by Andre Norton
that he had for the most part been content to remain docile under his
attendants' commands.
Not, the Terran thought with a grin, that protest would have done him
much good. His comrades had been determined that he should be fully
whole again before resuming command over his troops, and no amount of
impatience on his part would have turned them from that.
By all Time's levels, though, it was good to feel well and ready to take up
his life once more. For a while there, after the second return of the fever,
he had thought no future remained to him but that of an invalid.
He put that fear, which had been bitterly strong in its time, out of his
mind, as well. It was an unpleasant memory, but at least it had failed to
materialize into fact.
He had not even missed ,a great deal of actual fighting. If his blade had
remained long months in its scabbard, so had those of his comrades.
There had been raiding in the three weeks following his wounding, but
then the winter had settled down in its full fury. It had been a bad one, as
the signs had indicated would be the case, with heavy snow and week
upon week of brutally low temperatures. Nothing had moved either on the
slopes or in the lowlands.
The coming of spring ended that enforced truce.
As soon as the Corridor became passable again, the invaders started
pushing materiel south, and the Sapphireholders swept down from their
eyrie to counter them. Murdock had led four of those raids with such
effect that, whatever Zanthor I Yoroc might wish or will to the contrary,
both Confederates and the invader's own warriors knew Firehand was
neither dead nor frightened from his work, and some doubted that he had
ever been stricken down at all.
The war captain broke from his reverie. A springdeer had just come
into the camp, galloping hard.
Perhaps he only imagined it, but he always thought there was a certain
sound in the hoofbeats of a mount whose rider brought word of a potential
target not present at other times, and that elusive note seemed to ring
from these.
Ross did not wait for the courier to draw rein before his cabin, but
crossed that part of the floor separating him from the door in three swift
strides. He threw it open.
A scout, right enough. Marri.
The woman was just dismounting when he reached her.
"You have news?" It was hardly necessary to inquire. The still sharp air
might have brought the red to her cheeks, but the excitement in eye and
expression did not arise out of any such cause.
"I do, Captain. Deermen, a large column of them."
"Pack train?"
She shook her head. "No. They have drays with them, but only enough
to carry supplies for maybe a couple of weeks."
"Going south?"
"They were, and traveling fast."
"You say the column is long?"
"One hundred warriors plus officers."
He pursed his lips. "They could as easily divide, remain in the lowlands
to harry us."
"I doubt that is their intent, Captain. Their composition is strange,
apparently very heavy with officers. That is why I spoke of them separately
from the others."
"Apparently?"
"Cover was not good. We dared not draw too close to them."
Ross glanced at his chief Lieutenant, who was standing beside him
along with the rest of his officers. "Command change for the front
maybe?"
"Possibly," she agreed. "Very possibly. Zanthor must be getting itchy for
victory again. He's known little of it since the first year."
Murdock turned back to the scout. "Were the warriors mercenaries,
Marri, or his own?"
"Condor Hall men to the last, and fine looking even for those from what
we could tell."
He thanked her, then turned to those with him. "Eveleeni's division and
mine ride. Allran, head for the Corridor. I want to be sure nothing's
slipped through if this is just a lure. Korvin, strengthen the passes. It's not
likely, but I can't risk that one of them may be their target. The rest of you,
stay here. Keep yourselves ready to ride if you should receive summons
from any of us, leaving a double guard with the camp. Have couriers ready
to bring word at once if anything else develops."
Allran A Aldar frowned at these orders. "It is a big column. Perhaps you
should bring another division with you."
"I'll play it as it comes. If necessary, I'll call for help, but I can't afford to
leave ourselves open to any smart moves on Zanthor's part. He knows
better than we do that he's nearing the end of his strength. If he's going to
pull his cause out of the fire, he's got to do it now. We'll have to be able to
meet any plot he hatches, or we could lose a lot of ground." For a moment,
his voice turned bleak. "Maybe we could lose the whole lot."
26
THE PARTISANS RODE hard, following the line Marri had told them
any additional couriers would take. So mobile a target, one whose purpose
was unknown, could change its course at any moment.
The enemy column kept to its original path, holding to the center of the
lowlands as far as possible from the flanking mountains, always
maintaining as rapid a pace as possible without exhausting their mounts.
Although gentler than the great peaks themselves, the countryside
through which they traveled was rough enough in its own right and grew
even more so as the lowlands narrowed into the Funnel. Cover was good,
and the partisan leaders were at last able to move in close to their foes.
