The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

Another scene displayed brown waters swirling around piles of timbers smashed against riverbank, a bank where grasses and trees had been pressed flat or swept away, where long patches of red earth had crumbled into the waters. Carcasses of animals, scattered human bodies, tree limbs, and debris littered the riverbanks.

  Another vista showed rows upon rows of roofless and collapsed houses below a bluff. Behind the collapsed houses was a heap of wet earth, from the edge of which protruded walls and timbers. The wet earth had peeled away from the bluff.

  “Dumaria, I think,” murmured Jecks. “The lower part is on the river.”

  River water piled up behind and flowed through and over and around a long heap of stone blocks that had once been a bridge.

  The pool showed another town, a small one, where nothing remained but foundation walls and a sea of mud, and figures toiling through the mud, searching for bodies or belongings or both.

  Anna’s eyes burned and her stomach twisted. She’d wanted to avoid that kind of destruction, and even her attempts at that had created a disaster, another kind, but a disaster, possibly even a greater disaster than killing thousands of armsmen. Which you will now have to do . . . anyway. . . .

  Another score of scenes followed before she choked out the release spell. She had to sing it twice, because she couldn’t hold the words the first time.

  “I never . . . planned . . . for that,” she finally said after lowering the lutar and setting it on the writing table.

  “We know,” Jecks answered, “but Lord Ehara and the Sea-Priests do not.”

  “Surely, Lord Ehara will request the Sturinnese leave,” murmured Hanfor.

  “Never,” said Jecks flatly. “Now . . . now he cannot give in. His own people will destroy him unless he attacks us. Within days, he will march on Defalk.”

  “He will march after such destruction?”

  “You speak as an arms commander. You speak as one who sees the power a sorceress wields.” Jecks shook his head. “The people and the holders of Dumar will not care. They have suffered great injury, and, unless Lord Ehara redresses that injury, they will turn on him. He has no choice.”

  “He is a fool.”

  “Perhaps,” Jecks admitted, “but he will be a live fool. At worst, he will live long enough to attack.”

  Anna winced. “Hanfor, you’d better get the men ready to ride. We’ll try to reach the road below Stromwer before Ehara’s lancers do.”

  “He will not hurry that quickly,” Jecks said with a bitter smile. “He will have to re-form his armsmen, and find a way across the Falche. You left no bridges and no fords, I wager, Lady Anna.”

  Anna wasn’t about to take that bet. She nodded. “I need to think.”

  “Of course.” Jecks bowed.

  So did Hanfor.

  After the two had left, Anna lifted the lutar again. The first spellsong was to seek her enemies of power, and she got the same images as always—the young man in brown with the hatred-filled eyes, the blonde seer of Nordwei, and the tall Sea-Priest. Still . . . neither Menares nor Dythya had discovered who or where the young sorcerer might be, and her spells had revealed nothing more.

  As for the Sea-Priest, this time he was with Ehara, and the two were on horseback, apparently leading a column of armsmen.

  Anna shook her head and released the spell. She redrafted the danger spell and sang it. The reflecting pool gave her the image of the Sea-Priest with Ehara. Another spell, and she was able to determine that they were somewhere between Narial and Dumaria—at least they were beside the Falche, and she would have guessed they were south of Dumaria.

  “Good. . . .” If so, that gave her some time. Not a lot, but some.

  She walked to the window, and wiped her sweating forehead.

  91

  Anna turned and glanced back along the road to the north. Under the hot late-morning sun, the column of armsmen seemed to stretch a dek behind her, with the wagons and their mounted escort out of sight behind the low rolling hills. The threescore armsmen from Birfels and yet another two score from Gylaron had boosted her force to over four hundred. That had meant the need for more supplies—and wagons, and spare mounts.

  The sorceress looked ahead at the Sudbergs rising behind the steeper southern hills ahead. Already, the green bean fields of Lerona were giving way to meadows and woodlots and an occasional vineyard, and the soil was turning back into a redder clay. Peasants and farmers toiled in the fields, not approaching the armsmen, but not bolting for cover, either. That was an improvement from the last ride to Stromwer.

