The Fall of Neskaya

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  The main body of the Hastur force had come forward, engaged with the center and left wing, leaving their flank relatively unguarded.

  Yes! We have them! Exultation washed through every fiber of his body, more intoxicating than wine.

  The Yellow Wolf’s reserve troops surged forward. A noise rose up from them like no other. A thousand battle cries merged into a single roar. The lions which roamed the deserts beyond the Dry Towns might sound like that as they surrounded a gazelle.

  For an instant, Belisar wondered what the Hastur men must be thinking as these fresh troops bore down on them, as they turned to fight, perhaps back-to-back with their brothers, knowing that at last they must fall. Would they curse the King who had led them into ruin? Or would they fight unthinking to the last?

  Rumail had thrown his hood back from his face to scan the sky. His eyes narrowed and Belisar sensed his concentration, seeking to pierce the clouds.

  “There!” Rumail cried, and pointed aloft.

  A graceful V-shape shot into a patch of blue, wheeling, circling downward.

  “What is it? A hawk? There was one earlier. Or kyorebni come to feast on what we leave?”

  “Sentry-bird.” Rumail’s voice was grim.

  No ordinary bird flew above them. Somewhere in the Hastur party, a laranzu or perhaps one of those accursed leronis women had linked telepathically with the bird and could see everything the bird saw.

  Still, what did it matter? Seeing the jaws of the trap close shut about them would not save Rafael’s forces. The Wolf’s plan was unfolding brilliantly. His reserves would do their work and the Hastur men would be forced to retreat or be cut to ribbons. Either way, such a resounding defeat would demoralize the enemy and do as much damage as the loss of territory and fighting men. Belisar tasted victory, honey-sweet.

  He would be magnanimous at the end. It was not necessary to destroy Hastur utterly at this time, only to beat him back so that he was no longer a threat, so that treaties and alliances could be dictated on King Damian’s own terms. Eventually, the kingdom would be absorbed into Greater Ambervale. Then no other Domain would dare challenge them.

  Horns sounded below, perhaps the signal to retreat. Belisar could not be sure, for the pattern was unfamiliar and distorted by the uproar of the battle.

  Sure enough, the Hastur men began falling back. They were good soldiers, for instead of turning and running, they regrouped even as they gave way. From the manner in which they clustered together, he imagined their walking wounded in the center. He admired men with such discipline in the face of certain defeat.

  Back and back the Hastur units crept, blue-and-silver pennants flying. Ambervale swept after them, closing, harrying. Belisar heard more horns, this time his own, giving the brassy signal to charge.

  “The day is ours!” Belisar cried. He thrust his sword aloft. His horse leaped forward, eager enough for both of them. He hauled on the reins and circled back to his position.

  In turning, he glimpsed Rumail’s frown. Let him fret. Not all battles were won by wizardry, although it was good to hold such weapons in reserve.

  As Belisar returned his attention to the fields below, something struck him as subtly odd. For a long instant, he could not put a name to it, then he saw. He had been so filled with the exultation of victory, that he had not noticed how deliberate the Hastur withdrawal had been.

  They did not move like defeated men struggling to keep themselves and their wounded fellows alive. No, they moved too smoothly, in too tight an order. Their movements reminded him, in a bizarre way, of an exotic Dry Towns dancer enticing her patrons, skipping backward, smiling, gesturing for them to follow. . . .

  The Ambervale troops, screaming in triumph, came flooding after their foe, flanks and rear ragged, all attention focused on their prey. They rushed down the open valley between the fog-shrouded hills.

  Rumail stared at the sky once more, at the sentry-bird which was no longer visible in the haze. When he turned to Belisar, urgency twisted his features.

  “Retreat! Call the retreat!”

  “What are you talking about?” Belisar said.

  More horns blared out, shrill and eerie, distorted. Their echoes filled the valley. Belisar’s blood ran cold, hearing it. It took all his self-control not to clap his hands over his ears. If Zandru and all his horned demons had gone hunting on the face of the earth, surely they would sound like this.

