The Sword of the South - eARC

by David Weber

  The music was a dirge as darkness swallowed the hill, overwhelming the gryphon banners, crushing in death what could never be beaten into submission. And as the harp wept, Kenhodan saw the sea-girt island once more as the cold glory of destruction spiraled up from its walls and towers over a sea like a glittering mirror. But this time…this time he saw the fire strike.

  The brilliance burst, the life stuff of the last white wizards of Kontovar roaring into the heavens in a million flaming pinnacles. They seared the clouds aside and hurled themselves upon the conquered continent, and where they touched was destruction. Soil and stone flared like tinder, ran like wax, and billows of flaming smoke veiled unguessable devastation. Cities burned like pitch, guttering into extinction. Fortresses hissed briefly, like coal newly dropped into a furnace, then exploded into steam and rubble. Armies of slaves screamed in one horrible voice, the hideous death cry of an entire continent as they were consumed, but the destruction was too vast, too terrifying, to be grasped.

  Kenhodan cowered before it as the music thundered to its crescendo, crashing over all the world in a hurricane of loss, of destruction, of grief and memory and unendurable loss…and then, mercifully, between one note and the next, it ended.

  Silence fell, and Kenhodan shuddered, sucking in air as he escaped the ancient terror. Sweat soaked him, and his muscles were water.

  He opened his eyes slowly. Chernion lay on her face, her hands clasped over the back of her head in fragile defense, her shoulders heaving. Bahzell still stood, but only his locked thews kept him on his feet. His eyes were pits of horror, staring at nothing, while his ears pressed close to his skull. Somehow he’d drawn his sword despite the music’s spell, but the blade trembled in his hand and firelight shook from the steel in waves. The coursers stood like stone, magnificent equestrian sculptures, carved out of eternity’s heart by harp song. Even Wencit knelt, beaten to his knees by the harp, and his shoulders shuddered while tears covered his cheeks with flame.

  Kenhodan shook his head and tried to rise…and his muscles obeyed him as if nothing had happened. He felt imprisoned in his own body, but that body moved easily, with all its wonted suppleness. He straightened and stood, gazing up the mailed cliff of the dragon’s throat, watching the vapor from its jaws streak the moon, and Torfrio’s great eyes were half-slitted, jagged green fire spurting from under heavy lids.

  Then the head lowered slowly. The sinuous neck curved, bending itself to half encircle him where he stood and press the mighty chin to the ground. The green eyes were no more than a yard above Kenhodan’s head, and they opened slowly to show him the incredible depths of those ancient pupils.

  “I taste the timestorm,” the dragon rumbled slowly. “Truth rides the years, Young Killer.”

  “You know me,” Kenhodan said, and his voice was firm and measured in the shocked hollow of the night. “Do you know the name of that tune, as well?”

  “Aye, Young Killer. I know ‘The Fall of Hacromanthi.’”

  “You know it, Son of Fire—but what does it mean to you?”

  “Mean, Young Killer?” The green eyes flared like bonfires. “How strange that you should ask me for that! But the timestorm’s moment is not now. Not yet!”

  Kenhodan swallowed the refusal. He longed to ask more questions, but he dared not. Mystery and danger surrounded him; if he’d ever doubted, he no longer could. Not after his second taste of that devastating music. If he could wreak that with nothing but a harp, what else could he do? What other secrets lay hidden within him, waiting to wake too soon at a single unwise answer? He had only Wencit to guide him, and if the wizard couldn’t answer his questions, Kenhodan dared not risk upsetting his plans by asking them of others. For the first time he accepted that fully…and, to his own surprise, without bitterness.

  Silence lingered for what seemed a small eternity before Torfrio, finally, broke it once more.

