by Steven Brust
“I am doing so now, my friend.”
A moment later Morrolan said, “Well, I have told him.”
“And he said?”
“That he would commence his attack.”
“And, do you know what form this attack will take?”
“I know that even less than I know his present location.”
“Well, we must watch for it.”
“We must first watch for this assault which seems about to break upon our forces, and it looks very much as if, this time, they will sweep past those whom the Necromancer has re-animated. And, after that, it will not be long before we are overwhelmed.”
“That is true, that is true—but what is this? It seems that band we saw is now within our walls. Come, let us find out who they are.”
“I shall lead,” said Morrolan.
“I follow you, my lord.”
Morrolan went down from the elevated position he had occupied (in fact, it was on the roof of the temple), and brought himself to where the small band stood on their sweating and blowing horses. Morrolan approached them without hesitation, inclined his head, and said, “I am Southmoor. Has your group a leader whom I ought specially to address?”
The answer came at once “I should imagine that would be me. My name is Zerika, and, as you may deduce from the Orb circling my head, I am your Empress.”
“My Empress!” cried Morrolan, suddenly holding himself very still, and staring, first at Zerika, and then at the Orb.
“Kneeling may be appropriate,” observed Zerika.
“My Empress?” repeated Morrolan, still with a look of consternation upon his countenance. “But, by what means did I acquire an Empress? I give you my word, three months ago I didn’t have so much as an estate!”
“Do you do yourself the honor to jest with me, sir?”
“Perhaps a little,” said Morrolan. “And yet, you may see—”
Teldra whispered in Morrolan’s ear, “She should be addressed as Your Majesty,” at exactly the same moment that Khaavren said the same thing, only not whispering in the least.
Morrolan responded to the one with a shrug, and to the other with a raised eyebrow, and it is possible that matters could have turned unpleasant, except that Zerika choose to smile—that smile that has been called irresistible by many a courtier and diplomatist—and said, “My lord Morrolan, if you do not recognize me, then, if I may ask, why do you do yourself the honor of fighting my battles? And very effectually, at that.”
Morrolan bowed to acknowledge the compliment, and said, “I am fighting this battle for the simplest possible reason: Sethra Lavode asked me to, and she is my friend.”
“Well then, my lord, perhaps I could be your friend as well, and then you could fight for me on my own behalf.”
“Why, one can always use friends.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“Sethra Lavode, to prove her friendship, gave me this sword.” He touched the hilt of the weapon at his side—a weapon, we should add, that everyone had noticed.
Zerika laughed. “I believe you do yourself the honor of bargaining with me. Are you entirely certain you are a Dragon, my friend? For you begin to sound like a Chreotha.”
“If you mean to insult me, madam, I fear I am too recently come to this land to comprehend. I beg you, in that case, to be more explicit.”
“Ah, you were raised in the East?”
“I was.”
“Much is, then, explained. My dear Morrolan, I ought to glower at you, as the brave captain does, or else give you a glance full of haughty disdain, as you perceive our good Lyorn is doing. But, do you know, I believe I like you. Therefore, I will prove my friendship to you by saying that, if the Empire survives, you shall be given the three counties to the north. Come, what do you say to that?”
“I say that Your Majesty’s wish is my command.”
Zerika laughed. “Yes, young Dragonlord, I do like you. And my wish, at this moment, is to remove myself from the back of this beast who must be as weary of my company as I am of his, and to walk around for a while under the power of my own legs while we decide what we are to do to earn you your three counties.”
Morrolan bowed. “Very good, Your Majesty.” Then he glanced first at Khaavren, then at Aerich. “And, should either of you wish to express to me in words what you have been saying so eloquently without them, then certainly we can make the opportunity to give these matters the discussion they merit.”
Khaavren said, “Of course. I shall be only too glad to be at your service. But first, I would suggest we consider dispatching our common enemy, before we put so much effort into calculating how to reduce our own numbers.”
Aerich shrugged.