  Below, the Hastur forces continued to fall back, even faster now. Ambervale men paused in their attack and looked around, as if searching for the source of the sound.

  Rumail seized Belisar’s forearm in an iron grasp. His breath hissed through his teeth. “Send a rider to The Yellow Wolf. Now, before it is too late.”

  Belisar stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “It is a trap!” Rumail screamed.

  The horns fell silent and in that moment, Belisar realized the old laranzu was right. His men and those of Hastur were no longer engaged; a space had opened up between the two forces. Dust settled, leaving a clear view of the field. The battle cries died to silence.

  Rumail looked up, eyes bleak. Before he could speak, a roaring went up from the hills. The fog blinked into nothingness, as if it had never existed.

  The Ambervale forces were surrounded by an army twice their size, standing on the heights to either side . . . and behind them. Under the cover of the unnatural fog, their retreat had been cut off.

  Those sandal-wearing nine-fathered dung eaters!

  “Do something!” he roared at Rumail.

  “They are too strong,” the older man snapped. “And they are protected by laran. How else do you think they managed to stay hidden from me?”

  On the field below, a rider spurred his mount from The Yellow Wolf’s position toward the cluster of Hastur banners on the far hillside. He carried a white flag. A short time later, another Ambervale rider, or perhaps it was the same, approached Belisar’s party.

  The man’s face was chalky, but he held himself proudly. He slipped from the saddle and lowered himself to one knee. “Your Highness, I bring the Hastur’s terms for our surrender.”

  Belisar fought a spurt of anger. He had not given any word to offer surrender. His father would be furious, no matter what the outcome now, whether it be defeat or the decimation of his fighting troops. Either way meant the loss of territory and the failure of their objective. The only difference would be the cost. The Yellow Wolf was right to seek a way to save his men to fight again, to snatch some particle of remaining strength out of ruin.

  “On your feet, soldier. Let us hear these terms.”

  The terms, although simple, were unexpectedly generous. The men would be free to return to their homes, even retaining their personal weapons, if they swore to never again take up those arms against Hastur. But Belisar himself was to surrender to King Rafael, to be taken back to Thendara.

  “As what? As prisoner? As hostage?” Belisar said. “My father will never stand for this or bargain with this—this rabble!”

  Belisar had never been so aware of his position as his father’s only living son, his heir. Damian had been right to keep him out of the battle itself, but erred in underestimating the Hastur. With Belisar in their hands and at their mercy, the mission would come to a standstill. His entire plan of conquest would fail. Just as he had needed Acosta as a gateway to Hastur, now he needed Hastur as the key to larger unity.

  Belisar called for the Hastur envoy to be brought out and instructed the boy to tell his masters that the Prince required time, four hours at least, to confer with his general and make preparations. Then he dismounted and waited impatiently for The Yellow Wolf to join him. Then he walked apart with Rumail and the general, keeping his voice low.

  “I must not surrender, you know that,” Belisar said. “We cannot let this happen, it’s impossible!”

  “They will not permit us to retreat without it,” The Wolf said gravely.

  Belisar fingered the edge of Rumail’s sleeve. The hooded
robe was full enough to disguise the shape of its wearer. Muffled in its ample folds, he could leave with the other laranzu’in.

  But who would take his place? Could they fool the Hastur generals into thinking some subordinate was really Belisar himself? There must be a way! Quickly, he outlined his idea. The Yellow Wolf shook his head, saying, “They will know it is not you. Your appearance is too well known.”

  “Together we three could cast a glamour on some other man that would resemble your outward appearance,” Rumail said. “He would have to resemble you in size, but that is not difficult. There are many soldiers who are close enough in height and build.”

  “How long could you hold such an illusion?” The Wolf asked. “And would not their own sorcerers suspect such a trick and examine the man closely? Can you truly hide all traces of the disguise from them?”

  “It will not last long outside of our influence,” Rumail admitted, “nor will it pass the close examination of anyone with trained laran.”

  “Hastur’s generals are no fools, and as for his laranzu’in, we have already seen what they can do,” The Yellow Wolf said, rubbing the old scar which slashed across one cheek. “They will suspect . . .”

