The Doomfarers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  Springbuck’s cheeks burned. He wanted to explain why he was flying by night like a criminal, how his enemies had an infinite number of ways to ensure that he wouldn’t survive a duel for the throne, but he couldn’t think of any words which did not strike him as self-serving.

  So, he brushed brusquely past Micko and, mounting and masking, guided his horse through the stable and out across the main bailey, clopping over smooth paving lit by fluttering torches and toward the portcullis, raised in this time of moribund festivity. He fell in with a group of riders, laughing celebrants who’d just mounted nearer the palace proper. The gate warder did not try to delay them, obvious guests of the Queen. As they all rode down the rampway from Earthfast, Springbuck gradually fell behind his temporary escorts.

  Once down the long slope, he stopped and turned in his saddle for one last look at the ancient keep with its bright lights and whipping flags and battle pennons, as the faint sounds of gaiety drifted out over the night. With a sigh, he faced back to the way before him. He knew he must make good distance before dawn, and started down the broad boulevard which led from the palace-fortress through the city spread at its feet. He’d thought to perhaps hide in the city for a while until it was feasible to travel overland, but had dismissed the idea. Kee-Amaine would be torn brace from beam in the search for him and the rewards offered would guarantee betrayal from anyone else who identified him— unless Micko had already changed his mind.

  He cantered slowly down the way, not wishing to attract attention by moving any faster.

  Kee-Amaine, the City of the Protector, surrounded Earthfast as a gaudy collar does a desperado’s neck, being here fine and colorful and there frayed and badly used. The street saw little traffic at this hour and the lanterns that lined it flickered fitfully in the night wind.

  He passed a detachment of the civic watch making its rounds, but they didn’t bother to hail him or ask his business, seeing him come from the palace-fortress, since things had seemed quiet this night. It was getting colder, and they were anxious to finish their tour and return to lay down their heavy pikes for the warmth of their barracks berths.

  Before Springbuck’s grandfather had imported the twin innovations of night patrols and streetlighting, life in Kee-Amaine had been confined after dark, since none but the well-armed or foolish ventured out into the threatening blackness to risk robbery or murder.

  Two riders approached from the other direction, that of the Brass Lion Gate, which gave access to the Western Tangent. Their course would bring them right past him, but Springbuck thought that conspicuously avoiding them would be poor strategy, and so rode along,

  He was soon sorry he did; as they neared him, he recognized them for Novanwyn, a Legion-Marshal and favorite of Fania’s, and his senior captain, Desenge. They stopped and stared at him curiously just as he drew even with them, and Desenge called out, “What does an Alebowrenian do here, sitting a horse which I myself saw in the royal stables only this afternoon?”

  The Prince stopped, like it or not. To ignore them would demand pursuit and ruinous inquiry. Besides, Desenge carried in its saddle rest his long spear, Finder, heavy and black and said by some to be unable to miss its mark when it flew from its owner’s hand, with many ill deeds to its name.

  The Prince attempted to disguise his voice, hoping that the war mask would help, as he faced them and answered, “I have just made obeisance for my liege, Knight-Commander to the Warchief of Alebowrene, at the feet of your Queen. My horse was lamed and I was given this one to take Her Grace’s regard to my lord.”

  Novanwyn inclined his head politely. “Please excuse my aide’s curiosity.” He smiled blandly. “And let us keep you tarrying no longer. Oh, and if you would be so kind—Legion-Marshal Novanwyn’s respects to your liege?”

  Springbuck grunted noncommittally and continued on his way, shaken. Passing long walls and hedgerows bordering the way in this area, he rode for a time, then paused in a side street and squinted back along the way to see if he were being followed. To no avail; either he wasn’t pursued or his nearsightedness made it impossible to see those behind him.

  He decided, though, to take a circuitous route, swinging past the marketplace and coming round to the southern wall and the Brass Lion Gate by back streets. He hoped that, in tomorrow’s turmoil at his escape, no one would link a renegade Prince to a lone Alebowrenian. Then it occurred to him that it was a foolish hope; Duskwind had seen his attire.

