer, for this, too, was a
failing of his; he'd assured them that the last of the Lifetree was burned. The
Birds, drawn by instincts of their own, proved the Lifetree was coming again to
its accustomed waters.
The Lords of Salama grasped it no sooner than their apt Hand. Bey achieved a
strangled laugh. "Masters of Shardishku-Salamay* he shouted, "how will you crush
the deCourteneys if the Lifetree takes root, and sends all your powers back to
thin air? Which of you is willing to go prevent that, leaving the spell-forged
safety of this Fane, and your mutual protection? And who will stay, with
strength diminished, and face the wizard and the Trustee? Decide! The Crescent
Lands are at your doors!"
It was true. The Five had acted in concert throughout the ages, and dared not
separate now, with their powers so reduced. And now the deCourteneys spread
their arms before the doors of the Fane. Yardiff Bey had seen the only solution
even before his Masters.
He was freed from his bondage, eased down lightly to stand in the ring of light
at the foot of the granite column. On him the Five must fasten all their hopes.
"Go forth, with the forces with which we shall arm you," they instructed, "and
be foremost in our goodwill once more."
Chafing his arms and legs after their stresses, he sneered. "There is a higher
price on your Hand. Make me one among you; promise a station coequal with your
own, then I wiU do as you desire. Oath-take that now. Refuse and you perish, nor
cares Yardiff Bey.'*
They howled their wrath, but their terror was greater. The Five made hurried,
irrevocable vows, concretized by their own infernal sources. Satisfied, he
agreed. All the energy of magic, all the power of will that the Five could bring
themselves to surrender, flooded into him, expanding his strength beyond
anything he'd felt before.
340
He'd been processing this information about the Birds. The last known wood of
the Lifetree had gone north, and only recently it must have come through
Ladentree. Bey's agile mind leapt that gap in a flight of speculation. "Where is
the axe called Red Pilgrim?" he asked them.
The Five stretched out their perceptions, ascertaining it, and told him; in the
dray, bearing hard for the mound of the Lifetree. Even then he found a moment to
admire the subtlety of it all.
So much attention had been diverted to Bey that the deCourteneys had triumphed
in the issue of the doors. When the tall, wide doors of the Fane closed after
them, the siblings refused to permit the darkness to continue. The insistent
blackness fell back before their blue glow. Wrapped in azure light, they made
their way to the heart of their enemies* stronghold.
As they rounded the huge column Bey, guided by the Masters, slipped around the
other way, undetectable in the overwhekning presence of the Five. He knew that
the Masters must prevail, so long as the Lifetree was eliminated. Until the
deCourteneys were fully engaged, he would wait in the shadows. He must not
become embroiled in this battle.
Gabrielle's voice broke the ponderous silence. "Why do you Five love the night
so well? We do not fear to behold you." She broadcast the light of her
enchantments. The Masters bore down hard; their art kept hers from illuminating
the farthest limits of the temple, where they waited. But their bloated outlines
could be seen, moving clumsily. No longer human, distorted by their own deeds
and trafnckings, and made horrible to see, they hid from view.
"Nor do we hesitate to name you!" she proclaimed. Andre added his imperative to
hers; the walls of the Fane trembled. "First, Skaranx, whose high charge and
honor was to guard the Lifetree, and who chose instead to destroy it."
To one side, a long, serpentine shape writhed, hearing its name and crime.
"Temopon, seer for the Unity, who vowed sound counsel but rendered lies. So did
your will become Amon's." Next to Skaranx, the barely seen form of
341
Temopon stirred uncomfortably, like a slug near a flame.
"Vorwoda, who was her husband's buttress and confidante. Poisoning his mind, you
made him ripe for tragedy, earning demon's gifts." The reigning beauty of the
world in ages past, Vorwoda gave a scream from the shadows, thrashing grotesque,
insectile limbs in her mossy bed.
"Kaytaynor, the Supreme Lord's most valued friend, who slew him from envy and
lust for Vorwoda. Your love is long since turned to abhorrence. Did you think to
steal what you did not merit?" Kaytaynor, his swollen body twisted and bent,
tried to reject what he heard, radiating his resentment.
"Lastly, Dorodeen. And where are there words to denounce you? Not brave enough
or wise enough for the loftiest seat in the Unity, yet clever enough to breed
treason, and so bring it down. Worst of all are you, for you loved the Unity,
but cast it low because you could not rule it." Dorodeen, the Flawed Hero, who
had ended an entire civilization to salve his own inquietude, moved not at all.
He repressed the only thing he feared, his memories, and waited, impassive as a
crag of ice.
The Masters were assailed by a second excruciating, lucid understanding of what
they'd become. Then they hid from it, and struck at the deCourteneys with all
their weight of evil.
