Seventh Decimate

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  When that moment arrived, he meant to be ready. He believed that he was capable of more than fire. He could be an inferno.

  As Elgart had foreseen, the Amikans were gone. They had lost too many men. The wain’s progress was hampered only by the weight of its burdens, and by the rumpled grasslands it crossed.

  After two days of rest and increasing impatience, Prince Bifalt joined Elgart and Klamath riding. On the third day, he began to smell the parched breezes gusting from the eastern desert. During the fourth, the grasses and bracken started to fail, slowly giving way to patches of hardpan and small mounds of sand. And on the fifth, after less than an hour’s travel, the company crested a rise to gaze for the first time at the baked expanse of the wasteland.

  On the border of known lands, the Prince halted to consider his course.

  Across a distance that was difficult to estimate, confused by the shimmer of heat, he saw low dunes piling higher as they leaned eastward. Nearer at hand, however, the ground was true hardpan, a flat plain scoured to its foundations by desert winds. It might support the weight of the wain’s wheels. Then the oxen would be able to haul their burden more easily for a league or more, until they came to the dunes.

  But Prince Bifalt owed a debt to the teamsters. He felt reluctant to prolong their exertions, or to extend the straining of their beasts. Eventually, they would have to go back the way they came. Studying the future through a haze as misleading as a mirage, he decided against asking them to go farther. He and his riflemen would make do with horses.

  When he told Spliner and Winnow to take their beasts and Captain Swalish’s rifle and return home, they shrugged without any signs of gratification or relief. They hardly seemed to care what they did or where they did it. But they kept their usual complaints to themselves as they helped Elgart and Klamath unload as much food, water, bedding, and fodder as the horses could carry. And after finishing that task, they did not depart. Instead they lingered to care for the oxen. In a sidelong fashion, they watched Prince Bifalt and his comrades.

  When the guardsmen were ready, Spliner offered the Prince an unexpected farewell. He was a big man, not so much tall as broad, and solid as a boulder. His face twisted as if he were uncomfortable speaking to people of higher birth—or perhaps to anyone at all. Studying his boots, the teamster said only, “I will tell Boy. The tale will please him.”

  Prince Bifalt surprised himself by bowing. Apparently, he was capable of gratitude, despite his unbending nature.

  Soon he and his veterans walked down off the verge of the desert onto the packed plain, leading their laden mounts.

  The region was as brutal as he had feared, and more desolate. Erratic winds gusted and cut at the hardpan, but raised no whiff of dust. Instead, they had a desiccating effect like the Decimate of drought. Before long, the Prince felt his eyes parching in their sockets. His skin became old parchment. Although he set a moderate pace for his companions, an immediate thirst sapped their strength. And around them, nothing grew. No living thing forced its way out of the earth. The plain seemed to be a place where sorcerers of wind and drought had been at play, reducing a once-verdant world to blank death.

  Within half a league, the Bellegerins had discarded their helms. The metal served only to cook their brains more quickly. Later, they rid themselves of their breastplates, the last of their armor. They could not bear the weight.

  For an hour or more, they led the horses while the sun’s heat accumulated and the air’s shimmering made the horizons vague, strangely unattainable. Then Prince Bifalt called a halt. Already, he felt like he could drink a lake.

  As he and Elgart gave rations of water to the beasts, Klamath wiped his brow, squinting through the haze in all directions. After a moment, he mustered his courage to address the Prince.

  “Highness, may I ask? Do your maps show the extent of this waste?”

  Elgart snorted unkindly. “We have hardly begun. Are you defeated so soon?”

  But Prince Bifalt was not inclined to rebuff Klamath. He had come too far, lost too many men. He was tired of gnawing dumbly on his fears and frustrations. “Ask what you wish,” he replied. “We are alone. Our lives depend on each other. I have no use for secrets.

  “I have seen two maps. I have the better one with me. It shows we have left Belleger. But the men who made it did not know how far this desert extends, or what lies beyond it. Our only choice is to go on until we find the library—or until we can go no farther.