  She blotted her forehead before she took out the third water bottle and drank. After four days on the road, they still had another two before they reached the rugged cliffs of Stromwer.

  She had begun to understand why so many of the English kings had always seemed to be somewhere other than London—and she didn’t like how she was finding it out. There was always some problem that no one else could handle, and it took forever to get anywhere by horse, even on comparatively dry roads.

  Slowly, she replaced the water bottle, looking to her right as Jecks cleared his throat.

  “Have you decided on the tariffs for the rivermen?” he asked.

  “I can’t give them relief without opening the door to everyone who has problems, and then there won’t be any money left to defend Defalk.” She wanted to shake her head. Everybody wanted something. The rivermen wanted relief. Lord Tybel wanted to take over his grandchildren’s lands, and wanted Anna’s approval for the stunt. The Rider of Heinene wanted coins to buy arms and more horses to defend the grasslands against the raiders from the High Grasslands across the border in Neserea. Hanfor and Himar wanted more coins to hire and train more armsmen. Hadrenn needed coins to hold off Bertmynn . . . and so it went.

  “Lady Anna?” Jecks’ voice was so deferential that she knew he was going to ask something even more disturbing.

  “Yes.” She turned in the saddle.

  “You said that the Sea-Priest is a wizard, Lady Anna?”

  “The one who’s always with Lord Ehara is.”

  “He could enchant arrows and crossbow bolts, then?”

  “I’m sure he could.”

  “You can sense danger only in the mirror?” Jecks was definitely being delicate.

  “You’re afraid he’ll come up with some magical surprise when I’m preoccupied?”

  “Could that not happen?”

  Jecks was right, but it was one of the last things Anna wanted to think about. She was hot and sweaty, and mud had spattered everything she wore. At least there wasn’t any dust but the riding was slower, and the wagons had lagged behind the main body more than a glass or two every day. Finding halfway dry areas to camp had been a problem as well, especially the first two nights. The third night had been at Lerona, where Gylaron had been pleased to see them, and even more pleased, Anna suspected, to see them leave. He had been gracious enough to send an additional two score of his own armsmen, to be paid by the Regency, although Anna had not made it clear she was not officially requesting levies. She would need those later, if she had to face both Konsstin and Bertmynn at the same time.

  “I suppose it could,” she admitted.

  Jecks waited for her to draw the inevitable conclusion.

  “And you think I should come up with some sorcerous answer?” Anna finally asked.

  “I am not a sorcerer. We have no others here,” Jecks answered with a smile.

  “What kind of sorcery did you have in mind, my good Lord Jecks?” asked Anna with exaggerated politeness.

  “Something which would protect you whether you were immediately aware of it or not.”

  “I don’t think pure enchantment would work. I could perhaps strengthen this breastplate.”

  “That would only protect your chest.”

  Anna nodded. “So now I should carry a shield? How could I use the lutar?”

  Jecks frowned. “That would be difficult.”

  “Extremely.”

  He smiled. �
��Perhaps you should not carry it at all.”

  “A shield I didn’t carry? What use would that be?”

  “A small round shield. It could rest like an Ebran shield—forward of your knee, in a holder with an open top. You could enchant it so that it would fly up if anything threatened you.”

  “That would take some spell,” Anna said with a laugh.

  “You are a mighty sorceress.”

  “Look where that’s gotten me—on a muddy road on the way to a battle I wanted to avoid.”

  “As you wish, lady.”

  Anna wanted to sigh. Jecks might be white-haired, but sometimes he was worse than a little boy. Then, sometimes all men were. And women aren’t like little girls at times? She shook her head. “Let me think about it. Maybe . . . maybe, I can think up something.”

  “That is all I ask.”

  She wanted to sigh again, but she forced a smile. “I hope the road dries more as we get toward Stromwer.”

  “It will be damp until the other side of the crests of the Sudbergs,” predicted Jecks.

  Great. Mud and a semi-patronizing yet concerned lord.

  Anna patted Farinelli.