It was an impressive company by any standards. There was a military
perfection to the warriors' movements not often found in domain-based
units, and they bore themselves and their arms with the quiet assurance of
proven veterans.
There was pride in them, too. These were the men who had made
Zanthor's early conquests, forging for him an empire strong enough to
enable him to maintain the mercenary columns now carrying his war. It
was no fault of theirs that these same hirelings had failed to hold the
momentum they had established.
Murdock's attention fixed on the officers.
His eyes narrowed. Marri had been right. The column was top-heavy
with them.
If they were its commanders, they were its charge as well; they rode in
the center, protected by the warriors all around them, and that lot were no
cowards, whatever their other failings.
The majority of the invading domain's leaders were known to the
partisans and he concentrated on identifying those before him. The men
chosen to carry this mission might well give a clue to its purpose, although
he felt fairly certain now that they were to either change or strengthen the
command structure of the army in the south.
That was a daring move to make when dealing with mercenaries, who
could be volatile in the extreme in the face of any threat to their position
or prerogatives, but it had been done before, sometimes with good result.
As long as contracted payments were made in due time, the Ton of Condor
Hall might well succeed in accomplishing hi
s will.
That thought caused the agent's frown to deepen. Troops so led could
prove far more formidable opponents than Gurnion's commanders were
now expecting to meet.
He stiffened. One caught his gaze, a broad-shouldered man, thick of
neck with very dark, slightly curling hair—he bore his helm in his
hand—and the dark shadow of a beard on his face although the day was
still comparatively young.
Zanthor I Yoroc.
A curse, whispered but bitter, sounded on his left. No word, not so
much as the drawing of a breath, issued from the woman holding the
place at his right.
Ross glanced at her, and the heart chilled within him. Eveleen Riordan
stood perfectly still, more like a marvelous statue than a living being. Her
gaze was fixed on the would-be conqueror, and never had he imagined
that hatred of this intensity could exist in any member of his species, in
any being fashioned by the hand of the Great Creator.
It did not mar her as he knew he had been marred a moment before.
No line of her face was altered by it, yet it burned through her, emanated
from her, terrible beyond all conception in its controlled stillness. If the
will of a Terran could slay, Zanthor of Condor Hall would be crumbling to
ashes in this moment.
Ross gave the signal to withdraw, and the five partisans silently moved
back, away from the rapidly advancing column.
They were not long in reaching their comrades. The news that the
invader Ton was near and within their potential grasp brought a low
growl of mingled rage and exultation from the assembled warriors, but
their commander would allow no move against Zanthor, not yet.
It was Ross's intention to strike his enemies just as they were forming
their evening's camp, when the most men were dismounted and least
prepared for combat and the guards, if out at all, would not be fully settled
into their watching. He had not forgotten the prowess of Condor Hall
soldiers or what it had cost his own command in their last encounter.
It was not just his people that he wanted to spare, either. By coming at
Zanthor's warriors as he intended, more of them could probably be felled
with less-than-fatal strokes than would be the case if they were attacked as
the alert, battle-ready unit the column had revealed itself to be. Murdock
had no more love than did Gurnion I Carlroc for the needless slaughter of
valiant men.
The Sapphirehold partisans timed their arrival carefully so that their
charge could begin at the moment their chief had indicated.
Ross's mouth was a hard line. The attack would not be quite as effective
as he had originally hoped. The Condor Hall commander had not so
settled his force as to render it easy for the taking. His position was high
although well sheltered, readily defensible, and holding the surrounding
area under its view. If the partisans were able to strike as planned and do
so quickly, they should still be able to conquer. If the charge were delayed
or if their presence came somehow to be suspected before it began, they
would be forced to storm the enemy position as if it were a fort, or else to
retreat.
It would be the latter, whatever their eagerness to take Zanthor.
Sapphirehold did not have the troops to squander in costly frontal
assaults. Harrying tactics had served them well through all this campaign
and would serve them here if needs be until they could find a position
from which to attack again in force. With luck, one of the archers might
be able to pick I Yoroc off from ambush even if they were unable to join
open battle.
The war captain turned in his saddle to look upon his own warriors,
studying them so intently for several seconds that they felt his scrutiny
and glanced toward him in both amazement and discomfort.
He had to be certain their hate was in control. If it were not, it could
betray them all.