  “One of the Amikans we fed—” He cursed to himself at the memory. “An old man named Ambrost. He described the library as ‘A great storehouse of books against the mountains. A storehouse like one castle piled on top of another to reach the heavens.’ If any word of that was true, there are mountains beyond the desert. But he also said our goal is in Amika. It is not. If it were, those butchers would not have needed to ambush us. How can we believe him?

  “From the start, every step of our quest has been uncertain.”

  Klamath winced. “Then, Highness,” he asked, “how will we survive? This desert looks vast. We have water for three days, food for four, fodder for two at most. But the horses will founder on those dunes. We will be forced to turn them loose.” Distress mounted in his voice. “And without them, we will not be able to carry so much water and food. The mountains may be a hundred leagues away.

  “We are going to die.”

  He might as well have said, Belleger is going to die.

  Again Elgart snorted. “You are going to die, Klamath, if you waste your strength counting obstacles. I am not such a fool. I prefer to let them surprise me.” Then his manner softened. With half his mouth, he smiled ruefully. “Still, you have it right. I may outlast you for a day or two. Not more. The heat alone will finish me.”

  Glancing at Prince Bifalt, Elgart concluded more harshly, “But the Prince is not like us. He will not die.”

  Klamath stared at his comrade. “How not?”

  With his arms folded on his chest, the Prince waited for Elgart’s answer.

  The thin man considered what he would say. When he replied, he addressed himself to the King’s son. “Highness”—he stressed the title sardonically—“I have waited to speak until there is no one left who might carry the tale. It is not mine to tell. But Klamath will not reveal it. I will not. And you surely will not. I wish to speak before I am too weak to think.”

  Prince Bifalt nodded his consent.

  Elgart studied him. “That grenade should have killed you. I saw it. You were too near the blast to endure it. Yet you suffered only a cut forehead.”

  “It was night, Elgart!” protested Klamath. “And we were beset. Amikans were everywhere. How did you see—?”

  Elgart silenced his comrade brusquely. “There is more.” Still facing the Prince, he said, “You did not know it, Highness—you were unconscious—but I was among those who retrieved you during the last battle, when we used our rifles for the first time. You shot two Amikan Magisters. I was near. I saw a bolt of lightning burn the flesh from your bones. I saw you fall. But when we reached you, you were only unconscious. The bolt melted stone until it looked like glass. It was near enough to scald your skin. Yet you were unharmed.”

  Now Klamath gaped. Still waiting, Prince Bifalt held Elgart’s gaze.

  The guardsman’s tone was a sizzle of fury. “How did you survive then, Highness? How can you withstand grenades now?”

  Softly, dangerously, the Prince countered, “How do you account for it?”

  “The answer is plain, Prince of Belleger,” snarled the cynical veteran. “You have been spared by sorcery—by sorcerers so strong that distance does not affect them. You are in league with Magisters.

  “I thought the one who protected you from lightning was Amikan. Their Magisters were near enough to see your peril. They must have intervened somehow. But now I am forced to reconsider. There was no theurgy in the ambus
h. No Magister witnessed your attempt to save the wain. Yet you were saved from a blast that would have ended our quest. I have to believe your allies do not serve Amika. They live where you wish to go. They act to protect you because you are in league with them.”

  Prince Bifalt’s response was direct. Without warning, he punched Elgart in the face.

  The guardsman hit the ground like a man flung against a wall.

  Before he could rise, the Prince stood over him. Ignoring Klamath, who had drawn back a step and covered his mouth, the King’s son held up his fist, ready to strike again.

  “Now hear me, Elgart,” he rasped at the rage on the fallen man’s visage. “Hear me well, Klamath.

  “I am Bellegerin. I would die for my king, or for my homeland, or for either of you. I am not a traitor. I will not fail my father.