  92

  NORTHEAST OF

  DUMARIA, DUMAR

  The shadow of a puffy white cloud passes over the road, and sunlight pours down on the long column once more. In the middle of the vanguard ride Ehara and jerRestin. The white uniform of the Sea-Priest appears grayish from the road dust.

  “You say we need to reach the Vale of Cuetayl a day before she does.” Ehara glances toward the hills that, more than a dozen deks ahead, rise out of the flat plains. Behind the hills are the spired peaks of the Sudbergs, hazy in the distance and heat.

  “At least a day. Two days would be better,” answers jerRestin, shifting his weight in the saddle once more. “We need some time to set up the attack. The terrain there will be suitable.”

  “Have you been there?” Ehara touches the dark black beard and frowns. “How do you know?”

  “Maps,” says jerRestin with a laugh. “Sailors need good maps, and we are quite good at making them for any sea or land that interests us.”

  “And Dumar interests you?”

  “All of Liedwahr interests the Maitre,” replies jerRestin offhandedly. “Surely, you know that by now, would-be Viceroy of Dumar and Defalk.”

  “I vaguely remember something about that.” Ehara forces a smile. “Especially the viceroy part.”

  “I thought you might.” JerRestin shifts his weight in the saddle again. “I prefer ships to horses, but one does what is needed.” A hard smile goes toward Ehara.

  The Lord of Dumar ignores the smile. “How will you ensure that the bitch dies?”

  “If she has no warning and cannot see what flies toward her, then she will die,” answers jerRestin. “That is why where we set our attack is important, and why each company must be separated from the others and under rock overhangs where possible. The streams should help as well.”

  “You think running water will stop her, after what she did to the Falche?”

  “Hamper, not stop,” corrects jerRestin amiably.

  Behind the two leaders, the armsmen in pale brown, lancers with crimson sashes, ride stolidly and silently. Behind them are the two thousand lancers from Sturinn who survived the flood. Their faces are simultaneously blank and grim.

  Even the hum of insects and the calls of the plains sparrows and dusky finches is low in the midday heat. Another cloud blocks the sun, and a shadow drifts across the road, then scuds eastward.

  93

  As the lead scouts of the column emerged from the last of the redstone walls of the canyon, Anna glanced ahead, southward to the ramparts of Stromwer, and toward the sloped, glass-smooth wall of stone before the keep that blocked the southern end of the valley.

  The low, rolling hills were mostly green, and Anna could see scattered figures, and sheep, in places. The low hum of insects, the heat, and the sweat soaking into the band of her hat affirmed that summer had indeed arrived in southern Defalk.

  Hanfor’s scouts had already returned—confirming that Lady Wendella expected and welcomed them. Not that Wendella had any choice, Anna reflected. The sorceress’s trousers were encrusted with reddish mud, although the rain had not fallen quite so heavily farther south—or the sun had been hotter and dried the road more.

  “A good thing that you did not have to assault Stromwer,” Jecks voiced.

  “A very good thing, for everyone,” added Hanfor.

  “You mean because we’ll be stronger to fight Ehara?”

  The two did not answer immediately because a scout appeared on the road ahead, coming over a low rise and riding a slow canter toward them.

  “Now what?” murmured the sorceress to herself. She licked her dry lips and readjusted the floppy brown hat.

  “Another rider, a messenger,” the scout said tersely, beginning to speak even before he swung his mount alongside Hanfor. “He wears crimson and rides alone.”

  Anna wanted to sigh. She didn’t have any illusions bout the contents of whatever message Ehara had dispatched.

  “It is not a good message,” observed Jecks.

  “A declaration of war?” suggested Anna. “Or a demand for our surrender?”

  “From what you have laid on Dumar, it could be nothing else,” said Hanfor.

  Anna still wanted to sigh. No matter what she did, it seemed to lead to some form of fight or skirmish. If she obliterated someone, that was force. If she didn’t, that was weakness, and weakness meant that she had to use force later. If she used indirect force, such as damming a river, that was an insult or created the idea that the ruler involved was weak, and that meant he had to fight. Even the direct force of a flood—however unplanned—didn’t seem to get the point across—only blood and slaughter seemed to do that. Idiots! Idiots . . . everywhere.

