by Ian Irvine
Later, when the wind had died down, Llian forced the door open and wedged it, allowing a flood out along the hall and down the staircase. He went back to his perch under the bed, where Karan and he clung to each other for the remainder of the night.
By the morning the worst of the typhoon was over though it was still raining heavily. Llian’s clothes had been sucked out of his pack, but Karan’s had survived. Her ceiling was intact, though sagging badly.
Wearing a pair of her baggy trousers he went downstairs. The innkeeper was already cleaning up, moving food and furniture into the section of the inn that still had a roof.
“Well, we’ve survived another one,” he said cheerfully, putting down a chair and beginning to crack eggs two at a time with his three-fingered hand. “What can we get you for breakfast?”
Llian was amazed at his good cheer. “The place is in ruins,” he said.
“Oh, this happens! Nothing we can do about it. We’ll have a new roof on in a week. The stove is going, there’s ham and eggs and onions—and plenty of bread left over from yesterday. Sing out your order.”
As he ate his breakfast, Llian sweated over the events of the night. Was he being controlled, witting or not, doing Rulke’s bidding? Judging by the looks she was giving him from across the table, Karan was worried about the same things.
A few days after the storm a boat limped into port, a tramp that traded up and down the coast of Faranda. Its captain was glad of a hire to the Foshorn and beyond, so much damage had the typhoon done her. By this time Selial was just a collection of bones surmounted by a cadaverous head and white hair like straw, and so frail that she could barely walk.
As soon as the necessary repairs were done they took ship. They had good weather and reached Tikkadel in a few days. There the Aachim bade the captain wait for a week, with half-payment and offers of gold too good to refuse, then headed out into the sandhills not far from the place where they and Llian had crossed on their way to Katazza last winter.
It was a stinking day, hot and humid, and Selial in her litter had to be covered with a wetted canopy, though she was still uncomfortable and the sandflies were a continual torment.
They headed directly around the coast, walking well into the night under a waxing moon, and in a few days more stood before the astonishing chasm of the Hornrace, the black cliffs falling sheer for five hundred spans, surely the greatest gulf in all the worlds. Two stepped black pillars, almost as tall as the Great Tower of Katazza, were all that remained of the Rainbow Bridge that once spanned the strait, linking Faranda with the continent of Lauralin. They stood like sentinels in the mist belching up from the flood. Far below, the waters of two seas raced down this mighty flume, an unimaginable torrent, to cascade over the Trihorn, a waterfall split by three peaks. Down, down and down the deluge poured, cutting through rock like cheese, another thousand spans and more before flooding into the vast salt lake below.
The Trihorn Falls were the greatest on Santhenar, or on the Three Worlds for that matter, but the Dry Sea was master. The lake was a mighty lake, yet just a pond compared to the Dry Sea. Its thirst could never be quenched.
They set Selial’s litter down next to the left-hand pillar. She reached up a claw to Malien, who lifted her to unsteady feet. Selial traced the salt-fretted carvings on the stone with her fingertips. Her eyes were closed. She stood in serene attention, as if the pillar sang the Tale of the Rainbow Bridge to her. The ranks of the Aachim, and Karan and Llian, waited silently behind her.
Finally her communion was done. “There is another Great Tale for you here, chronicler, if only you could make the stones speak. I promised to tell it to you but I cannot stay to bring it forth. Alas, it will be lost forever.”
Selial lurched her way to the very edge of the gulf and swayed there. Malien gripped her elbow tightly.
“Never fear,” Selial chuckled, a rusty sound. “I will not jump. This place is sacred to me.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “Karan child,” she said over her shoulder, “come! You too, chronicler.”
They edged up to the brink, hand in hand. “Give me your hands,” Selial wheezed. “I will show you a sight as has not been seen for two thousand years.”
Karan took one of Selial’s hands, Llian the other. “Look out over the chasm,” Selial whispered, raising their hands high for a moment.