But their strength was less than it had been. Andre and Gabrielle pooled their
powers, and withstood it. Furnace heat and arctic cold skirmished, and the Fane
rumbled. But the interlopers deflected every onslaught with anti-spells of their
own. Then deCourteney magic erupted. Riding the crest of their emotions, the two
counterattacked.
The energies warred, unseen by the eye but palpable enough to set Gabrielle's
fiery hah* floating, riding their currents,
This was Bey's moment. He extended his arms, while militant winds cracked his
black robes around him. First, he'd need a means of travel. With puissance he'd
never known before, he ripped aside the curtains of the half-world, and summoned
it to him. In an instant his desire was filled, rearing above him, taking the
shape of
342
a horse of smoke, of night-black substances of dread borrowed from dreams. It
was even taller at the shoulder than a dray horse of Mafloo, its breath hot and
sul-furous. Its eyes beamed yellow malevolence, and its restless hooves of
polished jet left the rock beneath them glowing from.their touch. The nightmare
horse shrilled, then bowed knee to YardiS Bey. He scrambled up to its back,
sinking his fingers into the coarse tangles of its long mane.
He swept out across the Fane. The Masters redoubled their assault on the
deCourteneys, so that the sorcerer .would go unhindered. Outside, the
northerners ran for safety as the mountainous doors crashed open. Bey blurred
past with such speed it seemed a black wind had blown by. The soldiers heard his
demoniac laugh echoing back along the boulevard.
The detonations of the doors, slamming open, rolled across the Fane in a shock
wave. Gabrielle spun, thinking it an attack from the rear. Sensing that, the
Five spent a major effort. But the offensive burst like a comber off Andre's
stubborn wards; he'd let his concentration fail once, on the Isle of Keys, and
had vowed it would never happen again. Alone, he held, sweat streaming down his
face, nails digging into his palms until blood seeped. He was driven backward
bodily, pressed to his limits.
All that was in the moment Gabrielle turned. Now she was back, supporting Andre
with her arm, shaping a shield against which the Five could do nothing. She
dispatched enchantments that rocked the foundations of the Fane, far down in the
roots of the earth, and lit the entire room. Shrinking from the light of her
sorcery, the Masters sped then: total fury at her.
Gabrielle deCourteney, reaching her zenith, bolstered by emotions not unlike the
Berserkergang, converted the Fane of the Masters into a crucible of magic.
343
Chapter Thirty-seven
Yet is every man his greatest enemy and, as it were, his own executioner.
Sir Thomas Browne Religio Medici
YARDIFF Bey bore down on the arch of Salama's entrance. One of the men on watch
just found time to leap aside; the other, frozen in his tracks by surprise, was
trampled under the hooves of the hellhorse, his flesh crumbled and scorched by
its passing.
YardifE Bey drew to a halt out on the plain. He turned his heightened, one-eyed
gaze to the east, seeing farther and better than mortal sight. He descried the
war-dray far off, throwing out a plume of dust. Its way led through low, gutted
hills from which much stone had been quarried and cut for use in Salami. Beyond
those rose the bare little mount upon which the Lifetree could thrive.
He sensed an emanation he'd come across before; Calundronius, accursed gemstone
of the deCourteneys, was there. No simple spell would stop his prey. And even
with his infernal steed, Bey could not overhaul them in time; they'd gained a
commanding lead. It would require extraordinary measures to halt them, or at
least impede them until he could catch up.
He ordered his thoughts, sorting out the things he must invoke, flows he must
tap, oaths to bind and vows to make. He used a forbidden tongue, his
aristocratic hands darting through the passes of his Shaping. The hellhorse,
scenting sorcery, reared high, beams of amber light arrowing from its eyes. Ears
flattening to its skull, it screamed its excitement; not an equine sound, but
rather the cry of a giant feline.
344
Van Duyn and Katya, having dropped far behind the main party as rearguard, heard
that sound. They turned, and saw a horse and rider, tiny in the distance, coming
at uncanny speed. They brought their horses around, the American unslinging the
M-l, to do whatever they must to buy time for those riding with the Lifetree.
The main party thundered down into the lowest part of the valley, their horses
lathered with sweat, flinging up the earth in clots. They passed striated cliffs
and deserted stoneyards, catching sight of low-lying excavations where ground
water had formed pools. That an open body of water could exist here proved their
destination was close.
Springbuck's heart was alive with hope; all victory seemed possible. Then
Fireheel slowed, his senses sharper than his rider's, testing the breeze, ears
pricked forward, moving with quick, high steps, head swiveling. Springbuck
scanned for danger, taking Calundronius from his chest and holding it by its
chain. He saw nothing approaching from any direction, and the sky was vacant.
The brown earth jumped, like a horse's shoulder-twitch; Yardiff Bey's sorcery
was taking hold, Shaping this most inert and difficult of the elements to his
purpose. Rising in a mound, as if a baker kneaded dough, it folded and refolded,
swelling. Here, where the earth had already been opened and raided, Yardiff Bey
had found pliant material, receptive to his arts.