  Memories of Hightower’s death began to intrude again and he spent the ride in painful examination of his conscience. Alternate outcomes spun in his head; if he’d moved sooner, faster, fought harder, could he have saved the Duke? Should he have stayed in Earthfast and fought the duel? At best, he would eventually have had to meet Strongblade in arms, Strongblade who was wont to toy with two lesser opponents at a time and who’d often bested their instructor, Eliatim.

  Springbuck’s stealthy leave-taking and the deaths of Hightower and Faurbuhl began in him a desire for some act of violence and retribution, with a vague idea that he could expiate his shame and redeem his self-respect.

  Perhaps there would come an opportunity in the promised war between Coramonde and Freegate, if things actually went that far. No major war had been fought in or by Coramonde in nearly a generation, but Fania—and Yardiff Bey—seemed set on starting one. There were many and diverse substates under Coramonde; to greater or lesser extent internal friction was a constant. It wasn’t beyond conceiving that Springbuck could find support for an attempt at wresting back the Crown.

  But there came to him the lines from the Old Tongue, impressed upon him with admonishments by his father, regarding civil war:

  He should pause and search his heart well Who thinks to go Doomfaring In the War that is war between brothers.

  A single house bleeds with Every internecine fall of the sword And the abattoiral axe.

  Could such wounds to Coramonde be justified? The Prince was unsure.

  Still, if armies were waging war on the far side of the Keel of Heaven, the situation could come full ripe for the dislodging of Fania and Strongblade.

  And Yardiff Bey.

  Springbuck thought again of the look that had passed between the Queen and the sorcerer in the throne room, that of vassal to Lord.

  Bey in command?

  How much, after all, did anyone know about him? The archives had it that he’d first appeared in Earthfast over half a century earlier. Since then he’d been away often, for as long as ten years at a time. He’d come back from one such sojourn, twenty years earlier, with the bizarre ocular in place of his left eye, object of cautious speculation.

  Rumors about him were inexhaustible: that his sword Dirge dealt wounds which couldn’t be healed, that he had an enchanted flying vessel concealed in the mountains of the Dark Rampart, that some of his hidden conspiracies and secret liaisons led ultimately to the distant south, to Shardishku-Salamá, where oldest magic still worked against men.

  But little was known of Bey for sure, and few dared pry.

  The Prince called to mind the one time that he’d seen Yardiff Bey betray emotion. On that occasion, six months earlier, the wizard Andre deCourteney had come to an audience with Surehand, bringing with him the madman Van Duyn, who claimed to be from another universe, or some such.

  Bey had scorned Van Duyn as demented, but appeared to regard Andre deCourteney as a threat, not so much to his position as councillor extraordinary to the Ku-Mor-Mai as to his very well-being.

  But, with Van Duyn making his outrageous claims and propounding his scandalous ideas for a government by plebiscite, Surehand had hardly needed Bey’s urgent prompting to banish the two from Earthfast, provoked as he was by their heresy.

  As far as Springbuck could determine, Van Duyn and deCourteney had gone to the little village of Erub, to the northeast, to establish an unorthodox school of their own. The Prince hoped that it was so, and meant to seek them out. He had questions to ask them, particularly about Yardiff Bey.
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  As he rode along mulling all of this, the scenery had gradually changed from the walls of the gentry who lived near Earthfast to common residences, shop and tavern, and finally the empty market plaza. He cut across the wide square past the Temple of the Bright Lady and quickly made his way up winding byways to the Brass Lion Gate. The guard commander there had just come on watch and was uninclined to pester himself over an Alebowrenian, all of whom were known for their truculence, especially since the gate would soon be opened anyway for the predawn influx of farmers with their produce and other goods for vending, and so accommodated Springbuck’s exit.

  The gate yawned behind him as the Prince rode across the hard-trodden earth to where the Western Tangent shone gray and straight in the light of the watchtower. Storm clouds had gathered and a sparse rain began to fall as he spurred his mount away eastward toward Erub. Eastward where, perhaps, Andre deCourteney would have answers and the Prince’s confusion and misgivings would be thrown open to the light of wise counsel solicited from one of the best-known wizards of the day.

