by Steven Brust
After some moments, Pel replied, "Makeshift fortifications, defended by some few thousands of men."
"And the banner?"
"I do not recognize it."
"Aerich?"
The Lyorn took the glass, glanced through it, and said, "It is the sigil of the Counts of Southmoor."
"Who would raise that standard?" said Zerika.
"There are rumors," said Aerich, "that an offspring of Rollondar e'Drien survived the Disaster."
"Then that would be Morrolan."
"Very likely," said Aerich.
"Rollondar was always loyal; perhaps his offspring is, as well. In any case, he fights our enemies."
"I should like," said Zerika, "to be certain of his precise loyalties before we approach him, Sethra's remarks notwithstanding."
"I will go and ask," said Piro.
"I will accompany you," said Kytraan.
"That is a good plan," said Khaavren, himself now looking through the touch-it glass. "But, on reflection, I have a better."
"Then let us hear your plan, Captain."
"I propose we join them, for the simple reason that we have no other choice. His battles, yester-day and to-day, with our enemies, are sufficient, I think, to guarantee that we will have some welcome there."
"Can we," asked the Empress, "reach those fortifications before the enemy does?"
"I believe so," said Khaavren, taking the glass again. "But—what is this? There is now another force, a smaller one, directly in our path."
"Smaller? Small enough that we can make our way through them?"
"Perhaps," said Khaavren. "In any case, I should very much like to try. If I am not mistaken, there is someone in that troop I recognize."
"Who?"
Khaavren turned to the Empress, and, behind her, the rest of the small band, and permitted a slow, grim smile to spread over his countenance.
"An old friend," he said.
"Grita?" said Pel.
"You have named her."
"What forces does she have?"
"A mounted escort of perhaps a hundred and fifty."
"Those odds are not impossible," remarked Pel, "if our friend Tazendra can repeat her infernal performance."
"Why," said Tazendra, "I can do it a hundred times, if necessary." (The reader may observe that this estimate had been reduced by a factor of ten; we cannot say precisely why, and will not speculate.)
Khaavren continued looking through the glass.
"They are not moving," he said. "They have positioned themselves as if they knew where we are, and where we are going, and wish to prevent us from reaching it."
"Is it possible they know?" asked Zerika.
Khaavren shrugged. "I cannot imagine how," he said. "But who can say what is impossible?"
"I can," remarked Tazendra. "It is impossible for there to be a spell for which there is no counterspell. Sethra told me this is the case, and I believe she would know."
"But," said Zerika, "how does this affect our present situation?"
"Oh, it does not," said the Dzur. "But Khaavren asked who knew what is impossible, and so—"
"I comprehend," said the Empress.
She turned her attention back to Khaavren, and said, "Well?"
"Well," he said, without removing his eye from the glass, "I had been about to suggest that we charge them, counting on the skill of our friend who knows what is impossible. Only—"
"Yes, only?"
"Only if she repeats her performance exactly, we will find that we have barred our own way with fire, and we might find it problematical to convince our horses to ride through it. They may balk. And do you know, I do not believe I should blame them. Therefore, Tazendra, you must find a spell that will not prevent us from passing through the area now occupied by the enemy."
"I can do so," said Tazendra.
"Very well. But that is not all."
"What else?" said Zerika.
"The circumstances have changed, and we must consider how these changed circumstances affect our plan of action."
"What has changed about the circumstances?"
"The force that flies the banner of the Count of Southmoor—"
"Well?"
"They are now under attack by what appears to be an entire army."
"Yes, that does change the circumstances, doesn't it?" observed Zerika with all the coolness of a Lyorn.
"Yes, we cannot—ah. The enemy attacks."
"Well?"
"They are only committing a small portion of their force. Evidently, they are attempting to discover if a battle is actually required, or whether the defenders will simply yield."
"And the answer?"
"A fight will be required. There is a battle at the walls. Ah, the attacking force is withdrawing. Well, but it was not much of an attack at that."
