by Steven Brust
“There is, indeed, and once the others have arrived, I should be glad to tell you of it.”
“And I shall be glad to listen. What of that Necromancer?”
Morrolan frowned. “Yes, let her come as well. It will be a full council of war. There may be much to consider.”
Soon they had gathered together, and Morrolan studied his friends and companions. Fentor spoke first, however, saying, “I perceive you are armed differently than when you left. You had, then, a gift of the Enchantress?”
“A gift?” said Morrolan. “Well—” He paused. It had been on his mind to say that it was tribute, yet, in the event, he merely shrugged.
“Well,” said the commander, “may I see it? Because, unless I am deceived, it is a Morganti weapon.”
“A what?”
“It has certain properties.”
“What kind of properties?”
“It will destroy the soul of anyone it kills.”
Morrolan frowned. “I see. Are there many of these around?”
“Too many. But few, I think, as powerful as yours appears to be. Once it is clear of its sheath, we shall know for certain.”
“Very well,” said Morrolan, and drew the weapon for the first time—an event as monumental, in its own way, as the restoration of the Empire itself, not the least because it had no little to do with the preservation of that Empire; a fact which is not widely known, but which the author will demonstrate as our history unfolds.
In appearance, the sword was not unusual—of a good size for a Dragon warrior, of black metal that seemed not to reflect the light, with a simple crosspiece and a smooth black hilt.
The effect on those present of this apparently simple longsword was nothing less than profound. Teldra and Fentor, who had, perhaps, less sensitivity to psychic phenomena than the others, found themselves on their feet, back several paces, and were unaware of making the decision to move. It was, as Teldra described later, “as if Death itself had loomed over us all, holding out his arms in an invitation at once terrifying and nearly irresistible.” Fentor, for his part, became aware that it was taking all of his strength to avoid trembling visibly, and he was utterly unable to keep the look of fear and horror from his countenance.
The Warlock gave a cry, almost a screech, and his familiars at once took their alternate forms, turning into a snarling dzur and a bristling wolf—the first time anyone had seen this transformation, and yet this went unnoticed in the turmoil of the moment. He spoke very rapidly in an Eastern language that not even Morrolan had ever heard pronounced, and made various gestures with the fingers of his right hand.
Arra also made gestures, although different ones, and those with both hand and arms—she seemed to be warding things from her, or putting a barrier between herself and Morrolan. And, while it is not possible to move from one place to another without traveling through the intervening space—at least, it is not possible using the arts of Eastern witchcraft—nevertheless it might have appeared that Arra had done so, so rapidly did she put a distance of several yards between herself and the naked weapon.
Even the Necromancer was visibly startled, and, with a couple of passes of her hands, built a sort of wavering, prismatic barrier between herself and Morrolan—a barrier which, after a few moments, she allowed to fade into the nothingness from which it had grown, but which left a certain impression in the minds of those who had seen it. As for how she felt, beyond her actions, we have no way of ascertaining this, but it seems clear that, like the others, she was startled and not a little frightened by the power emanating from Southmoor’s hand.
To Morrolan, however, the result of his action was not only more profound, as the reader might expect, but was also entirely different, as we will detail at once: He felt, then, as if he had suddenly met again an old friend whom he had not seen in many years; simultaneously, it was as if seeing for the first time the person one knows will become one’s lover. More than this, he felt flooded with well-being, as if, after a good night’s sleep, one awoke to find klava ready and a day stretching out filled with only those things one wishes to do.
And above all of this, Morrolan was aware that, more than ever before, he would very much like to find something to kill. By preference, many things, all of them eager to fight back. How long they stood there, none of them was able afterward to say, but, after what seemed like hours, Morrolan at least pronounced the words, “My dream.”
“Your dream?” said the Warlock.
“Ah,” said Arra. “Yes, my lord. I remember it. I believe you must have been foresighted then; it was certainly a dream sent by the Goddess.”
“A dream?” said the Warlock, in a tone indicating that he was only barely able to speak.
Morrolan turned to him and nodded. “Yes, I had a dream of holding a black wand.”
“And this is your black wand?” said the Warlock.
“Yes,” said Morrolan. “Yes, it is.”
There seemed to be nothing to say to this, so the Warlock said nothing. Fentor was the next to catch his breath, as we might say, and he said, “My lord—”
“Well?”
“Give me ten weapons like that, and I shall fear no one.”
“As for ten of them, I’m afraid that would be difficult. But, at any rate, we have one.”
Gradually, hesitantly, they seated themselves, all of them looking warily at Morrolan’s “black wand” as if it were a greensnake. After a moment, with some hesitation, he sheathed it, and found to his surprise—and pleasure—that he still maintained a certain sense of contact with it; the others were equally pleased that they were no longer aware of its presence, except in the dimmest, most distant way, feeling only a vague unease such as one feels on a journey when convinced one has failed to bring everything needed, but cannot remember what has been left behind.