The earth-elemental found its feet like a drunkard, the problems of balance and
motion altogether alien to it. It came from quiescent soil, used only to
movements dictated by simple gravity and the patient adjustments of the
substrata. It was twice as tall as the tallest of the humans, crudely wrought.
Headless, it worked its arms and legs slowly, with a rain of dust and gravel,
chance minerals and bits of rock.
To the right of the road was the valley's side, and to the left, a jumble of
stone blocks in the abandoned yards, leaving no room to go around. The eight
bulky dray horses reared and neighed, kicking, threatening to break their
cracking swingletrees. Gil and Hightower
345
could do nothing but endure the rocking and jolting grimly.
Dunstan had himself braced in the curve of the driver's waist-bar, fighting the
reins. Fireheel had shied away from the apparition, but now Springbuck forced
the gray close, holding Calundronius out. The thing sensed the gemstone and its
power. It stomped clumsily, gathered more earth to it and flung it at the
Ku~Mor-M(d, Sand, dirt and shale hit Springbuck like a wall. The stallion and
his rider were blasted backward, falling; Fireheel whinnied in fright, and
Calundronius was torn from the Protector-Suzerain's fingers. Swan lofted a
javelin that drove deep into the creature's side, then began to slough out again
without effect, telling her no mortal weapon would avail.
Dunstan and Ferrian were working together to back the neighing, bucking team.
Reacher rode up to seize the right lead horse's bridle.
Sorcery drew the elemental to the axe, guiding it in its only purpose, to stop
the Lifetree. It lifted a boulder, hurled it at the dray. Its aim was off;
docile earth, it was unused to something as bizarre as trajectory. The boulder
missed the team, but smashed into the dray, snapping a wheel rim, crunching its
spokes.
The elemental went to the wagon and, without sign of effort, it began to topple
the vehicle over on its side. Dunstan clung to his place at the prow a moment,
then the reins were dragged from his hands and the weakened hitch broke. The
eight horses milled and reared. Ferrian, arms and legs gyrating, was tossed
headlong. Reacher managed to break his fall by leaning far out of his saddle,
but the King's own horse, flinching hi fright, robbed him of balance. Both went
down. The team broke and ran blindly, and with them went Reacher's horse. The
King scrambled madly to pull Ferrian and himself from beneath the great hooves,
but his leg was struck, and Reacher's left leg hung useless, crushed and numb.
Inside the dray, men tumbled as wall changed place with ceiling and floor. Gil
managed to catch himself by a handhold ring, igniting white agony in his side.
Red Pilgrim lay nearby, having narrowly missed his head.
346
Hightower's restraints came loose, and he met the wood with a thud.
The earth-being began to pry at the dray bed, not understanding what it was, but
only that the object it sought was within. Clumsily conceived arms hunted the
chassis for purchase, to sounds of sliding soil and gravel. Its weight tilted
the war-dray still more. Those inside struggled to the rear hatch, but its lock
was jammed, and the prow had been crumpled in. There was a roof hatch but it,
too, resisted them.
Swan was out of her saddle, helping dazed Springbuck dig himself out of the soil
that half-covered him, hoping to find Calundronius, as the Shaping commenced
tearing at the bed of the overturned dray. Tugging the limp Ku-Mor-Mai free, she
found his fingers empty and condemned the luck; Calundronius was the one thing
that would help now. She began scooping dirt furiously, looking for the negator.
Planks were torn away from the dray bed. The elemental began working its crude
hands in for a new grip. Gil was helpless to aid Dunstan, who was throwing
himself against the rear hatch.
There was a creaking from the roof. Inch by inch, the hatch there bent open, as
the monster gradually pulled the floor away. The roof hatch parted further, and
Gil saw the King of Freegate, Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach. His right foot
was planted against the roof, back bowed in exertion. Now he threw his head
back, face bracketed with strain. He'd peeled one corner back, and now the latch
gave. The hatch popped open.
Reacher, asprawl, thrust his hands in, took Gil's shoulders and yanked. The
American was pulled to momentary safety with a shriek of pain. Dunstan came
behind, dragging the bulk of Hightower hi short, desperate tugs. Then Reacher
seized the Warlord, hauling him out in one motion. The Warlord's blood ran
copiously from his mouth.
Half the dray's bed came loose in the elemental's hand. Dunstan, grabbing up Red
Pilgrim, was last to rumble through the broken hatch. The Shaping broke off its
efforts on the dray, pushing it aside, rolling the wagon over onto its roof.
Reacher, with one leg numb,
347
had to move quickly to keep Gil and Hightower from being trapped beneath.