  “Ah!” Rumail said. “But we will plan for that.”

  Over the next hour, envoys went back and forth, as Hastur offered one hour and Belisar demanded three. The armies held their positions, Hastur on the heights and Ambervale in the valley. Men from both sides attended to the dead and nursed the wounded.

  Rumail and his colleagues from Tramontana went back to the prior night’s camp, where they sequestered themselves in the quartermaster’s tent. Just as Hastur’s final deadline approached, Rumail sent word to Belisar.

  The tent stank of the heat of the day, stale sweat, and the faint tang of wine. In the shadowed center, Belisar saw two men. They bowed to him, but neither spoke. One looked like any other young officer of about his own stature, but the other—it was himself he stared at. The imposter even spoke with his voice, a muttered, “Highness,” as if he were afraid to open his mouth properly.

  No, he thought, moving closer, it was no mirror he looked at, but a blurred copy of himself. The face was right, the bright sunlit hair, the curve of lip and line of jaw, but surely he carried his shoulders straighter and moved with a more assertive stride?

  “And you say this illusion will fool the Hastur and his wizards?” Belisar asked Rumail.

  “Oh, I fully intend it will not. As you can see, this spell is crude, as if hastily wrought.” Rumail closed his hand around his starstone. The features of the counterfeit Belisar wavered like a mirage in a heat wave, and another man stood there, blinking. In the next moment, the illusion was restored. “Anyone who knows you well will detect the difference in a few moments.”

  “Then what—”

  “The Hastur laranzu’in are competent. They will surely unmask this man as an impostor. We will admit our duplicity—your general and I—and reluctantly turn over this second man instead.”

  “But he looks nothing like me!”

  Rumail gave an exasperated sigh. “He looks, to anyone with even a trace of laran, like a man whose true appearance has been disguised with a glamour. And his ‘true appearance’ . . .”

  “Will be mine!” Belisar cried, delighted at the trick.

  “Having discovered one disguise, they will not think to look deeper,” Rumail said. “They may be skilled, but victory will make them arrogant as well.”

  “Uncle, you are indeed a crafty old fox!”

  After the imposter mounted Belisar’s red-gold horse and headed for the Hastur encampment and his formal surrender, Belisar and Rumail remained in the tent. Belisar removed his fine tunic, boots, and sword on its leather belt, and slipped into Rumail’s cloak. Rumail himself put on ordinary clothing, shirt and breeches over worn boots. He looked like any middle-aged camp servant, a physician perhaps, but nothing more. As Belisar finished adjusting the cloth belt, Rumail gestured for him to approach.

  Belisar stared into Rumail’s starstone. Something behind his throat turned icy and shifted. For a long moment, his lungs locked. He seemed to be encased in blue ice.

  “There.” Rumail’s word released him and Belisar could breathe again. “Now you can swear by anything you like, even under truthspell, that you are Beron, a novice matrix mechanic training with us at Ambervale, and no one will be able to gainsay you.”

  During the inspection of the vanquished troops and the taking of their oaths, Belisar kept the hood well down over his face. He tried to stand with his hands folded meekly and remembered to keep his posture stooped. His ears strained for every syllable of the officers’ conversations, particularly the surrender of “Prince Belisar.”

  The ordering of the armies to march out went smoothly. The first impostor was discovered, even as Rumail had foretold, and the second offered and accepted.

  By the time the second exchange was complete, sweat covered Belisar’s sides and his nerves were strained as taut as bowstrings. From the shadows of his hood, he watched The Yellow Wolf’s impassive face as he led the retreat.

  Although Belisar did not particularly like his uncle, the man clearly had his uses. When the Hastur lieutenant asked for his name and Belisar offered the alias, not even a flicker of doubt crossed the man’s face.

  Belisar mounted a mule, by its conformation and temper a pack animal completely unsuitable for riding, and followed Rumail and his laranzu’in, at a respectful distance behind The Yellow Wolf and his senior officers. The mule shook its head from time to time, long ears flapping away the flies. Belisar wondered irritably how long he was going to have to sit on its bony back before he could command a proper horse. He knew better than to draw attention to himself; he must act as he appeared, a very junior laran worker, a person of no special account.

