As she finished, she watched open-mouthed as more than half the heavy arrows curved, fighting against the wind, and perhaps against sorcery, before diving into the damp grasses of the meadow near the woods.
There was a lessening of the drums, a raggedness, and a momentary faltering, but the drumming continued.
Secca glanced at the wave of white-clad horsemen thundering toward her too-small force. A second arrow spell might stop the thunder-drums totally, but would she have any lancers left?
“The flame spell!” Secca ordered.
“The flame spell! At my mark…” ordered Palian. “Mark!”
The tone from the players remained strong and true, and the heavy-chorded harmony from the second players was solid.
Secca sang:
“Turn to fire, turn to flame,
all those who stand against our name,
turn to ashes, turn to dust…”
The drums and the wind rose, along with the pounding hoofs of the Sturinnese mounts, now less than fifty yards from the base of the rise, yet when Secca’s last words died away, the sky flashed, and the flame lightnings flared—but only across the first lines of the charging Sturinnese. Horses and men went down in charred heaps, and the scent of burnt flesh flowed back to Secca, seemingly instantly. Nor did the lightnings reach all of that first rank.
The white wedge of riders to the west, toward the river and farthest to the right, seemed almost untouched as the lancers surged up the rise—and were met by Stepan’s lancers, who had managed a short charge downhill.
The lightnings died away, and from the hillside to the south, the pounding of the thunder-drums rose once more, not quite so loudly. With that rhythmic thundering came fiercer winds, howling, ripping at Secca’s jacket and hair, pelting fine grit into her face and eyes.
She squinted out across the lowlands. Through her watering eyes, she could see that the remaining Sturinnese lancers had turned their mounts back toward the cover of the birches and firs. Even those who had attacked Stepan’s lancers on the flank were falling back and turning their mounts. But though they had turned, the pounding of the thunder-drums continued.
“The arrow spell! Again!” Secca turned and shouted to Elfens. “Make ready more shafts!”
“The arrow spell!” echoed Palian. “Mark!”
“Nock arrows!” Elfens’ voice again rose above the winds.
Secca turned into the grit-bearing wind again, squaring her shoulders, then trying to relax her body. As the first bar of the players’ spelltune echoed across the lowlands between the rise and the firs and birches that the lancers had retreated into, the dull rumbling of the drums intensified once more.
Secca offered the second arrow spell.
“Heads of arrows, shot into the air….”
With her words, the wind rose, seemingly directed at her, more grit slashing across her cheeks and toward her eyes—and once more, the majority of the heavy arrows were turned by the winds. Not all—some must have struck a drummer or two, because the drumbeat faltered…but only for a time.
Secca could barely stand, daystars flashing across her vision, but the drums continued to beat, and heavy fog began to form in the lowest and dampest part of the meadow below the rising, streaming upward even as Secca watched through her dayflashed vision.
“Lady!” An Ebran captain in green rode toward Secca. “The arms commander would have us ride back to the high ridge.”
“Back to the high ridge,” Secca shouted back. “We will join forces there.” She stumbled toward the players, stopping short of Palian. “Remount…we must ride back to the high ridge before they regroup.”
“Players mount…back to the high ridge. Reform there!” ordered Palian.
“Remount! Now!” followed Delvor’s commands.
Secca staggered toward the gray mare, using what felt like the last of her strength to mount. Richina, already mounted, eased her mount next to Secca’s. The younger sorceress extended a water bottle.
“Lady, you must drink…and eat as you ride.”
With a nod, and a trembling hand, Secca took the water bottle. She drank as she rode at a fast trot back down the rise, glancing back over her shoulder. Behind her, Secca could hear the near frantic pounding of the thunder-drums, and feel the cold wind die away once more as she crossed the stretch of damp and brown-grassed meadow between the rise and the trees on the south side of the ridge which she had ridden down such a short time before.
Once back amid the trees and riding up the trail, Secca could see patches of fog appearing, oozing upward out of the ground itself, near-instantly.
Richina offered some bread, and Secca wolfed that down. While the daystars did not vanish from her vision, they did diminish in frequency and intensity.
“What a dissonant mess…” murmured the redhead under her breath between bites of the bread. She glanced over her shoulder. All she could see through the trees were patches of fog and trees.
By the time she was halfway up the ridge trail, the drums had died into silence and the lowlands were again covered with fog.
Once back on the ridge, the sorceress reined up the gray mare, and surveyed the lowlands and the hills to the south. It was as though she had done nothing—except destroy a few of the enemy and lose who knew how many of Stepan’s lancers.
She just kept looking at the swirling fog that had refilled the valley that separated her forces from those of the Sturinnese.
Stepan eased his mount up beside her.
Secca shook her head.
“It felt worse than it was,” offered the silver-haired arms commander. “We lost less than a company. They lost close to three companies, perhaps four.”
“They have twice our number, and they will have more soon,” Secca replied, “if I cannot find a way to stop this fog.”
Stepan looked down for a moment, not quite meeting her eyes, before he looked at her. “That is true. We cannot hold our position, not if we are attacked from the north.”