His head raised. He wronged them. These domain soldiers were no less
than the professionals hired by Gurnion I Carlroc or those manning the
Project at home. Calm was demanded of them now, and this they would
give, whatever their feelings against the ruler of Condor Hall.
His heart was beating hard and fast. The battle ahead of them could be
the ending or the final turning of the war. If they could fell or take
Zanthor…
His comrades would be no less aware than he of what their efforts could
bring, to their domain and island if not to Dominion of Virgin herself.
Scant wonder they stood beside him in this icy, almost stunned stillness.
He drew a deep breath to steady himself and then straightened. The
invaders would be no more vulnerable than they were at this moment.
Almost in slow motion, the Terran raised his battle horn to his lips and
sounded the command to charge.
Ross Murdock had fought many times and in many different ways
during his life but rarely before in a battle that equaled this either in fury
or in the skill and determination, the raw courage, of the participants.
The Condor Hall men, warriors and officers alike, yielded no inch of
ground not soaked red with their own and their enemies' blood, nor did
their efforts lessen when it at last became evident that the partisans would
gain the day.
Ross's skill was heavily tried. It was the officers that he sought out,
knowing their fall was damning not only to their comrades here present
but to the invaders' cause as a whole, and as was the case with his own
command, many of them appeared to have won rank with courage and
ability rather than through mere favor or birth. They did not go down
readily, and not all those falling did so without setting their mark on him
so that his clothing was rent and red-stained in several places by the time
his soldiers began to bring the confrontation to a close.
He ignored the wounds. None was of any significance, and with the
battle-fire on him, he scarcely felt them. Soreness would come later, when
quiet returned to his mind and body. For now, unless they began to stiffen
prematurely and thus slowed his movements, they were of no interest to
him.
Zanthor, too, had felt the bite of his enemies' weapons and bore their
tears even as did his foeman. Like the Terran Captain's, his sword was
brilliantly wielded, brilliantly and with deadly accuracy. None who faced
him stood long against him.
Always, the two commanders sought to join combat, and always, the
press of the fighting kept them apart. At last, however, each found himself
free of opponents and with a clear path open between them.
Murdock set himself to charge, but another rider bore suddenly down
upon the invader, and he drew his doe aside. "For your people," he
whispered. Dread was a knife twisting in his heart, but he knew if he
refused Eveleen Riordan this right, it would stand between them for
whatever remained to either of them of life.
The Ton of Condor Hall saw him pull back and stared at him a moment
in amazement. He well knew that this accursed partisan did not fear to
confront him.
/>
Zanthor saw the one who was to challenge him then and laughed. Did
this sharp-faced slip of a girl actually imagine she could match blades
with him, however adept she was at lurking in shadows?
It was almost a pity, he thought as he spurred his springdeer toward
her. He would have enjoyed breaking her in another way.
Their swords met, slid off one another, and met again.
The man's amusement vanished. EA Riordan was good, very good, even
as her reputation declared her to be, and she fought in the odd fashion of
these Sapphireholders so that his bulk and his longer reach gave him no
advantage over her.
That might alter if he could wear her down, weary her.
It was no use. The wench kept him moving, denying him any chance to
spare himself for later assault.
The contest went on. He himself was tiring, and still he could find no
weakening in her guard, nothing upon which he could capitalize. Her light
blade danced maddeningly before his eyes, seemingly without effort on her
part, certainly without flaw. There appeared to be no pattern upon which
he could fix, nothing he could prepare to meet or counter…
The woman's sword,spun into a small circle, daintily striking aside his
own heavy weapon and darting forward in one liquid motion. Its point
pierced his left eye and the brain behind it.
27
MURDOCK LOOKED UP at the man standing between two of his
partisans. The prisoner was young, approximately the same age Ross had
been when he had joined the Project. He was slight, almost twisted, of
body, but he bore himself proudly, hardly surprising given the officer's
stripe on his battle-stained uniform and the cast of his features, which the
broad bandage encircling his head could not conceal.
Tarlroc I Zanthor. Two other sons of the slain Ton had perished in the
fight, but this one had been felled by a blow to the skull and taken still
breathing.
The partisan leader had been aware of his capture since the battle's
end, but there had been a great deal to be done—arranging the care of the
wounded, sending out patrols and sentries to guard against a
counterattack, starting a systematic search of the Condor Hall camp—and
that had claimed his first attention. Besides, he had wanted to have both
Gordon and Eveleen present at this interview, which would not have been
possible any sooner.