"Then you think there will be another?"
"I am convinced of it."
"Might we have time to reach the fortifications before the attack begins?"
"It is possible," said Khaavren. "And yet, I cannot recommend such a course. Considering the disparity of forces, the defenders cannot long survive a determined attack. We are better here. We must find a way around this battle, and attempt to reach Dzur Mountain."
"Very well, then, if that is your advice, that is what we will do. When should we move?"
"When the battle is joined in earnest. And that will not be long. They are now moving in force. The Gods! Tens of thousands of them converging on those walls, defended by only a few valiant warriors. It will be frightful slaughter. However, we must—but that is peculiar."
"What is peculiar, Captain?"
But instead of giving an answer, Khaavren continued looking through the glass; and, as he looked, his mouth gradually fell open, which, as science has shown, will happen when the blood is drawn from the face to the liver, as in the case of the sudden onset of a strong emotion, such as surprise.
After a moment, the Empress said, "Captain? What is it?"
It became apparent that all of the blood had, indeed, gone to the captain's liver, because there seemed none at all in his face. When he still failed to answer the Empress (for such reaction cannot truly be considered an answer, when it was details she was after, and not merely the information that he was experiencing great emotion), she cried out, "By the Orb itself! What is going on out there? Can't you see I am dying?"
Khaavren swallowed and removed his eye from the glass. "I beg Your Majesty's pardon. I am not entirely certain as to what is going on."
Pel cleared his throat. They looked at him, and realized that he had his own touch-it glass, which he now offered to the Empress with a bow. "I believe," he said, "that I may recognize what is happening."
"Well? What is it?" said Khaavren and Zerika.
"Necromancy."
"Necromancy?" said Empress, frowning.
"The bodies of those who were killed in the first attack are being used as defenders, and, as more of them are killed, they, too, are re-animated to fight against their late comrades. It is not pretty, but it seems to be effective."
Khaavren returned the glass to his eye, even as Zerika said, "Impossible."
"Does Your Majesty truly hold this opinion?"
"Well, then, unlikely. Who could have such skill in that grey art?"
"As to that," said the Yendi, "I know of no one. But I believe, nevertheless, that that is what is taking place."
The frustration of those who had no glass can, we believe, be readily enough imagined. Each pushed forward in order to see as clearly as possible with naked eye and hoped, though no one asked, that one of the glasses would become available. Indeed, in their thirst for a better view of the remarkable sight of which they had heard, they would very possibly have continued forward into the presence of the very enemy force which stood in their path. They were saved from this, very likely, catastrophic event by Aerich, who, as always, kept his composure, and remarked, "If we wish to bring on an engagement, perhaps we ought
to consider doing so with something like a plan."
Khaavren lowered the glass, looked up, and frowned. "Come now," he snapped. "Enough of this. Everyone remain behind these shrubs, and stay out of the path."
Zerika, without a word, handed the glass back to Pel, after which she calmly looked at Khaavren.
"In my opinion," said the captain, "we ought to do exactly what the good Aerich suggests."
"Attack?" said the Empress.
"Why not?"
"I can think of no reason."
Khaavren nodded. "Form up, all of you. We will charge. My dear Tazendra, are you prepared with more of your wizardry?"
"Oh, certainly. No preparation is required, I shall simply do it when you wish."
"Very good," said Khaavren. "With living corpses behind them, and the fires of creation before them, well, I believe we might be able to reach our objective."
"Our objective?" said the Empress. "But, what is our objective? Are we again back to attempting to the fortifications?"
"I think so. I have looked around, and there are no small number of the enemy around us. I fear we will not reach Dzur Mountain as matters now stand. Moreover, with the necromancy I see before us, and the spirited defense, I think that will be the best course."
"Well, I do not object, Captain, only—"
"Yes, Majesty?"
"I hope that, once we begin our charge for those fortifications we see yonder, you will not, once again, change your mind."