Secca nodded.
After a moment, she said, “I must think.” And eat…so she could think.
65
By just past noon, when she stepped out of the tent into the cold calm air under a sky that held but a trace of high haze, Secca thought she had a workable plan. She had best, she knew, for the mirror had revealed that the Sturinnese lancers from the north were no more than three days’ ride away.
“Richina…I’ll be back in a few moments. I need to talk to Elfens. Then we need to talk.”
“Yes, lady.” Richina’s voice was polite, but abstracted, as she glanced toward the east end of the camp.
“He’s all right. He’s just worried.”
“Who?” Richina flushed, adding quickly, “His lancers weren’t attacked, were they?”
“No. Like all of us, he’s worried about the battle that will have to come,” Secca said, before walking toward the higher end of the camp area. Quietly, Achar followed her. Secca could only hope that Richina would see Haddev for what he was before the younger sorceress did something truly foolish.
Secca found the chief archer on the west side of the camp, working with a pot of glue, refletching some arrows on a flat stone.
“Lady…if you would wait but a moment…”
“Go ahead.” Secca smiled faintly. “We will need every shaft.”
After several moments, the chief archer set down the glue pot and the knife and stood. “Your wish, Lady Secca?”
“Elfens…you still have arrows with the large iron heads?”
“But, of course.”
“How many do you have?”
“Not many…perhaps three score,” admitted the chief archer.
“That will be enough…if you can get them all into the air while I do a spell.”
“That we can.”
“We will need them before dawn—well before dawn.” Secca’s eyes fixed on the long-faced man. “Can you keep your archers together in darkness and a thick fog?”
“Ah…that
I can do…but how will they know where to place their arrows?”
“That is my task.”
“We can get our shafts high, so that you can do the rest.”
“That is all I ask.”
“We will be ready.”
“I will let you know more later, after I have worked out the details with Wilten and Stepan.”
Elfens bowed, his long face somber.
Secca walked quickly back across the camp toward the single tent, her breath still a fog in the cold air, her boots crunching on the half-frozen ground. The ever-colder nights were yet another reason why she needed to act.
As she approached the tent, Richina stepped forward. “Palian…she and Delvor were here a few moments ago. So was Stepan. They looked most worried.”
“I am most certain that they are.” Secca offered an off-center smile. “I’ll need your help, Richina. More than ever before.”
“Another building spell, lady?” Puzzlement colored the younger sorceress’s words.
Secca shook her head. “The flame spell.”
Richina swallowed.
“You know the melody,” Secca said. “I’ll write out the words for you. Best you study it a while this afternoon and tonight.”
“But…you are the stronger sorceress.”
“I doubt I will be by the time we join battle tomorrow.”
“The fog?”
“If I do what I must, there will be no fog, or little enough by morning. If there is, then I will disperse it, and you will use the flame spell against the Sturinnese.”
“Will they then attack?”
“It matters not. We must if they do not. We cannot survive a battle where we are attacked from both sides, and if we retreat and leave eastern Ebra in the hands of the Sea-Priests, we will see women in chains across the east for generations to come.”
“You do not think we could dislodge them?”
Secca raised her eyebrows. “Hadrenn is hard-pressed to raise twelve companies of lancers. Lord Robero would be hard-pressed to raise twice that in additional lancers. Few of the levies in Defalk could stand against the Sturinnese, and there are already more than fifty companies of Sturinnese in Ebra, counting those we destroyed near Synek. If they take Elahwa and hold Dolov, do you not think we will see more? And more thunder-drums?”
“We will,” Richina agreed.
“And with sorcery against sorcery, then what?”
“Many will die.”
“If we fail now…many more will die.” Secca shook her head. “I will write out the two spells you must use. Then we will see Palian, and you will go over the words in your mind while the players play…”
As Secca explained, Richina nodded.
The older sorceress could only hope that the younger understood…before she saw what would happen, were she successful.
Secca tried not to consider what would happen if they failed.
66
Sperea, Neserea
Belmar nods to the two guards as he steps into the white-walled private study, but the pair remains stationed on each side of the door, inside the study. Their eyes never leave him as he steps toward the man who awaits him.
In turn, Belmar bows politely to the holder with the iron-gray hair. “Cloftus, it is good to see you once more.” As he straightens the fingers of his right hand pass the empty scabbard at his belt. In his left hand, he carries a leather case five spans in length, large enough for a small instrument.
“I must say that I was most surprised at your appearance—not at the force which accompanied you, however.” Cloftus smiles, but does not return the bow. “You were wise to leave them well back of the walls. You know you cannot take Sperea—not without siege engines and far more armsmen than even you can afford.” The taller and older holder remains standing beside the desk. The sabre in the scabbard at his side threatens to bump the pedestal leg of the desk, a leg carved to resemble a climbing rose upon a circular trestle.
“I have no intention of wasting siege engines on Sperea—even if I had any to waste.” Belmar laughs easily. “Besides, I have a proposition. It might be of interest to you.”