“Well, then,” said Morrolan, just as if nothing out of the ordinary course of events had occurred, “I gather, Fentor, that there were developments while I was away.”
Fentor blinked twice, deliberately, as if doing so required concentration, then said, “Your pardon, my lord?”
“Developments. What has happened while I was gone?”
“Ah! Yes! The war!”
“Yes, the impending invasion of our home by a large army. I trust you have not forgotten about it?”
“In fact, for just a moment, I had.”
“Well, but do you recall it now?”
“Oh, without doubt, my lord.”
“Good, then. And, have there been developments concerning it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And will you tell me what they are?”
“Whenever Your Lordship wishes.”
“Whenever I wish? I think I have been wishing for nothing else for an hour!”
“Then, my lord, this is it: We have reports that the large army is moving more quickly, the still larger army more slowly, and the small troop is being pursued by a smaller troop. Moreover—”
“Yes, moreover?”
“I have calculated their destination more precisely.”
“Well, and?”
“Yes, my lord?”
Morrolan groaned softly, clenched and unclenched his fist, then said, very carefully, “According to your calculation, what is their destination?”
“Dzur Mountain, my lord.”
“Dzur Mountain,” repeated Morrolan.
“Yes, my lord.”
Morrolan looked at the others in the room, and met each of their eyes. “Well,” he said after a moment. “They must certainly be stopped, then.”
“Is Dzur Mountain important?” asked Arra. “That is, must it be defended.”
“Yes,” said Morrolan.
“Very well,” said Fentor.
“How long until they reach us?”
“Three days, maybe four, certainly not more than a week unless they suddenly stop or change their destination.”
“And our preparations?”
“As complete as we
can make them.”
Morrolan turned to the Necromancer. “Can you help?”
“My lord?”
“Sorcery. I have learned something of sorcery. I am told it can do amazing things. I don’t know. Blast them with fire, or make stones fall on their heads, or create an illusion of giant butterflies with nine-inch teeth. Something.”
“I know little of this sorcery, but—”
“Yes?”
“I can do something.”
He nodded, and turned to Arra. “My witches?”
“There is little we can do, but what there is, we will. We will make the enemy afraid, and make our friends confident and strong.”
“That is not so little,” added Fentor.
Morrolan nodded and turned to the Warlock, who said, “I will be there, but I don’t know what I can do—”
“Perhaps I do,” said Morrolan. “I must give this matter more thought. Come back tonight, all of you, around the seventh hour, after I have had time to consider matters, and we will see what sort of plans we can make.”
“Very well,” said the others, and, with a last glance at the weapon hanging at Morrolan’s side, they left him alone with his thoughts and certain maps which Fentor had caused to be prepared, in order to permit him to contemplate the forthcoming battle.
Having brought up this battle, before closing this chapter of our history, we should like to take the opportunity to say two words about this conflict in general.
The Ninth Battle of Dzur Mountain (or the Tenth, if the reader prefers) was not fought in the immediate environs of Dzur Mountain—on the contrary, the battlefield was some forty or forty-five miles south of it, fought for the most part along a small stream called Lostoar Brook, which ran generally east to west near to the southern border of the Southmoor County—indeed, it had at one time been the boundary, until it was observed that, over the centuries, the stream was creeping generally southward for reasons best known to itself, and this migration, though entirely approved of by the various Counts of Southmoor, was seen differently by the Counts of Iadim, and so, after the Fifteenth Issola Reign, the boundary was determined by certain hills and valleys which promised to hold their positions. But then, it should be remembered that, of the many battles called “the Battle of Dzur Mountain,” at least three of them were fought at least twenty miles from the foot of the mountain, so to give it this name is merely to continue a tradition, as it were.
Morrolan’s army—or Fentor’s—was not prepared to Fentor’s satisfaction, and, indeed, only the fact that a certain number of the recruits had military experience (these, of course, being at once made sergeants) saved it from, in Fentor’s words, “an uncommon foul-up from the front to the back and from one end to the other.” Instead, it was, in the view of this worthy commander, “just close enough to ready to permit itself to receive some amount of slaughter before dissolving utterly.” Of course, holding this opinion in no way kept Fentor from doing everything he could to prevent it, and when word reached him that one of the armies—the smaller of the two—had made camp barely ten miles away, he at once began to arrange the details of supply and movement lines that he believed would be required by the battle he foresaw.
The morning after Morrolan’s return from Dzur Mountain (that is to say, the very morning when Fentor learned of the proximity of the enemy troops), Fentor and Morrolan spoke, both of them on the roof of the temple (on which, we may add, construction had never halted), and both of them staring eastward, toward where the enemy was encamped.
“Then you agree,” said Morrolan. “We must attack, and bring them to battle before the other army converges?”
Fentor sighed. “I can see no other way. And yet—”
“Well?”
“You perceive, we are outnumbered. And that by, well, by a great deal.”
“Yes, I know that. However, they are not expecting to be attacked, and that must be good for something.”