  “For what you have done, will do, and may do, Young Killer,” the dragon rumbled in strangely formal thunder, “you have my service. I will bear you over Bellwater.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Wizards’ Plans

  It was not, Kenhodan discovered ─ not entirely to his surprise ─ quite that simple. Torfrio could have carried them in his talons, but not without injuring them severely, assuming the horses didn’t simply die of fright, which made that approach somewhat short of desirable. And, unfortunately, they had neither the time, the tools, nor the material to build the sort of platforms the black wizards’ enslaved dragons had carried in Kontovar. It was left for Torfrio to suggest the means, though he did so with manifest distaste.

  “You must ride on my back, Young Killer—you and your friends and beasts. I cannot fly with you to block my wings, so I swim.”

  “But—”

  “My scales are thick; my back is broad. I cannot be hurt by such as you upon me, and you cannot fall. This is the only way.”

  “I…see.”

  Kenhodan turned helplessly to Wencit, but the wizard only smiled and nodded in agreement. He seemed to have recovered from the harping, although Bahzell was still shaken and Chernion…Kenhodan feared her reason had broken. She showed no more volition than a newborn child, allowing them to push or lead her from place to place but not moving at all of her own will. Wencit saw the guilt shadows in Kenhodan’s face and drew him quietly aside.

  “Don’t worry about the Borderer, Kenhodan. She’ll recover.”

  “But why was she so much more affected? Why isn’t she recovering now?”

  “Perhaps because she had less warning,” Wencit suggested. “Unlike Bahzell or me, she’d never heard ‘The Fall of Hacromanthi’ before, you know. Or perhaps she has less protection from her dead. But she will recover, though it may take a few hours yet.”

  “If you’re sure,” Kenhodan said doubtfully. “But about this dragon ride…”

  “It should work. Torfrio’s back is longer into broader than Wave Mistress, after all. And he can swim, however much he may hate the very thought.”

  “Why should he hate it?”

  “Red dragons are fire worms, the mightiest of all the dragons, but they all hate water.” Wencit chuckled. “Enough of it will quench even the dragon princes’ fire. Of course, that would take a lot of water, but the differences between their nature and sphere and that of water go straight to the bone, so Torfrio’s making a great sacrifice to aid us.”

  “But will the horses stand for it?”

  “The coursers understand our need as well as you or I do, and Glamhandro’s willing enough. After I speak to the others, they won’t even know what’s happening. And,” the wizard went on more briskly, “we ought to do this quickly. It’ll be dawn soon, and it would be far better for Torfrio to be far away before anyone sees him and guesses where we crossed.”

  “That makes sense,” Kenhodan said, and turned decisively to Bahzell.

  Wencit watched him with a melancholy inner amusement. Kenhodan had somehow assumed command—a not inconsiderable achievement, especially given Bahzell’s decades of experience and accomplishments. Yet the change was also inevitable, for the hidden part of him was stirring, driving him beyond the reckoning of any but Wencit himself.

  Bahzell Bahnakson’s was a strong, tough personality, one fit to stand unbowed in the face of demons, devils, and the Dark Gods themselves, yet he, too, recognized Kenhodan’s new strength. There was no change in the hradani’s speech or manner, but now it was Kenhodan who stirred their entire party back into motion, oversaw the reloading of their pack animals, and decided how to deal with Chernion…and did it all so naturally he wasn’t even aware he was giving directions to a champion of Tomanāk—two champions of Tomanāk, counting Walsharno—and the last white wizard in all the world.

  Bahzell looked up as he resaddled one of the pack horses at Kenhodan’s instructions and met Wencit’s smile with a grin of his own. He was a warrior, a realist, and a champion of Tomanāk. No champion of the war god was a shy and retiring type, and Bahzell w
as even less shy or retiring than the majority of Tomanāk’s chosen Swords. But for all his own towering accomplishments, all the hard-focused, steely purpose of his personality, there was very little arrogance in Bahzell Bahnakson. Where he was equipped to lead, he would lead; where it seemed best to follow, he would follow, with no lessening of his own confidence, his own tenacious fidelity to the goals and obligations which were his. And for the moment, however it had happened, Kenhodan was the person best suited to command.

  The wizard prepared the packhorses and Chernion’s mare for the crossing with care, laying his hands on their ears and muzzles one by one. His eyes glittered as he whispered to them, and their fear sweat dried and they became as biddable as Chernion.