They looked, and a great whirling cloud of spray burst out of the Hornrace, obscuring everything but the two silent pillars. Then slowly out of the spray grew a glorious arch, a bridge suspended in the air like gossamer. An Aachim structure, magnificently irregular like a cobweb, and beautiful as dew on a cobweb too.
The sun came out and its golden illumination glided along the bridge from one end to the other, touching it with the colors of the rainbow like sun on a cobweb. Then the spray fell back into the chasm, making a rainbow there that arched from one end of the ghost bridge to the other, a symbol of hope out of darkness. It was the most beautiful sight that Llian had ever seen.
“Put that in your tale, chronicler,” said Selial. She looked ageless, seer-like, the lines and droop of her face quite erased. “It will never be seen again on Santhenar.”
They watched, gripping Selial’s hands. The Rainbow Bridge lingered for a few minutes more then slowly began to fade. Suddenly another great burst of spray roared up from the Hornrace, and as it fell back it washed the bridge away like water running down a blackboard. Soon it was all gone, just the black pillars standing up out of the mist.
The hand that he held was cold. Llian looked down at Selial and saw her eyes staring sightlessly into the chasm. She was still standing, but Selial was dead. Llian wiped tears from his eyes.
The Aachim cut out living rock between the two pillars, laid Selial inside and formed the rock back into an arch over her. All night they kept vigil. Then, at the first blush of dawn, each of the Aachim spoke a threnody for her, speeding her off on her long journey into the unknown. Even Tensor, held up on either side, gave her his blessing. Malien spoke last of all. As the sun rose they departed and never came there again.
PART TWO
22
* * *
NEMESIS
Weeks went by while Maigraith studied the art of command under the best tutors the empire could provide. It was the hardest work that she had ever done, because it went against all her upbringing and training. Submission to Faelamor’s will had been the last lesson every time. But Maigraith was not afraid of hard work; she threw herself into it body and soul. It was good to have a goal even if her progress toward it was imperceptible. And later, when she was forced to command for the first time, she found that, after all, it was a skill that she could learn, if not master. One that might transform her life if she spent long enough at it.
Spring passed into summer. She learned to work with Vanhe, though there was always tension between them. He was afraid that she would become uncontrollable, and she, that he just pulled her strings. But so far neither had challenged the other. The Ghâshâd, mortified by their earlier failure, had made several attempts to abduct her, though each was foiled by Vanhe’s ever-watchful guard.
Slowly, after fierce fighting on the perimeters of Thurkad and other places, Vanhe’s armies gained the upper hand. The rebellious regiments were overcome; four of the five armies once more did their duty. Maigraith took no part in this, except as a figurehead. It was soldier’s work. Yet, strangely, the morale of the troops was as high as it had ever been. Though mostly men, they took to her as they never had to Yggur. They knew she cared.
One day she was studying Yggur’s journals, trying to learn something of his strategies and his plans for dealing with the Ghâshâd, when a courier appeared in the doorway. Maigraith looked up. She had come to dread the day’s couriers and the night’s spies.
One part of the realm was out of control—Bannador! Rather, the Ghâshâd’s control had been broken everywhere else, but for some reason they made a stand over this poor and insignificant country. Why was it so important to t
hem? Was it because it was closest to their lair, Shazmak? That question she had not been able to answer. The Ghâshâd were seldom captured, and when they were, nothing useful could be extracted from them. Whatever the reason, Yggur’s Second Army in Bannador had been totally subverted. She had to act; better sooner than later.
Maigraith felt more guilty about the suffering of Bannador than about anything she had ever held responsibility for. Of all the countries Yggur had occupied it was the least culpable—it held to its own business and never troubled its neighbors. Its misery came directly from her stealing of the Mirror. And yet if she made war there, thousands would die and the country would be ruined, even if she won. The burden of leadership lay heavily on her.