Holding the greataxe, Dunstan ran for the nearest horse, Jeb Stuart. The
elemental followed close after, and the horse shied and bolted from it. With
nowhere else to hide, Dunstan made a frantic dash for the maze-work of quarries
and stoneyards. The monster pursued.
Swan left Springbuck to dig for the negator. She plunged into the stoneyards to
help Dunstan, pausing only to pick up a flake of rock with which to blaze her
route through the jumble.
Readier had already recognized that he couldn't follow; he hopped and hobbled
back to Ferrian. The Horse-blooded sat holding a gash in his temple that had
come close to his eye. The King began to tear his old companion's vest into
shreds for bandage. Gfl lay back, wearily cursing the luck that had stopped them
so near their objective.
The stoneyards were filled with unused pieces, from monolithic cubes the size of
a house to keystones no bigger than a scent box. Lying where they'd been left,
they formed a labyrinth terrain of roofless corridors and cul-de-sacs. Dunstan,
weaving among them, Red Pilgrim clutched close to him, tried to quiet his own
breathing, listening for sounds of the thing following him. He chose his path by
guesswork, hoping he was moving the right way. The melancholy HorseWooded hoped
the plan he'd conceived in transit, as it were, would work.
He heard the calls of Swan, but withheld any answer, unsure if the creature
could hear. Then Dunstan heard scraping, tons of stone being moved by
illimitable strength. The elemental was close, guided by the decrees of Yardiff
Bey that had targeted it on the Lifetree.
He finally found what he'd sought, an excavation filled with murky ground water,
surrounded by high blocks. Dunstan cudgeled his brain, twisting his sad face hi
thought. Which would be the best place to wait, one that would give his pursuer
no long corridor of approach? He plotted the grating, grinding noise of
dislodged stone, and positioned himself.
Swan's voice, nearby, made him look up. She'd ascended a series of blocks to
stand high above the rest of
348
the maze, and seen his plan. 'That way," she called through cupped hands, then
pointed. "It comes, no more than thirty paces!" She turned, jumped, vanished
from sight. He stepped to a better location. There he waited, sweat beading his
long features and staining his shirt, as the thing heaved stone tonnage aside to
get at him.
Dunstan's gaunt face worked urgently. He'd come with the vague idea of luring
the monster into the water, but if he waited on the brink, might it not catch
him first? He was of the High Ranges, and could barely swim, but if he dove into
the water now, could the thing not kill him and bury the axe with stones flung
from the land? He berated himself; hadn't that lifetime-night of captivity hi
Salarna even taught him to thinkf
The block fronting him began to move, even as he heard Swan's halloo. He
hazarded a quick look over his shoulder and saw her mere on the far side of the
pool, a dozen paces from him, watching him expectantly. Her look brought home to
him the fact that he was not in the Rage, that he'd thought and acted, under
great pressure, and not yielded up control of himself. He was again Dunstan, and
nevermore Berserker.
Then his mind became cool, his course of action clear, his arms steady and
strong. He fired the terse order to Swan, "Stand ready, Red Pilgrim flies!"
As the last block was moved away and the earth-elemental lurched toward him, he
took a two-handed grip at the end of the greataxe helve. He waited until the
creature was nearly on him, a precise calculation. Then he heaved the weapon up,
over his head, as high and as far as he could, and immediately threw himself
between the elemental's feet, curled in a tight ball.
The creature's limited senses remained with Red Pilgrim, as the axe spun and
glittered through the air over the pool. The thing moved after its prize,
prodded by dim-witted singleness of purpose. It plunged off the lip of the
excavation, into the water. The axe descended, clanging to the stone near Swan.
The water heaved and surged with earth and stone swirling through it as two
antithetical elements met. Waves and foam pounded, a miniature hurricane in
narrow confines. Dunstan got to his feet, brushing dirt
349
from himself. The waves stilled, and the pool's surface became as smooth as it
had been before.
Yardiff Bey, a wraith of murderous intent, flew at Van Duyn and Katya; his
horse's hoofbeats left a trail of glowing prints in its wake.
The American had dismounted, to snuggle the butt of the Garand firmly at his
shoulder. The hellhorse grew larger hi his sight picture, cannonading the
ground. The sorcerer was crouched behind the beast's neck, clinging like a
thistle in the whiplash banners of its mane. "You must wait until he is nigh,
Edward," the Snow Leopardess advised, "or he may distort what you see."
He fixed his cheek to the rifle stock, steadied his sight blade. He fired
carefully, as he did all things, leaning into the recoil. The first shot was
high. The second kicked up dirt, an overcompensation, but the third hit. Bey's
eldritch mount gave its feline cry as it lost vaporous, foul-smelling blood from
a wound in its left gas-kin. Katya, seeing Bey could hide behind his steed's
neck, told Van Duyn to hold fire; her reckless courage had hold of her again.