  “And sorcery is an abomination.” He had flames in him. They demanded an outlet. “It is as dishonorable as treason. Magisters in safety butcher men in peril. It makes them arrogant. It makes them despicable. Look at Slack and see the truth.” He thought of his father flayed by pain and helplessness; dependent on theurgists who were his only defense, although they could not save his realm. “If I had the power to end all sorcery with a word, I would do it.

  “Your accusation is offensive. I repudiate it. I am not allied with sorcerers. I do not serve them.”

  Then he made an effort to master himself. Opening his hands, he showed his palms to Elgart, a gesture of placation.

  “Also there is this. What possible purpose would an alliance with sorcerers serve? If it does not help us against Amika, what is the use of it? Have they and I gone to such lengths to cause the deaths of a few guardsmen? Or perhaps to feed a few Amikans? Do you suppose I led you here to watch you die? For what? If I am in league with sorcerers, both they and I are insane, and everything we have done is stark madness.”

  When the Prince saw Elgart’s anger fade, he stepped back. Speaking now as much to the broiling heat as to his men, he said grimly, “I have indeed been chosen by some sorcerer. Or sorcerers. I have been protected just as you claim. And I have heard a voice in my mind, asking if I am ready. I do not know how it was done, or why. We all know the limitations of Magisters. I have never heard of one who could cast his awareness or his power farther than he could see. But this I swear.

  “I am not ready. I was selected without my knowledge”—he brandished his fists as he shouted—“and without my consent!”

  He let his cry fade into the desert air. When it was gone, he continued more quietly, “I have promised myself I will give them the reward they deserve. But I fear I will not be able to keep my word. I am only one man. How can I want your deaths? I need you. If I had sorcerers for allies, sorcerers with incomparable strengths, our comrades would still be with us, Camwish and Vinsid and Captain Swalish and Nowel, all of them. I would know Slack’s secrets. And I would defy any Magister who tried to make me his servant.”

  There he fell silent, waiting to hear how his men would respond.

  “Well, Highness,” murmured Elgart before Klamath spoke. Watching the Prince closely, he clambered to his feet. With one hand, he rubbed his bruised cheek. “I am answered.

  “I am a divided man.” He rubbed at his scar. “Anyone can see it. Despair and urgency. Curiosity and anger. Also I am quick. Too quick at times. I often speak faster than I think. My accusation was stupid. I regret it.”

  Prince Bifalt nodded. “I have no use for secrets,” he repeated. “Not in this extremity.” With a gesture, he indicated the wasteland. “Now you know mine. I do not fault you for your doubts.”

  “Yet yours is a heavy fist,” replied Elgart, grinning.

  The Prince faced him without flinching. “My burden is heavy. It wearies me. It infuriates me. I know who I am. I know I have been chosen. But I do not know why.”

  “You are the King’s eldest son,” ventured Elgart. “King Abbator’s heir. If you cannot do what these sorcerers want, no one can.”

  “Yes,” snorted Prince Bifalt. “Of course. But why was I singled out privately? Why does the voice speak only in the silence of my mind? Why did these sorcerers not make their wishes known to my father?”

  Elgart seemed to stare with one side of his face, scowl with the other. “I have no answer, Highness. What do you fear?”

  Through his teeth, the Prince said, “I can only think of one explanation. I am my father’s son and heir, yes. No one else can do as much harm to Belleger. No one else can do more to assure Amika’s victory. If this is not the reason I was chosen, there was no need to summon me in secret.”

  “Highness?” asked Klamath weakly. “Harm to Belleger? How?”

  Prince Bifalt did not respond. He kept his attention focused on Elgart.

  Now Elgart’s whole face scowled. “And you are sure these sorcerers are from the library?”

  “It is their Repository,” retorted the Prince. Magister Altimar had said so. “Where else can they be from? There is nowhere else.”

  After a long moment, Elgart nodded. “As you say, Highness.”

  At last, Prince Bifalt turned to Klamath.

  “Highness—” began Klamath. Then he stopped, clearly bewildered. Taking his time, he admitted, “I did not know what Elgart knew. I do not understand it. How can you harm Belleger? In this desert?” Then he took a deep breath, released it in a sigh. “But you are my prince. My king is your father. That I understand. While I live, I will follow you. What else can I do?”