"Your Majesty, I hope I will not have cause to do so. Tazendra, are you ready?"
"You wish, then, the same spell, but without the fire?"
"Precisely, my love. The same spell without the fire. You perceive, we shall be riding through them, and it would be an embarrassment to me if we were to be burned in flames of our own creation."
"Yes, yes. I understand completely," said Tazendra.
"I hope so," said Khaavren.
The Empress looked over the troop: Khaavren, Aerich, Pel, and Tazendra; Röaana, Ibronka, Piro, and Kytraan; Grassfog, Iatha, Ritt, and Belly; and Clari, Mica, and Lar—not to mention the Empress herself. Zerika closed her eyes, and appeared to be concentrating for some few moments, after which she opened her eyes and said, "The Enchantress agrees. And, moreover, she says that what we observed is nothing less than the truth—the Lords of Judgment have sent the Enchantress a demon who is able to raise the dead, and Sethra has sent her to Southmoor."
"A demon," said Aerich, frowning.
Zerika glanced sharply at the Lyorn. "Yes. A demon. And a Necromancer. This is what we have to work with. Those are the tools given us by the Lords of Judgment with which to defend and reinstate the Empire. Have you anything to say to this, my lord?"
Aerich bowed his head. "Not in the least, Your Majesty."
Piro, for his part (for we do not wish the reader to completely lose sight of he for whom this history is named), watched this interaction with something like awe, and was very glad that he was not positioned directly between these giants—one of whom was his old friend, and the other of whom was an old friend of his father.
It was, we should add, one of those moments for the young Viscount when his view of the world changed in a small but significant way: it was driven in on him, yet again, that his friend truly was the Empress, and these feelings, as the reader can well imagine, involved elements of pride, as well as a certain sadness.
The Empress, for her part, nodded to Aerich. "Very well." She turned to the captain. "Lead us, then. We will attempt to join with this count and his necromantic demon, and may the Lords of Judgment watch over us."
Pel chuckled and gestured toward the battle. "It seems they have done so hitherto."
"Come then," said Khaavren. "Let us form up. This will not be easy. And remember, at all costs, we must protect the Empress."
Zerika began, "As to that—" but Khaavren interrupted her with a glance that reminded her that she was not simply Zerika, but she, herself, embodied the future of the Empire. She therefore bit back, if the reader will permit such an expression, the rest of what she had been going to say, and simply nodded.
"Pel, take Piro and Kytraan and guard the rear."
"Very well."
"Aerich, you on the right with Röaana and Ibronka. Grassfog, you and your band on the left. Tazendra, remain beside me."
"And me, Captain?" said the Empress.
"If Your Majesty will condescend to remain behind well, it will permit me to concentrate on what must be done."
Zerika pressed her lips together, but said, "Very well. I trust that, if I am attacked, you will permit me to defend myself."
Khaavren bowed. "I would even encourage Your Majesty to do so as energetically as possible. Now, if we are ready, let us mount up, and prepare to charge."
Tazendra smiled. "And a fine charge it will be."
"Well," said Khaavren, shrugging.
He raised his hand, and something like twelve or thirteen swords were drawn in one motion from as many scabbards—which is to say nothing of a certain iron cook-pot, and a bar-stool made of good wood, that were now held at the ready.
Very soon the horses were in motion. Khaavren glanced to his left and right, and said, "At a walk, my loves. Do not get ahead of me."
In another moment; he said, "Let us trot," and did so, still making sure that no one was ahead of him. And then, "Are you ready, my dear Tazendra?"
"Yes, indeed, my good Captain. Only—"
"Yes?"
"Well, I had not realized how difficult it would be to hold my sword in one hand, my staff in another, and then attempt to find a means of holding these reins so that I may instruct my good horse as to its duties. It is a bother."
"Can you hold the reins in your teeth?"
"In my teeth? But then, how could I talk?"