  The messenger’s mount trotted along the damp red clay of the road toward the head of the column. The bareheaded rider reined up a good fifty yards south, and extended his hands—empty—and then lowered them and waited. His lanceholder held the staff of the pale blue pennant of harmony, the sign of traveling under truce, though the pennant itself hung limply in the still summer air.

  Fhurgen eased his mount forward of Anna, as did Rickel. Both raised the protective shields slightly, and both had drawn their blades. Beside Anna, Jecks also bore an unsheathed blade.

  “Halt here,” said Hanfor quietly.

  The column stopped more than twenty yards north of the waiting messenger in crimson, who leaned forward slightly in the saddle, the mounted equivalent of a bow. “I offer this from Lord Ehara to the lady Anna, Regent of Defalk.”

  Fhurgen eased his mount forward, letting his blade rest across his thighs as he reached for the scroll. Even as she wondered how he could balance the bare steel that well, Anna let Fhurgen take the scroll.

  “The regent will read it,” promised the guard.

  “I must know that it reaches her hand.” The messenger’s voice quavered.

  “I’ll take it,” Anna said quietly.

  Fhurgen eased his mount sideways, never taking his eyes off the messenger, keeping the shield up, until he handed the scroll to Anna and slipped his fingers back around the hilt of his blade. “You may tell Lord Ehara his message reached the lady Anna.”

  The messenger touched his brow and turned his horse, leaving at a fast trot, as if to put as much distance between him and the Defalkan forces as possible.

  Anna looked at the rolled scroll, and at the travel-worn crimson ribbon and the wax seal that resembled a splotch of congealed blood. Finally, she looked around for a place to put it, before thrusting it through her belt, unopened.

  “You would not read it?” asked Jecks.

  “Why? I’d only get madder. What else could I do right now? We know Ehara’s moving every armsman he’s got toward Defalk. He’s not asking for peace, not with one messenger and no escort. Even I can figure that out. That messenger felt
he was expendable. He expected to get killed.” Anna shrugged, then flicked Farinelli’s reins. “I want to get to Stromwer, get some food, and a bath. Then, we’ll see what Ehara has in mind.” As if you don’t know already. . . .

  “I doubt we will learn aught more than we already know,” suggested Hanfor dryly.

  “No,” Anna agreed, letting Farinelli move out at a quick walk, “but he’s being a good boy, telling us how bad we are and why he has to go to war and get all sorts of people killed so that the lords or holders of Dumar can feel justified.” She could feel Jecks stiffen in his saddle, but she didn’t care—almost.

  “Not all lords are like that,” said Hanfor.

  “No—just most of them.” Anna thought, and added quickly, “The good ones keep getting killed, except for Jecks here, and he can’t make a difference by himself.”

  Hanfor offered a laugh. “That was how Lord Behlem gained his power. He removed the good lords and elevated those who wanted all to worship their names.”

  “It’s how a lot of rulers get power.” Anna glanced to the left of the road, beyond a low stone fence where three young men and a girl stared, almost openmouthed, at her. She forced a smile, then offered a wave.

  The dark-haired girl with the hoe turned to the youth next to her, but Anna did not hear the words. The sorceress’s eyes went to the road ahead, but her thoughts remained on lords and people with power who always seemed more interested in making themselves seem more important and powerful than in doing much constructive.

  After a time, Jecks cleared his throat, rode nearer to Anna, and asked, “About the Sea-Priest, the sorcerer . . . have you thought . . . ?”

  “About a spell to protect me?” asked Anna. “Some.”

  Jecks waited, and Anna let the silence draw out slightly, knowing she was being petty, bitchy, or worse. But she was tired, and everyone kept asking things, little things, big things—tariffs, arms, smiths, blades, the list seemed endless.

  Jecks waited, a patient half-smile on his face.

  Anna glanced at the keep, still another two or three deks ahead, gray-and-red stones rising out of the center of the south end of the long valley. Finally, she spoke. “I think I could enchant your very small shield . . . maybe. I have some ideas, and I will try to work them out when we stop at Stromwer.”