Rowling her horse, she went at the Hand of Salami, shield up, ironbound lance
pointing the way. But Bey's mount was demoniac in its speed and strength, and
feared nothing. It swerved away from her lance like spindrift, its snapping,
sulfur-smelling fangs barely missing her arm. Its enormous weight slammed her
horse's side, knocking the Snow Leopardess and her charges through the air,
discards of battle.
The rifle came up again; Van Duyn fired with metronomic punctuality, one round
per second. One whistled through the beast's forelock, but others struck deep hi
its neck and chest. Though Bey was protected from the gunfire, Van Duyn stood
his ground resolutely. It almost cost him his life; he just did manage to dive
aside. The hellhorse swept by, its wounds fuming and sizzling.
As dust settled around him, Van Duyn climbed shakily to his feet. Katya was
already picking herself up, throwing off her fall. "I am unscathed," the
Princess assured him, peering eastward after the vanished sorcerer, "but the day
seems mapped for disaster."
350
Springbuck, finding Calundronius, had raced for the stoneyards to rescue Dunstan
and Swan, only to meet them as the two emerged. The Ku-Mor-Mai sighed his
relief, shaking the lean Horseblooded by both shoulders.
The others were at the rear of the ruined dray. The King pointed toward Salami;
Springbuck couldn't quite see, but the others described for him the horseman
coming with supernatural speed.
"That'll be Yardiff Bey," grated Gil, certain. He was glassy-eyed, his skin blue
with shortage of oxygen. Hightower was propped against the wagon, eyelids
closed, yet they fluttered open at the name.
The Warlord spoke to the heart of matters in a quavering voice. "Time is short,
and I see but one horse." Fireheel stood waiting, the only one not driven or
frightened away. "Ku-Mor-Mai, finish this ride."
There was no counterargument. Springbuck took Red Pilgrim from Swan. "Fireheel
is brawny," he declared, gathering the gray's reins, "and can bear one more
beside."
"Then, let it be Gil MacDonald," the old man bade, words coming in a gargle of
blood. "I am late in years, and have my death-wound."
They hoisted Gil into the gray's saddle and used the baldric of Ferrian's
scimitar to hold him to the high cantle, seeing he was half-fainting. Springbuck
rode behind, carrying the axe and steadying his friend. Swan removed her
gleaming, white-winged bascinet and wrapped its chin strap through Gil's belt.
"If you can fill this with the waters of the Tree and bear it back, Hightower's
life may still be saved. I will try to find a horse, and follow, if I can."
Springbuck nodded, but doubted she had the time. He spoke to Fireheel gently,
asking one last effort. The stallion complied. And so the two, the ruler of a
mighty suzerainty and the displaced alien, became, of all the thousands who'd
answered the Trailingsword, the ones to cover the final stretch.
The other four turned to await the sorcerer. Dunstan was still armed with
Andre's sword, and Swan had drawn hers, taking up Springbuck's fallen shield.
Ferrian brandished his flashing scimitar, and Readier
351
leaned against the dray, balancing on one foot, holding Swan's javelin.
A fey calm settled over them. Soon, the salvoes of the hellhorse's hoofbeats
could be heard.
Fireheel churned to the summit of the steep, grassy slope. Springbuck, who'd
barely been able to hold Gil in the saddle, slid off, unfastened the baldric,
and eased his friend down. The American couldn't stand, couldn't breathe or
speak. He lay on the ground, clawing at his throat, as the pressure hi his chest
choked life out of him. Springbuck, beyond knowledge and beyond prayer, took Red
Pilgrim in a woodchopper's grip, and with a broad stance, raised the axe.
When he sighted the four waiting for him in the road, the sorcerer recognized
that his options were exhausted. The hellhorse was beginning to falter, and
there was no time for spell-casting. He must unleash that weapon he wore where
his left eye had been.
He'd lost the eye, long ago, in mortal combat beneath the earth. He'd wrenched
from its socket the single Orb of his monstrous opponent, and made it his own in
replacement. Now he leaned to one side of his mount's neck and flipped open the
ocular.
The Orb seemed to turn the whole world a harsh, unendurable white, abolishing
all color. There were only outlines to be seen in its brilliance. The pain Bey
felt, liberating those energies, threatened to rob him of consciousness. Dust
swirled up, and the air was superheated. The four mortals fell away, covering
themselves, seared and blistered.
But the Hand had already elevated his awful gaze up the mound. There, its
venomous light caught Springbuck full in the back as he raised the greataxe.
Calun-dronius didn't protect him; the Orb was no enchantment, but a living
property, like dragonfire. The Ku-Mor-Moi pitched forward, but brought the axe
through its arc. The crescent bit dug deep into the earth. From that crease
water gushed, to fountain and flow.