“That is true, they are not, and it is. But then—”
“Yes?”
“With an untrained corps, the movements required for defense are easier to execute than those required for attack.”
“Bah! What is required? You say, charge, and they charge.”
“My lord—”
“Well?”
“You must trust me, it is more complex than you pretend.”
Morrolan appeared unconvinced.
“Shall I explain, my lord?”
Morrolan sighed. “I suppose you had better.” As he prepared to listen and attempt to understand, he took a drink of water, a deep breath, and a glance in the opposite direction, at which time he suddenly frowned and said, “What is that?”
Fentor followed his glance, frowned, and said, “What?”
“There is something on this side of the temple that I had not observed before.”
“Ah! Battlements, my lord.”
“Battlements?”
“Yes. For defense.”
“For—who had this done?”
“I did, while you were gone. You would have noticed them yesterday if you had not been distracted.”
“Oh, I do not doubt that. But for what reason are they there?”
“My lord, if we are required to withstand a charge—which is very probable, even if we begin by making one ourselves—those few changes will permit our survival a longer time than—”
“And you made these changes in the temple—the temple dedicated to my patron Goddess—without asking me first?”
Fentor looked at him coolly. “My lord, you were away, and had I waited for your return, there would have been no time. Moreover, you told me to take charge. I had to make an abrupt decision, and I did so.”
“You were wrong,” said Morrolan.
A certain redness came into Fentor’s countenance, and he gave Morrolan a stiff bow.
Morrolan studied him, and, for the first time, showed some signs of what he would become. He said, “You still believe you were right?”
Fentor remained mute.
“Answer!” said Morrolan.
“I do, my lord!” said Fentor, glaring now.
“Well, then explain to me why, and perhaps I will be convinced.”
Fentor, who had no small amount of experience with commanders, not to mention generals, stared in surprise.
“You will?”
“Perhaps.”
Fentor frowned, “I will explain my thinking, then.”
“Do so,” said Morrolan.
Chapter the Fifty-First
How Our Friends Prepared for Battle,
With Some Discussion of How Conversations
Can Be Overheard, and How This Might Lead
To the Transmission of Significant Messages
While Fentor attempts to explain to Morrolan certain principles of military science—principles which, we fear, could only interest a small fraction of our readers—we will turn our attention to a place some fifteen miles away—because even as Morrolan and Fentor were looking east, so Zerika and Khaavren were looking west.
“I confess,” Zerika was saying, “that I should feel better if I knew how many of them there were.”
“Well,” said Khaavren. “Since you bring that up, so would I. It seems clear that those we pursue have either joined with a larger army, or are about to do so. I, like you, wish to know which it is, as well as the size and precise disposition of this larger army which is, at this moment, only theoretical.”
“Is there a way to learn?”
“I could go there.”
“I should rather you send someone. I wish you to stay nearby in order that I might have your advice.”
“What advice can I give without knowing more about our enemy?”
“As to that, I do not know. But send someone else.”
“Very well.” Khaavren frowned, considered, and then gave instructions to Pel and Kytraan, who bowed and departed without comment. Khaavren turned to Zerika and said, “Well?”
“Yes?”
“You wished my advice?”
Zerika shook her head. “How, you do not?”
“In fact, Captain, what I wish for is your companionship. I find that having you nearby reassures me.”
Khaavren clenched his teeth severely against the display of any emotion, and gave the sort of grunt that he had been accustomed to make when, as Captain of the Phoenix Guard in what he thought of as his “old life,” the Emperor had uttered some enormity to which he, Khaavren, had been unable to make any response that was both honest and respectful.
Zerika interpreted this grunt correctly and made the only possible response—that is to say, none at all. In this, her actions were as appropriate to her station as Khaavren’s were appropriate to his. At this point, the reader may have observed that, in many ways, Zerika had fallen instantly into her rôle—she was acting more Imperial, one might say, with each passing day. Was this because she came from the House of the Phoenix, and, what is more, from a line that had produced many Emperors? Was it a chance matter of character? Was it from certain training she had received, perhaps unknowingly, during her youth?
Alas, this is not a question the historian can answer. We know how she acted, because all of the records are clear on this matter, as well as countless letters and journals that speak of interactions with her. But we cannot know why it is, and moreover, we must look with great suspicion upon anyone who claims to such knowledge.
An hour or two later, Pel and Kytraan returned and presented themselves, saying, “We beg permission to report on our mission.”
Khaavren nodded, and Zerika said, “I should like nothing better. Did you learn anything?”
“Nearly,” said Kytraan.
“The troop we fought with before is now scarcely two miles from us,” said Pel.
“And what are they doing?” asked Zerika eagerly.
“As we are,” said Kytraan. “That is to say, resting.”
Zerika nodded. “Yes, we are close. If, indeed, their destination is Dzur Mountain, as it appears to be, then another two days will see us there, and they wish to be rested.”
“No doubt Your Majesty is correct,” said Pel, bowing slightly.