“That is just as well,” said the Empress. “For now, is there someone who can hold my stirrup?”
“With Your Majesty’s permission,” said Morrolan, “I should like to claim that honor for myself.”
Zerika smiled, “With pleasure, my lord.”
As Morrolan performed this service, the others in the band dismounted as best they could without the luxury of having their stirrups held. Khaavren, the first off his horse, bowed and said, “I am acting, for the moment, as Her Majesty’s captain. My name is Khaavren, originally of Castle Rock, and now of Whitecrest.”
“It is a pleasure indeed,” said Morrolan, even as Zerika frowned, presumably in response to the phrase “acting for the moment,” which the brave Tiassa had permitted to escape his lips.
“And this,” said Morrolan, “is my seneschal, Lady Teldra. Over there is my general, whose name is Fentor, and who will, I am sure, be pleased to greet you when he is no longer quite so occupied with the ongoing battle.”
Khaavren nodded, and the others were duly introduced. When this ceremony was completed, Morrolan instructed Lady Teldra to see to it that they were quartered as well as possible, especially Her Majesty, against the chance that they might survive the battle.
“Anything is possible,” agreed the Empress. “At this moment, however, we should like to view the engagement.”
“Very well,” said Morrolan. “Although, at the moment, it is in a sort of lull. The enemy is about to launch another assault, and I—”
“Yes, and you?”
“I have given orders that I hope will gain us a respite, during which time, perhaps, we will manage to come up with another idea. But, in the meantime, may I suggest that the top of the temple—the large structure there—will provide Your Majesty a suitable place from which to observe?”
“Very well,” said Zerika.
“If Your Majesty will permit,” said Teldra, “I will show you the way up.”
Zerika smiled and said, “Yes, please. It will be frustrating, and yet, also, undeniably a pleasure to witness a battle in which I am not required to take part.”
“I will see to the horses,” said Khaavren.
The Empress nodded. “When you are done, join me. And you others may accompany me as well.”
Piro and Kytraan begged leave to assist Khaavren; the others followed Teldra and the Empress to the roof of the temple. As they walked, Röaana whispered to Ibronka, “There is no shortage of soldiers here, is there?”
“Indeed?” remarked the Dzur. “I had not observed.”
“How, you had not noticed all these fine men in their black and silver?”
“Why no, I confess I had not remarked upon it.”
“My dear, are you ill?”
“I? Not the least in the world, I assure you. And, truly, my friend, if you wish to be agreeable, you will not bring up the matter again.”
“Why, if that is your wish—”
“Oh, it is, I promise.”
“Very well, then we will not discuss it.”
“You are adorable, my friend, and I thank you.”
Röaana’s bemusement, however, was short-lived, because even as they began climbing up to the temple roof, Ibronka was unable to prevent a sigh escaping her lips, and, at the same time, a glance back
ward in the direction of Piro, the Viscount of Adrilankha, and this glance and sigh were sufficient to answer all of the questions Röaana might have on this subject.
At this moment, the cry came up, “They are coming,” and Röaana ran to look.
Chapter the Fifty-Sixth
How the Ninth (or the Tenth As It Is
Sometimes Considered, Though Such
Numbers Are, in Truth, Unimportant)
Battle of Dzur Mountain Was Fought—Concluded
It is impossible to describe the feeling engendered by the charge of Izak’s entire army on the small fortifications surrounding Morrolan’s temple. To use numbers such as ten to one, or a hundred to one, conveys nothing of the emotions that course through one’s being at the sight of an enemy charging with such overwhelming force. Along the lines, hearts pounded and hands gripped weapons, with countenances set in what could be considered masks of determination—for no one, whatever his reaction might be, wished to let the soldier next to him know what was passing in his heart.
The most common emotion was certainly fear. Yet not, in fact, fear of the enemy, so much as a fear of failing to do one’s duty. It is safe to say that no one, from Morrolan on down to the lowest private soldier in his command, had ever before been in a situation so grim; yet the fear of death in battle paled beside the fear being thought cowardly or weak by the others on the line.