  He let the roncin out to a gallop, heedless of Micko’s warning, diverting tension and venting frustration in a wild ride down the broad, seamless Tangent. The rain misted in a dew on his cloak and the sleek, rolling hide of the horse beneath him, and he removed his war mask to feel the moisture on his face.

  He rode expertly, crouched low over the roncin’s neck, letting the tearing wind snatch the events of the night from his brain. Lightning was flashing intermittently when he came upon a horse incongruously leg-hobbled alone at the roadside. With a start, he saw that it was his own, Fireheel, and came to a halt.

  “I thought that your own horse would give you pause,” said a familiar voice, and the Prince’s heart clenched with dread. It was a voice he associated with long hours of exhausting training during which he was exhorted to match its owner—endless, impossible effort—one of the most capable warriors alive.

  Though the rain was heavier now, and the night dark, Springbuck had no difficulty identifying the man with bow in hand who stepped from behind a nearby tree and up onto the raised surface of the Tangent, arrow nocked, deadly confident.

  The lightning flashes showed him Eliatim.

  Chapter Four

  The secret of happiness is freedom, and the secret of freedom is courage.

  —Thucydides, The Funeral Speech for Pericles

  He could see his former martial instructor only dimly in the broken light until the other brought forth a small lantern which had been covered, unshrouded its glow and turned up the wick. He set it down near Fireheel, who dug with a nervous hoof at the impervious Tangent; then he trained the drawn war arrow, barbs glittering coldly, on Springbuck.

  The Prince considered his options. His mount was tired and Fireheel looked well rested, so that Eliatim would have no trouble in overtaking him should be bolt. Besides, the man was an uncanny marksman when mounted and an incredible one from stance; Springbuck wouldn’t get two lengths before he was spitted. He gnawed his lip and watched the rain splatter down, and a hope began to grow in him. If he could occupy the other’s attention for some little while, perhaps the master-of-arms’ bowstring would become moist enough in the downpour to make it slack and give him a chance at escape. In any case, he must make some sally or be shot down here and now, on the instant.

  Thinking all of this, he answered, “You needn’t threaten me. As you can see, I’m leaving Coramonde for all time, going far and for good, I swear.”

  Gone now were thoughts of retribution. He wanted only to live, and that urge would supplant any other but the strongest. The biting memory of his earlier failure of Hightower tore at him, but immediate danger preempted any bold or defiant words and his survival instinct prodded him to dissemble and say anything, anything to live.

  Eliatim cut him short, words curdling with contempt. “You know better than that, boy. We can’t afford to have you wander off, even if you mean what you say; it wouldn’t be long before you were located and exploited by some troublemaker or other. One of the Southern Warlords, or that heretic deCourteney, possibly? Now, look how easy it was for me, Your Grace. When I returned and found you gone, I had little problem surmising what had happened. Is it of any interest to you that the stableboy is dead? I thought so. I had to interrogate him in some haste. And we’ll hoist that damned slacker Brodur, too, when we find him.

  “You must have taken a roundabout way to the Brass Lion Gate, but I had the guards pass me through and I knew that we would meet here one last time.”

  Later, Springbuck promised himself, he would think about poor Micko, how they’d played and joked together, later remember how Micko could sleep between the legs of the most spirited horse in its stall, since he was that close to animals, and how he could never lie well, it being foreign to him to twist things or dress his words up. The Prince must grieve later because now he was poised for the one chance he might get to elude death.

  The appalling idea struck him that Eliatim was reading his every thought and intention when the other said, “Come down off your high horse, and I will explain some facts which, I confess, have been kept from you.”

  Springbuck groped in vain for some reply that would permit him to stay mounted, but complied.

  The master-of-arms’ eyes were glazed with strong drink or drug. While his tone was almost amiable, the arrow leveled at the Prince’s heart was not. Springbuck stood near the roncin and watched the bowstring as if hypnotized, but Eliatim showed no doubt about his weapon’s effectiveness. The older man’s body was limber and relaxed, hand steady, and the string seemed taut.