  With a quick glance at Elgart, the rifleman risked adding, “Only, Highness—if I may ask—? Do not strike Elgart again. He is my comrade. I serve you, and he is my friend. I cannot choose between you.”

  The Prince disguised a smile. “I will not. I was wrong. We are Bellegerin. We must not fight each other. And if I do—if I forget myself—Elgart may return my blow. If he does, he will have cause, or he will not. In either event, you may find choosing is not so difficult.”

  For Prince Bifalt, Klamath’s frown of consternation was oddly comforting—as was Elgart’s sour laughter. Bellegerin veterans, both of them. His people. He might have picked other men to accompany him in this desert, but he could not have picked better.

  With his darkest secret spoken, he was able to walk for another league across the plain before heat and thirst drove every other thought from his mind.

  Toward midafternoon, he and his companions reached the dunes. Two steps on the shifting sands confirmed that the horses were useless here. They were too heavy: their hooves would sink deep. Before they gained the nearest crest, they would founder in exhaustion, if they did not break their legs first. And forcing them upward against their will would cost strength the Bellegerins could not afford.

  The Prince did not flinch from the prospect of releasing the beasts. He had no wish to watch their struggles and suffering. Still, he regretted the necessity. Now he, Elgart, and Klamath would have to carry as much as they could lift on their backs: a scant half of their remaining supplies. Their feet, like the horses’ hooves, would sink in the sand, sucking the vitality from their muscles. And the sun would continue its pitiless assault. Their thirst would grow while their rations of water shrank: it would work to drive them mad. In addition, Slack had spoken of burns. Without the traitor’s balms and unguents, the Bellegerins would be fried until their skin blistered and peeled away.

  Discarding the fodder so that the horses could eat their fill, the men prepared their own burdens: their bedrolls, as much water as they could carry, their rations of stale bread, cured meat, and dried fruit. From their small bundles of garments, they took shirts to cover their heads. But they kept their weapons: their daggers, sabers, and rifles, their satchels of loaded clips and extra cartridges.

  When Elgart and Klamath were ready, Prince Bifalt turned his back on the horses, the plain, and Belleger, and began to slog upward. What else could they do? The Prince
had been singled out. The sorcerers who had summoned him would not relent now. He needed to know why. And he needed to save his people. The conflagration waiting in him required an outlet. It could not be satisfied, except by succeeding in his quest—and by humbling the arrogance of his summons.

  Trudging ever more slowly up the slopes, then floundering to control their descents on the steeper eastward sides, the men conquered two dunes before their strength failed. In the valley at the foot of another rise, they sank to the sand. The crest behind them blocked the sun: they stretched out in the comparative bliss of shade. In another hour, night would fall. Its chill would bring a deeper relief. Already, the sand around them was giving up its heat. Still, they felt like small furnaces themselves, retaining the sun’s fire while it faded from the world.

  After a time, the Prince announced hoarsely, “We cannot endure this. We must change our efforts.

  “When night comes, we will attempt another dune, or perhaps two. I will hope for three. Then we will dig into the sand for shelter.” Their bedrolls would provide a measure of protection from the sand as well as the cold. “There we will rest through the morning. After that, we will do as little as possible by daylight. In darkness, we will do as much as we can.”

  “Sorcerers willing,” muttered Elgart, a low scrape of sound. He did not say more.

  Unsteady as old men, the three veterans each drank a little water. They gnawed on hard bread, fruit like leather, slices of dried meat. They drank again. Then they sprawled where they were to rest until darkness and stars came to cover the wasteland.

  Stunned by weariness, Prince Bifalt was slow to realize that Klamath was talking.

  The guardsman seemed unaware of his own voice. He spoke in a low, blurred rasp, like a man in a reverie or dream. He did not ask to be heard. Perhaps he did not hear himself. But what he said made it clear that he was thinking about Prince Bifalt’s assertions. Sorcery is an abomination.