Bey had already clicked the ocular shut, clinging to his horse's mane; the Orb
was fueled by its user's life, and a moment's exposure had nearly cost the
sorcerer his. He barreled past the dray and his downed oppo-
352
nents like Death, the Hunter. Near the top of the hill though, his steed came to
the end of its unnatural endurance. As it sank to its knees with a resentful
sibi-lance like a snake's, he slipped clear and continued afoot.
At the summit he discovered Springbuck stretched out full length on the ground.
Not far from him, Gil MacDooald's body lay face down in the runoff from the
hill's mystic waters. But that runoff was becoming less and less; between the
two forms, the Lifetree stood.
Angorman's axe haft had awakened from the sleep of centuries and put forth
roots, growing with preternatural speed, as if years were passing like minutes.
Even now, it was less a helve than a sapling, knurled with the promise of limbs.
Yardiff Bey smiled; he was in time. The Tree was still young and vulnerable to
his powers. His hands danced skillfully, calling sorcery to him, but without
effect. Then it came to him that Springbuck still wore Calundronius. He started
for the Ku-Mor-Moi, meaning to hurl the gemstone off the hill, but stopped dead.
There was a gurgle, a watery snort, movement, a gust of exhalation.
Gil MacDonald rolled out of the runoff, shaking water from his eyes, spitting,
coughing. He'd been healed, not drowned, by those rarest of waters.
The last thing he remembered was an unbearable light that had downed Springbuck;
the first thing he saw was Yardiff Bey. He bounced to his feet, forgetting he'd
been as good as dead, but recalling he was unarmed. Bey's hand went to his
ocular. He would risk its use one more time; Lifetree and enemy would both fall,
Gil concluded that the ocular was connected with whatever ray had struck the Ku-
Mor~Mai\ but too much distance separated him from the sorcerer.
"The episode ends well," allowed the servant of Salami, finding the catch of his
ocular.
A white puff of feathers struck his cheek. He recoiled instinctively. Another
streaked past, as several more hovered before his face. Suddenly, the air was
alive with piping, swarming Birds of Accord, like a snowstorm of wings and song.
Bey swatted them away, wildly angry, and made to unlatch his ocular.
353
Gil MacDonald was no longer there.
The Hand of Salamd spun, searching in the blinding, deafening blizzard as Birds
blundered into him. Gil hit him blindside, taking advantage of the unseeing
ocular. They grappled on the ground, the American's punches and chops hardly
hurting the sorcerer. Bey's strength was immense; he struck away a groping
attempt for a choke-hold on his throat, but Gil got his wrists, holding his
enemy from behind in a leg-lock, moved not by Raee, but rather bv outrage.
Still, this was Yardiff Bey. Irresistibly, his hands came to the ocular. It
would serve him one more time, and win him all his desires.
Something pressed hard at Gil's side as he wrestled; Swan's helmet. He released
his hold, and Bey's hand flew to the ocular. Gil tore the helmet loose, grasping
it by its white wings and, as the Orb shone forth, jammed the glittering
bascinet down backward over the sorcerer's head, holding it fast.
The Hand of Salamd arched backward, squealing in horror. Smoke, glaring white
light and the crackle of mystic fire escaped around the helmet's edges. Gil
clung, literally, for his life. Then he had to yank his hands away, as the
bascinet became too hot to touch.
It lasted only seconds. Bey slumped, paroxysms ended. The Orb, unpowered, went
out. Gil worked up the meager energy to shove himself free.
As he did, a gale sprang up on the hillside. A chorus of gloating, gibbering
voices came on it, invisible, circling the hill. Then there was a new voice,
surrounded by ranting and wailing in the manner of the damned. Gil recognized
it: Yardiff Bey's. Sobbing, pleading to no effect, the sorcerer's soul was borne
away to pay un-holv debts.
Then calm returned, and the Birds of Accord resumed their waiting.
354
Chapter Thirty-eight
I cannot rest from travel; 1 will drink Life to the lees.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Vlysses
IN the Fane of the Masters were whines of utter despair. The Lifetree had taken
root, exerting its equilibrium.
The influences of the Five pulsed erratically against blue deCourteney
enchantments. Andre spread his arms wide with a gusty laugh; Gabrielle's
luminance was renewed. They'd been beleaguered, but now the attacks were
dissipated like so much mist.
Gabrielle's green eyes narrowed. Arrogant Masters who'd been within an instant
of godhood were naked to her. The sorceress' unquenchable will, supported by her
brother's arts, dragged her enemies from their places. Their dreams of deity
were broken, leaving only their obscene shapes. Skaranx, faithless watchman;
Temo-pon, deceitful advisor; Vorwoda, hateful lover; Kaytay-nor, friend-slayer;
and Dorodeen, flawed hero; they came in a semicircle around the deCourteneys as
failed, petty spirits.
One by one, Gabrielle called their names. They came to touch their heads to the
floor at her feet, monstrous shapes bending to an unforeseen task.
No words passed, but the same sharp aspect was in both the deCourteneys' miens.