  With the horses quieted and their equipment packed, Bahzell tightened the mare’s saddle and lifted the assassin into it. Chernion made no resistance as he picked her up as lightly as a child, and she sat her saddle placidly, but she made no effort to take the reins, either.

  Torfrio lumbered down to the river, and they followed, staying well clear of the sworded tail. The grounded dragon seemed clumsy, but that appearance didn’t deceive Kenhodan. He remembered the black dragon’s deadly speed too clearly for that.

  Torfrio’s head swayed as he neared the water. His eyes glittered more brightly than ever, and the breath in his nostrils whistled like a windstorm as he steeled himself and dipped one forefoot into the cold river.

  Steam billowed with the hiss of a Dwarvenhame blast furnace, but Torfrio moved steadily onward until water lapped his huge shoulders. White clouds of vapor pearled under the dying moon, shot through with the polychrome glitter of his scales, and he swung his head and peered back with impatient, lambent eyes. His mighty tail curled into a ramp, and the travelers crossed it to his back.

  The tough scales were unyielding even to the coursers’ hooves, and the travelers mounted to save space, for the flat area of the massive back was limited, despite the dragon’s enormous size, by bulging wing muscles and a sharply serrated spine. Kenhodan and Glamhandro rode at the base of the dragon’s neck with the others strung out behind as Torfrio slid forward. His head arched high and his neck cut the water like a ship’s prow while waves lapped his sides, their crests erupting into steam at the touch, although none reached the travelers.

  Kenhodan smiled quietly as he listened to the whuffling sounds of Torfrio’s breath and the deep, grumbling thunder of what were almost certainly muttered—by dragon standards, at least—maledictions upon all water, but it seemed impolitic to comment on them.

  The Bellwater was over a mile wide in the driest months, and far wider now. Water gurgled as Torfrio forged towards the farther bank, but it was a lengthy business. Steam cloaked them throughout the crossing, and that puzzled Kenhodan, for Torfrio’s scales weren’t especially hot. Warm, yes, but not hot. Was the antipathy between his innermost nature and the water even deeper than Wencit had implied?

  When they finally reached the farther bank, Torfrio could hardly restrain himself long enough for them to disembark. As soon as the last hoof touched land the dragon bustled out of the water with a massive tail flick that sent a wave over a startled Bahzell in a moon-gilded glitter. Kenhodan swallowed a laugh as Torfrio shook himself like an angry cat. Not till he’d shed the last, distasteful drop did the dragon turn to Kenhodan again.

  “Well, Young Killer. You are across…and dry.”

  Humor might—or might not—have accounted for the emphasis on to the final two words, Kenhodan thought.

  “We thank you, Son of Fire.”

  “Thank me not. The bargain is fair, and fairly struck. Until our paths meet in the timestorm, may your sword shine in victory. Farewell!”

  The last word vanished in a sudden blast of wind as the dragon launched into the night sky. Mighty wings shivered the river, driving its cool breath into their faces like a hurricane edged with hot spice. Kenhodan staggered, driven backward three paces by the battering backdraft of those stupendous pinions, and Torfrio arrowed upward into the half-disc of the setting moon with preposterous speed. He dwindled with that same startling rapidity, and Kenhodan turned to Wencit.

  “What next?” he asked dryly in the suddenly still and quiet night.

  “I suggest a secluded campsite,” Wencit replied with a smile. “We can all use a little rest after this…strenuous evening.”

  “Hear, hear,” Bahzell Bahnakson murmured quietly.

  * * *

  Wulfra of Torfo sat in her rock garden and regarded the morning with sour displeasure. She was surrounded by perfect statues of men and women, each with an expression of horror and shock, and she smiled unpleasantly as she reached out to the delicately carved lady in waiting standing beside her exquisitely carved wooden bench with a hopeless face. A fierce blue flame danced from the sorceress’ fingertip to play along a stone arm, and her smile became brighter as a shrill scream filled her mind.