  As Springback shuffled his booted feet on the hard, tractive surface of the Western Tangent, Eliatim smiled through his stiffly waxed mustache and suddenly lowered the bow, easing tension on the string. “How is it,” he asked huskily, “that you never sensed how I anticipated this moment? Long and long I’ve waited to put you to death, and send my star into the ascendant.”

  At this the Prince’s stomach knotted with fear and the fist with which he held his reins balled even more tightly. His fleeting impulse to leap back onto his horse was cut short at Eliatim’s next statement.

  “If you try to run I can cut you down before you have both feet in the stirrups. But I do thank you for saving me a long and tiring chase on horseback, for I fear that my bow cord became rather wet as I waited for you. I’m grateful that you follow instructions so well and that you quailed at the sight of my arrow. Now, you see, we can test whether the years I’ve spent teaching you the policies of combat were wasted. Let us now weigh your prowess with the sword.”

  So saying, he hurled the bow and arrow aside and took from its scabbard his long, heavy cavalry rapier. Springbuck tried to moisten his lips with a dry tongue. A vault to the saddle was out of the question. He let fall his reins and took his cloak from his shoulders and draped it over his horse’s croup. He reluctantly unsheathed Bar, whose grip did not feel slick despite the rain and his clammy palm. Eliatim’s eyes narrowed at Bar’s bright aspect.

  “That hanger is unknown to me,” he said. “From whence does it come? Ah, let it pass. I shall have a chance to inspect it at my leisure, presently.”

  He grinned wickedly. “And while I think to tell you, your ill treatment of the Lady Duskwind was unwarranted. She was no part of our alliance against you. How you found out that Faurbuhl was with us though, I cannot imagine. Serves him justly, the old dough-pate, that you garroted him; he was so damnable certain that you trusted him.”

  Springbuck’s mind whirled as he juggled this new information. Faurbuhl a traitor and Duskwind loyal? He played a gambit to learn more.

  “How high do you stand in this, Eliatim? How many are arrayed against me?”

  The other threw his head back and gave a short crow of laughter. “How many? Oh you fool! All, or almost all! Duskwind proved difficult to subvert, but we had little need of her. She’s probably been attended to already. The Court’s been weeded carefully, with some stubborn hol
douts like Legion-Marshal Bonesteel exiled to duty on far marches and some, like Hightower, killed.” He sighed, then giggled, and shook his graying head regretfully. “I’m sorry I missed the end of the great Hightower, but I have business of my own tonight.

  “I must say, though, that you were quite clever to kill Faurbuhl and depart while I was gone. Since he had no opportunity to signal your escape, no one suspected it at first. But when Novanwyn and Desenge described their encounter with a peculiar Alebowrenian whom they thought resembled you, I went to your room to investigate.”

  With this he brought his blade into line and moved forward on the Prince, who retreated a step, still hoping for the chance to break away and avoid a duel. To delay further, he said, “You and Fania and Bey forget one thing: Strongblade is still my father’s son. It may be that he won’t bend to your plans as readily as you think.”

  That brought the blademaster up short, but his face was filled with glee, not doubt. “Idiot child,” he scoffed, “your ‘stepbrother’ is not Surehand’s son, he is Yardiff Bey’s! D’you think that’s a hard thing for the greatest mage in the world to accomplish? It was no more difficult than slaying your mother by his arts; and those stupid Court physicians, how easily they were misled. He’d groomed Fania almost since birth for the one task of marrying your father and—hi!—how it vexed him that just as he was about to introduce her at Court, Surehand married another. Well, all’s remedied and things are on their proper course. Your father was well taken with Fania, even in his mourning, but on their wedding eve it was Yardiff Bey’s seed in her belly; Strongblade is no part of your lineage. Bey’s victory over the Crescent Lands will rest on three children of his body, the first a girl-child, the second male and the third both and neither.”

  Eliatim told the tale with huge relish, enjoying its effect on Springbuck, venting long-checked hatred. “He purchased my soul, yes, but I’m satisfied with the bargain. We two closed a pact long and long ago on the High Ranges when the Horseblooded had cast me out, and he brought me to Earthfast when you were a week old. I’ve served him well and waited out this hour. When you’re dead—few questions will be raised about your disappearance, I think—I go on to better things and vengeance of my own.”