Gabrielle raised both hands high, a very empress of magic. A final radiance
broke from the two. The central column vibrated, a webwork of cracks appearing
all along its granite height. The deCourteneys turned to leave their enemies.
The
355
Masters made a tentative move to follow. She whirled back; they were cowed by
her glance alone.
The stone pillar was wrapped in a sleeve of blue glory, held together only by
Gabrielle's imperatives. Brother and sister came to the doors, which Andre
opened with a motion of bis head and a word of Compulsion. Men fell back,
averting their eyes from the unbearable light. Framed hi it, Gabrielle made a
last Dismissal. The central column came apart in a shower of stone and dust. The
roof cracked, enormous chunks of it breaking loose. The immeasurable weight of
the Fane collapsed.
In that penultimate moment, the Five shook loose from the ages of their
plotting, resigning themselves to death with a perverse curiosity, as then- Fane
crashed down upon them.
Returning down the road from Salama, Andre and Gabrielle and the army came to
the broken dray. There, Ferrian and Reacher kept watch over the body of High-
tower.
Gabrielle went to him slowly, stooping to lass the Warlord's leathery brow. "He
was at peace, at the end," Fenian told her gently.
Her eyes were brimming. "It was granted us both to know why we failed against
Salamd so long ago. Seeing the Lady's whole plan was a measure of compensation."
Healers were seeing to Ferrian's temple and Reach-er's leg, applying demulcents
to the burns they'd gotten when the Orb had opened against them. They had no
news yet of what had happened on the hill, so wizard and sorceress hurried on,
as Van Duyn, Katya, Dunstan and Swan already had.
Riding up, they saw a blackened area in the grass, not knowing it was the spot
where Bey's hellhorse had fallen and evaporated as its unnatural life was
consumed.
At the top of the hill, the rest had gathered by the Lifetree. The Tree towered
over them, already crowded with caroling Birds of Accord. The tuneless
artificial twilight of Salama was dispersing, and honest night breaking through.
Swan, Van Duyn and the Snow Leopardess stood 356
over them as Gil and Dunstan knelt by Springbuck's un-moving body. Andre grieved
anew, thinking this last death might be more than his sister could bear. Then.
the Ku-Mor~Mai groaned, drawing up one knee. Ga-brielle ran to him, as Gil
recounted the events of the chase. Sisters of the Line crowded around their High
Constable, pressing ministrations on her, and on the others' wounds as well.
Of Bey's body there was little remaining except dark powder; its spirit had
preserved it all these centuries.
"The water stopped running before I could get to it," Gil told Andre sadly, "and
now the Tree's taking it all; no more runoff."
" 'Twould do Hightower no good," the wizard admitted. "He died even before you
came to the mound." He gazed to one side, and saw the double-bitted axehead, its
collar snapped open by the insistent growth of the Lifetree.
"What about the Masters?" Gil wanted to know. Gabrielle pointed back toward the
city. Shardishku-Salami was consuming itself in fires leaping upward toward the
sky.
"I've got to see," he announced. Jeb Stuart's hurts, and Fireheers, were being
attended by knowledgeable cavalrymen. Gil was about to borrow a horse when
Springbuck, struggling to his feet, called for two.
"Where is the injury so grievous it will keep us two from seeing this sight?" he
demanded. No one contradicted him, or pressed to be taken along.
By the time they'd gotten to the city, the fires were burned out. There were
only minor drifts of smoke; of the Necropolis there was nothing. The sky was
nearly dark now, but the light of dawn was coming up hi the east.
"So fast," Gil murmured, "how could it have gone up so fast? Even the stone is
gone."
Springbuck shrugged. "The Masters endured long after they should have died, and
so did their magic, and the things it built. All this destruction, held in
abeyance, was accomplished in quickened time."
Gil dismounted. "Coming?" Springbuck followed suit slowly, babying burns, aches
and wounds.
357
They passed where the gateway arch had been, and stopped at the spot where the
Fane had dominated Shardishku-Salama. The place was flat, with no block, no
timber, not so much as a potsherd to show a city had stood there. It was now a
table of scorched earth. The American felt his side, where the wound had
disappeared; something told him Dirge, too, had ceased to exist. Springbuck
looked straight up, but there was no sign of the Trailingsword. He was
unsurprised. Gil took the Ace of Swords and let it fall to the cauterized earth.
They made the long hike to their horses, mounted, rode away and never glanced
back. Pale dawn had begun.
The armies had encamped around the base of the hill. Warriors of both sexes had
begun ascending the hill, to bear witness of the Lifetree.
The deCourteneys and the others came down. Andre, guessing Gil's thought,
indicated the Tree and said, "By evening it will achieve full growth. It's
uppermost branches will be in the clouds, its roots deep in the earth."
Springbuck was speaking to Ferrian. "Friend Rider, your timing is harrowing-
fine."