There is no doubt that many thought about the Empire at that moment. Indeed, while the desire for brevity has forced us to brush past the effect on Morrolan’s army of seeing the Orb, the reader can be assured that this visible sign of what they fought for was, for many of the soldiers, like a powerful intoxicant, and the resolution to die in this noblest of causes held many of them steady who might otherwise have “wielded the leg,” as soldiers put it. To others, it was simply a matter of personal pride. “I will not,” a soldier might tell himself, “run an instant before the man to my left does the same.” And this was, in many cases, sufficient.
The corps of sergeants held many in check—in some cases because the sergeant was loved, and the soldier did not wish to shame him, and in other cases because the sergeant was hated, and the soldier did not wish to give him the satisfaction of seeing weakness.
A few of them, to be sure, had entirely different feelings: some of them had long dreamed of the opportunity to die gloriously in battle, and this moment seemed to them to be the greatest moment of their lives; they feverishly willed the enemy closer, promising themselves to take at least three of the enemy with them.
But, whatever was passing in their hearts, they held steady as the foot soldiers of Kâna and his general, Izak, descended upon them as one of the “thunder waves” of Southpoint crashes onto the shore of that tropical village. But instead of particles of water, this wave was made of soldiers—many of them hardened Dragon warriors every bit as skilled as the defenders. And instead of breaking upon sand, this wave would break upon flimsy barricades scantily manned by Morrolan’s quickly thrown together, exhausted, and defeated army. And instead of the thunder caused by the breaking of water upon water, the sounds would be those of metal upon metal, and the cries of the wounded.
One might suppose, under the circumstances, that all eyes would have been riveted upon this impending flood (if the reader will permit us to carry our metaphor a little further inland). In this supposition, the reader would be very nearly correct—nearly, but not completely. There was one pair of eyes—those belonging to Morrolan—which were not fixed upon the enemy, but, rather, were searching, attempting to see beyond the massed soldiery. Even as the enemy closed to within a few hundred meters, still Morrolan, from the temple roof, continued searching, as if he expected to see someone or something emerge suddenly.
The reader will, we believe, not be astonished to learn that, in fact, he found what he was seeking.
“There!” he cried, pointing to his left. “And there, too!” he said, looking now to his right. “Do you see them?”
“What is it?” said the Empress, now standing next to him, and following his gaze as best she could.
“Does Your Majesty not see? There, just beyond that rise!”
“The Gods! What are those?”
“Wolves.”
“There are hundreds of them! And there, what are those?”
“Dzur. There seem to be ten or twelve there, and another nine or ten on this side.”
“But—they are attacking the enemy!”
“I hope so! Should they attack us, well, our plan would not be nearly so good.”
“But, how is this possible?”
“It was arranged,” said Morrolan. “Arranged? But, who arranged it?”
“I had that honor.”
“But, who carried it out?”
“The Warlock,” said Morrolan.
“Who is the Warlock?” said Zerika.
“A pleasant enough fellow whom we met upon our travels, and who is skilled in the arts of Eastern magic—which magic I hope Your Majesty will not disparage.”
“Disparage? I? Not the least in the world. Even were I so inclined, I could hardly do so now, as these beasts fall upon our enemies, causing far more confusion among their ranks than mere numbers could account for. Do you see? The attack is faltering upon the right, before they have even reached our fortifications. And there, now it is falling back upon the left, as well. And those in the middle are now discovering that they are alone—you can nearly see the consternation upon the faces of the officers. We are saved!”
“For the moment,” agreed Morrolan. “In any case, we have gained a certain amount of time. It now remains for us to make good use of it.”
“Well, I agree entirely with your reasoning. And, have you a plan for making use of this gift of time?”
“Not yet, but I hope to discover one.”
They watched as, for the third time, the attack receded before them. And, as before, there was a pause while the enemy regrouped.