She beckoned the courier forward. He was a tall, handsome man with yellow hair and a week’s growth of yellow stubble, soot-stained like his uniform. A capable young man, she had been told, who knew Bannador well. He had a smiling mouth but he did not smile in her presence. Rumor of her was dour and he wanted only to answer her questions and escape from under her gaze as quickly as possible.
“I am Dilman, lar,” he said, using the honorific rather than her name. “I carry dispatches from Captain Trounse in Bannador.” Saluting her, he held out the bundle of dispatches.
Maigraith did not open it. “What news from Bannador, Dilman?”
He threw back his shoulders, put on a rigid voice. “It is bad, lar! The Second Army fell on our brigade three days ago. We took heavy casualties. They now hold most of the lowlands of Bannador and threaten us in the east and the south.”
“So, it is come to open conflict?”
“Yes! They wage bloody war on us and take no prisoners.”
“And what is the condition of Bannador?”
“My country suffers cruelly, lar.”
“How so?”
“The lowlands have been razed from Tuldis to Varp.” He indicated the area on a map. “Most of the productive land of Bannador has been destroyed. They burned every crop, every home and shed, every haystack and hedge. Every beast was slaughtered or driven off. The country is a wasteland. Fifty thousand people walk the roads; children are starving.”
Maigraith was shocked. Having suffered so much when she was young, she could not bear to see children mistreated. “And the highlands?”
“Not so bad—that country is very rugged.”
“Why would they do this?”
“I don’t know, lar,” he added plaintively, for the first time showing the man inside the soldier. “My country does not even have an army.”
“Where are they stationed now?”
“Here, at Casyme.” He indicated the place on a map.
It was not far from Gothryme. “Why there? Does this place have any strategic importance, Vanhe?”
“None whatsoever! It’s not even a particularly good place to defend. Yet they provoke us constantly. As if they want us to attack.”
Maigraith felt a prickle of unease, but not being used to following her intuition, she ignored it. “Do you know Karan Fyrn of Gothryme, Dilman?”
“She is mentioned in tales about the Mirror, lar, and I know her to be your friend. I’ve never been to Gothryme.”
“Thank you, Dilman. Take food and rest; I may call on you again.”
He saluted and withdrew. Maigraith read the dispatches.
“This thorn must be cut out,” she said to Vanhe.
“Or starved out! I am minded to blockade them until the spring. A Bannador winter will test their appetite for rebellion.”
“And what about the people of Bannador?” Maigraith asked coolly.
“Many would starve,” he said, “but that is the cost of war.”
“Easy for you to say, since you trade in it. Bannador has done nothing to deserve this war.”
Vanhe reacted as if she had blasphemed. “You let personal feelings overcome your judgment. We could lose a whole army there. Our job is to win the war.”
“Your job!” she snapped. “To risk an army for so little is folly! The Ghâshâd are not cowed. Our so-called victories have just been strategic retreats by them, but they will be back with a vengeance if we stumble.”
“Well, you put me here,” said Maigraith coldly. “Do you now withdraw my commission?”
“I appointed you to give us a leader to rally to, not to command my armies.”
“I gained a different impression from your earlier arguments,” she said in a chilly voice. “Surely my performance has given me legitimacy.”
“But not authority! You are no general, Maigraith, to lead an army to war.”
“Neither are you, Marshal Vanhe.” She emphasized his lowly rank.
He flushed. “I did not ask for this command,” he said.
“Neither did I, if you recall!”
“Do you challenge me?”
“You forced me to learn the arts of war and command. I saved Thurkad from defeat—saved your life! Your strategy is wrong, therefore I propose my own. Do you challenge me?”
Maigraith could not read the blank face of the old soldier, but she did not need to. Just the way he stood, the muscles corded in his neck, showed the struggle he was having with himself. He had given her a form of authority and it was scarcely in him to disobey. But on the other hand, marching to war against the Second Army in Bannador was folly. She knew it as well as he did. Good soldier that he was, every one of his troops was important to him.
“You have two choices,” she said softly. “Get rid of me and lead yourself, or follow me. I am immoveable.”