The Horseblooded grinned, adjusting the bandages on his head. "Victory is its
own excuse, as we say on the High Ranges. I came to the Isle of Keys just after
the Mariner fleet set out. Andre, you rule the winds all too well!" He struck
his thigh with his left hand. "For fact, I did, hi haste, neglect to say
something to Gil." He looked to the American. "The ship I took was under two who
said they knew you, said you needn't seek for them yet at, um, 'Fiddler's
Green,' but might find them at the Golden Fluke."
Gil laughed, then noticed Swan watching him. He sobered. "How would you like to
see the Outer HubT
Her face was fond, but unhappy. "Region Blue has been without a High Constable
long enough," she declined. Catching Gabrielle's eye, she added, "And Glyffa,
far too long without a Trustee."
The sorceress returned the appraisal. "Region Blue will have a new High
Constable, in sooth." Swan was startled; Gabrielle finished, "I cannot squander
my best administrator on one area." She saw Gil's frown, and
358
laughed. "No hangdog faces! You may visit, but there is the Reconciliation to
consider." To Springbuck she moved her glance, pretending still she spoke to the
American. "We have much to do, you see, though there will be leisure too."
The Ku-Mor-Mai held her eyes. "One mustn't neglect affairs of state."
Reacher surprised them all, saying, "I, for one, do not answer that plea of
politics."
Katya puzzled, "What now, brother?"
"You are clever, sister, and willful. And as formidable as you have to be." He
eased his injured leg. "Therefore, you have a season in which to do as you like,
be it going with Edward again or returning with me to Freegate. But when that is
done and this leg is sound, I would like you to take the throne, if you will. I
am for the High Ranges."
Van Duyn made a sour face. "The whole Crescent Lands are upside down; don't plan
a vacation yet." He took the Snow Leopardess' hand.
"But much of our plight came of Salama," Andre reminded, "and will lack a
driving force now, though there remains the demon Amon."
"And the Southwastelanders?" Springbuck prodded.
"Their center is failed. They are a factional people; our strong armies, going
north without doing harm, might go unmolested."
Gil seated himself on a rock, where Swan had set herself with a waterskin. He
took a pull on it, the brackish water tasting sweet to him.
"There is work for you too, brother," Gabrielle was telling Andre, "in Veganl
They need all help rebuilding there. What better place to go awhile, until the
Reconciliation, when GlyfEa's call is upon you once more?"
"I'd hoped for Andre's assistance myself," Springbuck interjected. "There are
the Druids." The wizard looked torn.
Van Duyn sat down next to Gil. The younger man passed him the waterskin. "What
are you going to do, Ed?"
"Finish what I started in the Highlands Province; I hate to quit anything like
that. But there's this business of Katya taking the throne. If you want to go
home,
359
you'll probably have to come looking for me in Free-gate."
Swan stared at Gil as Van Duyn wandered off. Her face was soft and warm. To one
side, Springbuck was gesticulating with Gabrielle, Andre and Katya, saying, "We
are the most coherent force in the Crescent Lands. Disorders, rebellion,
lawlessness there may be, but these we can overcome. In time, we might forge
another Unity. What worthier labor is there?"
Swan asked Gil, "You have a plan too, Seeker?'*
He rubbed the dark powderbum tattoo on his stub-bled cheek. "Yeah; I'm gonna
grow a beard." She didn't even smile. "All right, no, I have none, Swan." He
hung his head for a moment, then looked up. "But we have a long ride back, to
talk about it."
She flashed her grin. "A sensible beginning."
Down where the war-drays of Matloo were laagered, the Yalloroon had gathered,
joining hands, to dance and sing in jubilation. They'd seen Salami burn, and
were free. Gil was watching them when Springbuck came over. The Ku-Mor-Mcd, too,
inquired, "What will you do now?"
He shrugged. He hadn't forgotten that the Berserker-gang hadn't come to him when
he'd fought Bey. Had the Lifetree's waters healed that too, the arsenal of the
Rage?
Andre deCourteney had run down to take part in the Yalloroon's dance, dragging
with him Gabrielle, who protested only halfheartedly. The little Yalloroon
giggled at them with delight; the wizard played the button, flapping his arms,
twirling on his toes. The sorceress curtseyed, and moved light-footedly.
Ferrian joined their circle, moving slowly with a modest skip, and Dunstan, who
was roaring his amusement. Gil glanced to where the Lifetree climbed, almost
visibly, in the sun. He stood, took Swan's hand, led the High Constable to her
feet. "I'm going dancing. You?"
360
About the Author
BRIAN DALEY was bora in rural New Jersey in 1947. After an Army hitch and a
stint of odd-jobbing and bumming, he enrolled in college and began writing while
working on his B.A.
The Starfottowers of Coramonde is the author's second novel. He has no permanent
address as yet
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_J