“How long until darkness?” asked Morrolan.
“Plenty of time for them,” said Khaavren.
“Yes.”
“Ah!” said the Empress suddenly. “But, who is that?”
“Where?” said Khaavren and Morrolan.
“There, do you see? A rider seems determined to gain the fortifications by himself, where the masses of the enemy have failed. There seems to be a wolf and a dzur nipping at his horse’s heels as he comes.”
“Oh,” said Morrolan. “That is the Warlock, and the wolf and the dzur you see are not nipping at his heels, but, rather, guarding and accompanying him.”
“Impossible!” said the Empress.
“Your Majesty will shortly learn if I have spoken incorrectly, for he is very nearly here, and Fentor—that is my general—is causing a breach to be made in our defenses in order to permit his entry.”
The opening was made, and the rider entered. The Empress’s eyes were fixed upon him as he dismounted (by which time, though none of the onlookers had observed the transformation, his companions were once more a shabby-looking white dog, and a small black cat).
“Why, he is an Easterner,” cried the Empress.
“Indeed,” observed Morrolan. “Many of those who practice the arts of Eastern magic are Easterners.”
Zerika turned her attention to him, as if she would reprimand him for daring to speak ironically to her, but in the end she said nothing, instead turning her eyes, now burning, back upon the figure of the Easterner, who was climbing up the rude wooden stairway. Indeed, it must be said (for it did not escape the quick eyes of Khaavren) that as she watched, there was even a certain trembling in her lip, and she uttered under her breath, “Oh, it is he! It is he! But how came he here?” in tones that escaped everyone’s ears except those of our brave captain, who frowned to overhear it, and could not help but wonder. For this reason, when the Warlock came closer, Khaavren observed him carefully, and this observation was rewarded by catching the merest glimpse, as it were, of sudden shock upon the fac
e of the Easterner, who at once covered up this surprise upon receiving a sign from the Empress—a sign that, like the murmur and the expression, were observed by no one except Khaavren. Our sharp-eyed Tiassa noticed more than this, however: the Warlock’s two companions, whom he was never seen without, upon seeing the Empress, seemed about to run directly to her, stopping only when the Warlock gave them a sharp, whispered command.
In the meantime, Morrolan, who had noticed none of this, said, “Your Majesty, this is the Warlock, a good friend, a brave companion, and a loyal ally. Warlock, this is Her Imperial Majesty Zerika.”
At this point, Teldra, who had remained very much in the background, stepped forward and whispered into Morrolan’s ear. Morrolan coughed, and said, “I beg your pardon. Her Majesty Zerika the Fourth, Empress of Dragaera, Princess of the House of the Phoenix, Duchess of Boxhills and Nerahwa, and so on, and so on.” Upon concluding this speech, Morrolan glanced at Teldra, who smiled fleetingly, as if to tell Morrolan that he had performed his duty well.
“It is an honor, Your Majesty,” said the Warlock.
“It is a pleasure, Warlock. But, come, that is no name for you. Haven’t you a title?”
“A title, Your Majesty? But then, I am not even a citizen.”
“Well, but now you are, because I declare you to be one. And, moreover, you may now call yourself Viscount of Brimford, which title will be Imperial, as you are obviously of no House, but will be considered hereditary. We hope you accept this gift as our thanks for the service you have rendered the Empire.”
The Warlock—that is to say, Lord Brimford—knelt quickly and touched his lips to the proffered hand. Morrolan, observing this, was astonished at how deeply the Warlock was affected by the honor—it seemed as if the Easterner’s hand actually trembled at the touch of Her Majesty’s.
Brimford rose once more, and bowed, and backed away several steps, though his eyes remained fixed upon Zerika’s face with an intensity that could have been considered improper, had anyone stopped to do any considering. The Empress herself, after a moment, turned back to Morrolan and said, “Come. Our friend has gained us some time; what are we to do with it?”