  She let the flame burn for long minutes, savoring the exquisite shrieks only she could hear, then closed her hand to quench it. Silent, broken sobs died slowly, slowly, and Wulfra returned her mind to her problems.

  Curse the old man! Where was he?

  She slid her hands slowly over the polished bench’s smooth grain while she pondered. She knew no more about Wencit’s location now than she had a week ago, and her patron had gone completely silent. He hadn’t contacted her in days. For that matter, he’d ignored her own diffident effort to contact him, and that silence was even more frightening than his icy rage had been. She could do nothing more without the aid he might have lent, but no aid was forthcoming, and the grim truth had become increasingly clear in the days of his silence. Her death would serve his ends as well as her victory, yet if she meant to survive, she must somehow convince him to give her more power.…

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a hesitantly cleared throat, and she looked up with suddenly fiery eyes. Her inner anxiety sharpened her anger at the violation of her command that she not be disturbed, and her guard captain flinched as those blazing eyes met his.

  “Well, Tenart?” Her voice was soft. “I trust you have reason?”

  “I beg your pardon, Baroness,” Tenart said quickly, “but—”

  “That had better be an excellent ‘but,’ my friend,” Wulfra purred, “or you may spend the next few years here in my garden.”

  “Please, My Lady! I…It…A matter of urgency, My Lady! Very great urgency!”

  Sweat greased Tenart’s brow. There were compensations for the hearty soul who captained Wulfra’s guard, but moments like this weren’t among them. He shivered and kept his eyes off the lifelike, suffering statues.

  “Such as?” Wulfra’s voice was velvet-covered ice.

  “The watchers have sent word, My Lady!”

  “The watchers?”

  Wulfra’s brows rose, and Tenart allowed himself a tentative breath of relief as her forehead furrowed in thought. The watchers were a legacy from her father, a canny man who’d created a secret network of heliograph-armed observers throughout his own lands…and well out into those of his neighbors. The late baron had used them sparingly, in order to keep their existence secret, but their warnings had kept him better informed than most noblemen in Angthyr.

  Wulfra had retained the system for several reasons. Its existence, hinted in the right quarters, covered much of her arcane spying, since she could attribute so much of her near omniscience to it. And while she could see farther and more clearly than they, she could look in only one direction at a time. Her watchers sometimes snared tidbits she might have missed.

  “Well, Tenart? What was this important message?”

  “They reported a dragon, My Lady—a red dragon. It left the Scarthū wards last night and returned this morning.”

  “And you interrupted me to tell me that? You’ll make a nice birdbath, Tenart.”

  “No, My Lady! Please! There was more!”

  “Then tell me before I put a sundial into your navel!”

  “Yes, My
Lady! One of the watchers saw a strange light to the north—how far he couldn’t say—but the dragon flew in that direction before the light was seen and came from the same direction this morning.”

  “Ah?”

  Wulfra leaned back in thought, and Tenart resumed breathing.

  Strange lights, was it? Wulfra tapped her teeth with an exquisitely manicured fingernail while she thought. Now what could that be? She’d tampered with dragon kind—most definitely, she’d tampered. All the worms would be her enemies now, but they couldn’t cross the dragon ward to work her harm. Or not directly, at least; it was entirely possible that one of the great worms might still find a way of striking at her indirectly. And the message said the dragon had headed for the light before it was seen, so it was unlikely Wencit had summoned it across the ward. Anyway, her mind was so attuned to the wild wizard that she could hardly miss so potent a spell as that.

  “Red, you say?” she asked thoughtfully.

  “So the watchers say, My Lady.”

  “Hmmmm…”

  Now which red might it have been? Shicolo and Dormandos were too reclusive, and most of the others were either too young or too old for such shenanigans. Torcrach? Possible…he was a bit old, but they didn’t call him Fire Fang for nothing. Or possibly Torfrio? He was the most powerful red these days, but he normally paid scant attention to events beyond the Scarthū. Unless her meddling…?