  Rumail rode hunched over, one hand cupped in front of him, the other loosely holding the reins. Suddenly, he straightened in the saddle. His mule jumped, ears flattening as he clapped his feet to its sides. Shouting, he headed straight for The Yellow Wolf.

  Belisar could not see exactly what happened next. There was a flurry of activity in the general’s party and officers spurred their mounts back toward the main force. Trumpets sounded retreat, with the emphasis on the sequence which meant as fast as possible. One of the lieutenants, the earnest young officer who was the special protege of The Yellow Wolf, slid his tall roan mare to a halt before Belisar and jumped from her back.

  “Take the horse, my prince! General’s orders!” he cried, grabbing the mule’s reins.

  Belisar kicked his feet from the mule’s stirrups and landed lightly and gracefully. The hood flew back from his face. “What’s happened?”

  “The second imposter has been discovered. Dom Rumail saw it in his starstone. They know, Highness, they know!”

  Already the foremost men passed them, footmen and archers running, cavalry moving to defend the rear. Rumail had returned to join the other laranzu’in away from the main trail. From his saddlebags, Rumail took out a small metal apparatus, unfolding its segmented wings. The belly of rounded glass glowed poisonous green, but otherwise it was shaped like a bird. A starstone chip glittered where its left eye should be.

  So Rumail actually meant to deploy the accursed things. Belisar knew it was their only hope—his only hope—and yet his stomach kindled with frozen fire.

  Belisar vaulted on the roan mare’s back and dug his heels into her sides, whipping her with the ends of the reins for every last bit of speed.

  28

  Under a sky the color of slate, afternoon sat sullen over the hills surrounding Acosta Castle, Damian Deslucido’s battle headquarters. Black-and-white pennants sagged from their moorings on the walls and the tents of the army encamped on the fields below. Now and again, a fight between two or three soldiers broke the lassitude of the day. No birds sang, although huge black flies sent the picketed horses stamping and biting at one another. Within the castle, a baby cried fitfully.


  Damian Deslucido stood on the battlements, looking out over the far vinyards, and reflected on how easy it had been to ride through them on the way to victory and how unsatisfying that victory had become. The thrill of conquest evaporated in the reality that he now ruled such a vast land that he must sit here, waiting for news, while other men led his armies. So he had sent Belisar on what should have been an easy foray, to snatch and hold a few miles of useless borderland.

  He pushed himself away from the stone parapet. Beginning a few days ago, men had been trickling into camp, some so exhausted they fell unconscious and died. What in Zandru’s seventh frozen hell had gone wrong?

  Rumor swept through Acosta of a resounding defeat in which Prince Belisar had run away to save his cowardly life. Some spoke of the demonic power of the Hastur lord, who used his sorcery to curse men from afar with lingering death. Damian’s own guard caught a man spreading these tales and hanged him naked from the castle gates. After that, such things were spoken only in whispers.

  Damian muttered curses under his breath. This sense of drifting was nothing more than the result of the weather. If only the clouds would gather and thunder break. He would welcome a lightning storm with all its glorious savageness.

  Where was The Yellow Wolf? Where was that worthless sandal-wearing brother of his? And where was Belisar?

  The last Rumail had seen of his nephew was the rump of the roan mare, galloping for all she was worth. Belisar was leaning over her neck, pounding her slatted sides with his heels. Men scattered before him, watching him with eyes pale with consternation. Rumail caught their unvoiced words, Why is our Prince and commander running away? Within moments, Belisar disappeared into the throng of mounted men and foot soldiers.

  Good, Rumail thought. With any luck, and barring the nag breaking a leg, the royal heir should be well clear of the area to be contaminated.

  A moment before Belisar’s departure, Rumail had reined his mule apart from the main body of Ambervale men in their orderly withdrawal. He needed concentration to accomplish his next task, to keep the Hastur scum from harrying the Prince. From his saddlebags, he drew out three mechanical devices, fashioned in the size and shape of small hawks.