“It might. I cannot imagine why, but if you are so convinced that I would be that you would walk in unarmed…I should at least listen.” A wintry smile accompanies the light tone of Cloftus’ words. “Especially given…our history.”
“What do you think about the daughter of the late Lord High Counselor succeeding him? Does it appeal to you?”
“You obviously do not care for that, or you would not have asked,” points out Cloftus. “As for me…” He pauses and smiles. “Let us just say that we could do better and we could do worse. What have you in mind that would be better?”
“The restoration of the Prophet of Music in Neserea, the independence of our land from Defalkan domination.” Belmar shrugs. “I cannot imagine you enjoy being under the domination of foreign sorceresses.”
Cloftus frowns, fingers his chin. “I cannot say I have ever liked anyone trying to dominate me, Belmar. But little of that have I seen in the past score of years. Do you think we will see such in the years ahead?”
“When a land controls not its own destiny, that is bound to happen.”
“I see. What have you in mind? Your proposition?”
“I seek your support in becoming the successor to the last Prophet.” Belmar delivers the words easily.
Cloftus laughs, ruefully, but not mockingly. “As I recall, one sorceress destroyed the last Prophet, and there are three now.”
“And all three together have not her power or her wit. One foreign sorceress cannot stand against three-quarters of Neserea, not with but a mere girl as Counselor and her mother acting as a Mansuuran puppet.”
“I would not call Lady Aerlya a puppet, Belmar. Nor a tool. Strong-willed, even a bitch, but never a puppet.”
“What we call her need bear no relation to what is.” Belmar laughs gently. “Surely, you would not begin to quibble over words. I believe you called me…what was it…the legitimate offspring of an extended line of unconsorted minor holders?” Belmar shakes his head. “Your words were even less pleasant, I fear.”
“Did you come all this way to insult me?” Cloftus smiles, his eyes going to the guards, his fingers dropping to the hilt of his blade.
“Dissonance, no.” Belmar smiles. “I brought something you should see…” He gently and slowly opens the leather case to display the instrument within.
“A small lutar, it would appear…a lady’s toy.”
Belmar adjusts the strings. “It’s most similar to the one used by the Sorceress of the East. It has a beautiful tone.”
“What has this to do with your proposition?” Cloftus raises his eyebrows.
“Everything.” Belmar’s fingers run across the strings. “Everything. You see…” He pauses and clears his throat, then smiles, before beginning to sing in a strong baritone.
“With their own blades, slay all here but me…
with their own…”
Cloftus lurches forward, yanking his sabre from the scabbard so violently that it bangs back into the desk.
The two guards, after a momentary hesitation, draw their own blades and edge toward the younger holder.
Belmar, still smiling, finishes the double couplet and leaps back toward the closed windows to the corner balcony.
The looks of surprise on the faces of the three armed men are short-lived as their blades take on a life of their own, and then take their owners’ lives as well. After a short time, the study is silent, and Belmar remains the only figure standing.
He walks to the balcony and opens the door, stepping outside into the chill air, where his breath comes out in white puffs. From within his tunic, he takes a yellow cylinder and unrolls it—a short yellow pennant attached to a polished wooden rod.
Below the steep wall stands a group dressed in brown drab, almost invisible to the eye.
Belmar waves the yellow pennant, and is answered by a crimson one. H
e pauses, holding the yellow pennant up, then drops it.
The players in brown begin to play. At the second bar, Belmar begins the spell.
“Within each Sperean breast, freeze each armsman’s heart…”
67
A cough in the darkness preceded the words Secca dreaded. “Lady? It is two glasses before dawn.”
“Thank you,” Secca whispered back to the guard outside the tent. She slowly rolled into a sitting position on the narrow cot, took a deep breath, and began to fumble for her overshirt and tunic in the darkness.
With a sound half-moan, half-groan, Richina shifted her weight on the other cot, but her breathing returned to that of a sleeper.
Secca eased into her tunic, pulled on her boots, and then her riding jacket, slowly, for her fingers fumbled with the clothing in the darkness. The cramping in her lower abdomen didn’t help, either, nor the faint nausea that came with it. She hardly needed the additional complications of the proof that she was a woman right before sorcery and a battle, but there was no help for it, none at all. She decided against wearing the hat, but stuffed it into the saddlebag in case she needed it later.
Finally, she stood, then bent to ease the leather-cased lutar and saddlebags from under the cot. She carried them outside the tent, then slipped back inside the silken panels to retrieve the water bottle and the provisions bag.
Back outside the tent, in the flickering light of the single torch, with Achar and Rukor standing back several paces, on guard, Secca began to eat, mainly the dry bread, with occasional bites of cheese. She tried to ignore the cramping and nausea, knowing that sorcery on an empty stomach would be a disaster, and also knowing that eating so early in the day in her present condition would make her even less comfortable.
When she had eaten all she could force down, she took a last swallow from the water bottle and corked it. She knelt and checked the small bottles in the saddlebag once again to make sure the stoppers were firmly in place. She was almost finished when she sensed someone coming, and glanced up as a figure walked toward her.
The Shadow Sorceress: The Fourth Book of the Spellsong Cycle Page 25