"Well, it seems evident you must give up something, and I do not imagine you would wish to sheath your sword."
"No, that is true, I do not care to do that. Very well, in my teeth."
"But first, my dear, tell me if you are ready with your spell."
Tazendra made a grunting sound from around the reins, which Khaavren took as a yes. For his part, he then stood up in the stirrups for a moment and fixed his eye upon the enemy—who could now see them very well indeed and were scrambling to prepare their weapons to meet the attack.
"Charge!" cried Khaavren.
"Bother," said Tazendra. "I've lost the reins."
"Well," said Khaavren. "Can you still cast your spell?"
"Oh, certainly."
"Well then, do so."
"What, now?"
"This very instant, if you please."
"Very well, then."
Tazendra cast her spell with considerable success—whatever one might say of Tazendra, there is no question that she had, under the tutelage of Sethra Lavode, achieved no small skill as a wizard. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that Tazendra Lavode was the first of the great wizards who emerged after the Interregnum, and many who today stride the summits of skill ought to recall that it was this Dzurlord, all but unknown, who, with the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain as her guide, first found the path up the mountain.
But the reader, we are sure, does not wish to delay in learning the exact results of her spell, wherefore the author will indulge this impatience by explaining precisely what happened with sufficient detail to satisfy the most curious.
There was a crackling, as before, followed by several very loud claps of thunder—indeed, in those days, when sorcery on the battlefield was far from common, the sound itself would have been sufficient to have, at the very least, distracted anyone who did not have nerves of iron. All of which is to say nothing of the effect on the poor horses, an effect we are assured the reader may easily imagine.
But there was, the reader may be certain, considerably more to our Dzurlord's spell than loud sounds—there were several simultaneous flashes of light, each stemming from a short-lived whirling ball, giving the appearance of certain cel
ebratory spells which are still employed on various holy days with which we are certain the reader is familiar. Each flash of light that struck one of the enemy laid him out, either dead, or, at the very least, hurt and insensible. As to the number of the enemy actually harmed, it was not great—perhaps ten or eleven. But the nature of the attack was so unexpected, and the onslaught so sudden, that Khaavren and his band were past them before they were aware. Indeed, so quickly were they past that there was no opportunity on either side for a clash of arms. All that happened was that Pel tipped his hat as he passed Grita, who was on her back after being thrown from her horse, and he said, "Another time, madam." For her part, Grita once again declined to test her sorcerous or wizardly abilities against those of Tazendra, although, with the power of the Orb now available to the Dzurlord, this was more understandable.
And then they were gone, riding as fast as they could drive their horses up the road toward where Morrolan was conducting his battle.
These events, we should add, had not gone unobserved from within the fortifications.
"My dear Teldra," remarked Morrolan, handing her the touch-it glass and pointing. "What do you make of that?"
"It seems to be sorcery," said the Issola after a moment. "Though I hardly qualify as an expert. But, after all, with the Orb having returned, we ought to have expected sorcery to make its appearance."
"Oh, I do not dispute that, only—"
"Yes, my lord?"
"Well, is it appearing against us, or on our behalf? You perceive, this is a matter of some concern to me. I had based my plans on the notion that, while we had access to certain magical abilities, our friends would be denied these resources."
"Yes, I understand that, my lord. Well, do you know, it would almost seem as if it were being used by a small band that seems determined to approach us."
"That is also my opinion. And, moreover, it seems this band has used sorcery in order to break through a force of our enemy, which inclines me to think they are friendly toward us."
"Yes, that is possible."
"And yet—"
"Yes, my lord? And yet?"
"I wonder if it might not be a ruse."
"That is possible, my lord. But, though I do not have a military mind, I do wonder why an enemy who outnumbers us by such a degree should think it necessary to use a ruse to bring a small band within our walls. It seems probable that, should they wish to bring an enemy within these walls, they need only continue as they are, and exercise a little patience."