Now the struggle showed. His square jaw was knotted; she could hear the grinding of his teeth.
She pressed him harder. “Can you lead? Do you know where to lead us?
“No and no,” said Vanhe with a sigh. “There is… some merit in your plan, though it would be a terror to put into action. No, Maigraith, I do not challenge you, for I know I can do no better. If you order it I will lead an onslaught on the very gates of the void. But not without you knowing exactly what the consequences are likely to be.”
“Very well,” said Maigraith. “I want to be briefed tonight on options for war in Bannador. I want no drawn-out campaign. Give me bold plans; swift strikes; a strategy for quick victory. And all in total secrecy.”
“It will be done,” said Vanhe, bowing lower than usual.
The following night all roads out of Thurkad were sealed, all bridges guarded and every ford watched, to make sure that the word did not get out. The majority of the First Army moved out before dawn and proceeded, some fourteen thousand troops, by forced marches down the Feddil Road to Bannador, holding all bridges and fords as they went.
Dilman had spoken truly. Bannador was a ruined land. It made Maigraith sick to see it. Why? she kept asking. Why would they do this? What could they hope to gain? On the sixth night Maigraith rode ahead with Vanhe and three of his lieutenants. The following day they were to camp the best part of a league from the Second Army, whose encampment was in a long valley protected by a knife-edged range of slate. Dilman was their guide. He led them up the ridge through a patch of burnt forest to a lookout, where they waited for the dawn.
The sun sprang up, a huge globe, blood-red through the smoke that hung everywhere in the skies of Bannador. It was going to be another scorching day.
“Is this the whole of the Second Army?” asked Maigraith, looking down at the enemy camp, which occupied the lower part of the valley, near the river. Her face was soot-stained. There was ash in her hair.
“No, but it’s the best part of it.”
“How far are we from Gothryme?”
“Less than a day’s march that way.” He pointed north, where a rugged arm of the mountains projected east.
So close. Was there a reason for it? “Well, we’ll attack at four in the morning, over the ridge.”
“No!” cried Vanhe beside her. “Look at their defenses—trenches, palisades, pits and traps. We’ll never get through in the dark. And if we do, we’ll spend the nigh
t killing each other.”
“We’d never get through in daylight,” said Maigraith. “Word will have reached them by then. Our only chance is to come up over the ridge here, split into two and head down there and there. We’ll attack up the road from both sides at once, just before dawn.”
“Up the road! They’ll cut us down in our ranks.”
“I’ll make a deception to get us to the gates undetected,” she said with more confidence than she felt. Such a massive working would have been difficult even if they were not going against the Ghâshâd. “They won’t expect that. Look how slack the guards on the gate are.” She passed him the field glasses.
“Too slack for guards under the command of the Ghâshâd! Anyway, our troops won’t reach camp until this afternoon. You can’t do forced marches, push them up over the mountain in the dark and expect them to fight the next day.”
“We have the advantage, but it can’t last. Surprise is our only chance. Let it be done!”
“I will carry out your orders,” Vanhe said in a dead voice. “So what are you doing about the Gâshâd? I’ve heard it said that they can sense their enemies.”
“I’m working on that too,” said Maigraith.
Once they had the layout of the camp fixed in their minds Vanhe and his lieutenants went back to make ready for war. Maigraith, Dilman and her guard remained where they were. Sweat made tracks down her sooty face. One failure and the First Army would be destroyed. And if she succeeded, what would be the fate of the rebels? Why had the Ghâshâd wrought such havoc anyway? What was the point of this rebellion, here of all places? That she could not understand.
But her most crucial problem was how to nullify the Ghâshâd. Some of them were sensitive, together if not separately. If they sensed her the battle plan could not succeed.
She spent all morning staring down at the camp, but whatever the enemy were doing she was blind to it. If only I had a sensitive, she thought unguardedly, but that only reminded her how badly she had treated Karan.
