The Starfollowers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  They came down out of the mountains the next day, just as the first snows threatened the heights. At the merestone that marked the boundary of Coramonde, they came to the first foreign border.

  They were met with suspicion. The lesser states and kingdoms had turned back virtually everyone, but the letters of transit and Angorman’s badge got the party past.

  Gil saw Andre’s wisdom in not taking more men. Four, with a woman and child, were enough to guard and provide. There was an inner resonance to two pairs of armed men, the implied capacity to defend at all points. Still, they were few enough so that border guards were inclined to permit them by. A military escort, in this climate, could have proceeded only by force.

  They sold one packhorse, no longer needing it. The wide, straight Western Tangent took them quickly south, sometimes passing through an entire lesser kingdom in a day. They were able to buy food, particularly the proteins Woodsinger needed. The nurse allowed as how the child was old enough to begin taking small samples of regular foods, and began feeding her mushed bits of egg, cheese and fruit.

  Morale improved; conversation became more lively. One afternoon Ferrian brought down a pheasant with his war-quoit, the first fresh game they’d had in weeks. It only afforded each a small portion, but put them in an exceptional mood.

  “How come,” Gil asked Andre that night, tossing a bone into the fire, “you do that? When you were talking about your sister just now, you said ‘sorcery.’ But you always call your stuff ‘wizardry,’ and they always say Bey’s a sorcerer.”

  Andre leaned back against his saddle. “All those terms denote diverse methods of dealing with the same thing. They are different paths of approach. Never would I make a living sacrifice.”

  “You mean human beings?”

  “I mean any life.” The wizard stretched his legs out. Woodsinger, halfway through a feeding, burped the baby. “I am no newcomer to strife, Gil. I have laid more than one man low in open battle. But I will not use up life as an ingredient in conjuration.”

  “But Gabe’s a sorceress. She has?”

  “Of that you must ask her. I will only say there are times when the life of an enemy, a malefactor, can be used to save the life of a friend, by mystic procedure. It has been known for such an exchange to be made, and for the person who did it to be acclaimed. Few object to the loss of an evil life if it saves a good one. Yet that operation is sorcery, and there is no disguising it. Beyond this, you will have to query Gabrielle.”

  Angorman spoke, firelight shadowing his face under his big slouch hat. “You will hear it said that Andre deCourteney is too meek for transcendent magics, not hardhearted enough to cope with them. It is not so; he never swayed from any trial or test, nor failed any. If you want the long and short of it, Gil MacDonald, there are boundaries over which a wizard will not step, things he will not do, to make enchantments work, however puissant he is. But if man or woman overstep, it is sorcery, however slight the trespass.”

  The talk was getting to Andre. “There is little more to the topic than that.” Throwing another piece of wood on their fire, he huddled down in his cloak.

  The baby was full. Woodsinger inserted her finger gently at the side of the child’s mouth to break suction. She laved her nipple with a cloth, closed her voluminous robes and retired to her cramped tent.

  The first watch was Gil’s. He stared into the fire, the Mauser under his hand. It was all well and good that Andre was principled, but what if that meant Bey had him outclassed? It would be best, the American decided, if the wizard finally faced his age-old enemy with his sister by his side. No one could afford to grant any advantage to the Hand of Salamá.

  They were in a country of fields and vineyards. Though the nights had been cold the days were warm here. Jeb Stuart’s breath would shoot jets of steam from his nostrils when he was being saddled, but later he’d be in danger of overheating, and Gil would feel sweat trickling under his byrnie.

  One afternoon a wind came up, an angry storm on its heels. Andre had some weather cantations but didn’t want to use them, to avoid attracting any notice. The land was fairly flat, with few trees and no apparent shelter. Angorman left the road, carefully examining the face of a low rock wall, the only prominent feature in the area. He announced that they could sit out the storm in the lee of the cliff. It looked just like more ground to Gil, but Andre and Ferrian accepted the Saint-Commander’s word. They moved rubble and crowded a close little camp against the rock wall.

  The storm broke. Just as Angorman had promised, they huddled, riders and animals, in a dry margin six feet wide, while rain soaked the ground just beyond.

  The rain stopped and started all night, refusing to go or break. But it had slackened by the time they were breaking camp. Andre said they’d reach the border of Glyffa in two days.

  The companions rode stretching, working their muscles to drive out the chill. Woodsinger held the baby inside her robes, as she sometimes did to warm her. Gil took the rack from her and slipped it on his back. They made no effort to hurry, watching droplets make their way down leaves and grasses. The pitched Tangent, already drained, was drying slowly.

  Gil was swaying along, fitting himself unconsciously to Jeb Stuart’s gait. He had nothing in particular in mind, even the distance to Death’s Hold and Bey.

  An unexpected blow to his back sent him against his saddle bow as his head was buffeted on either side. There was less pain than astonishment; he thought for a moment that Andre or Ferrian had ridden by to slap him, but he’d heard no hoofbeats. He pushed himself upright as Jeb gave a disturbed whicker. A screech sounded overhead and a shadow crossed quickly, alarmingly, in semaphore on the edge of his vision.

  Gil spotted his attacker looping in the air for another pass. He had difficulty telling what it was—some large hawk or eagle, or something else. His immediate impulse was to let it go; it had done him no damage. But a note of unmixed hatred in its call warned him.

  He yanked the Mauser out, led his target and squeezed off a round. The other horses jumped at the shot; Jeb took it stolidly.

  It was a miss; the flier had selected that instant to wheel in midair for another run. Gil cursed. Sumbitch can turn like he has one wingtip nailed down.

  It veered at him. His aim wavered overhastily. There was a hiss of fletching in heavy air, and an eerie piping. The bird spun toward the ground, the tension of its flight changing to helpless fluttering, feathers gyrating free.

  It hit the Tangent with a limp roll, eyes still lit with the intensity of the unalloyed hunter. It was no species they’d ever seen. Andre’s arrow stood from its breast, a Horseblooded shaft that had made its piping moan by a trick of carving the Wild Riders used. Gil holstered the handgun, musing that reflexes and coordination were more important than instrumentality.

  He shrugged off the carrying rack to check it. Diamond-hard talons had scored long, deep tears in the tough hide and torn splinters from the wooden frame. An extra blanket, rolled and stored inside, had been slashed in strips.

  “The bird’s target was the rack.” Andre surmised. They looked to Woodsinger, who drew her cloak more closely around herself and her charge.

  Hearing a wave of trilling sound, they craned their heads upward. Then they were surrounded by small birds who rushed past and hovered around them, a multicolored tempest of feathers, a gale of small wings. Tiny beaks ripped at them in passing; wings stung their faces. Gil yelped and slapped at them, his hand coming away bloody. Woodsinger swatted with her crop, pulling her head down among the folds of her collar. They all fought to master their horses, realizing they were under no natural attack. Gil fired two rounds into the air, not counting on hitting anything, to scatter the tiny furies. They exploded away in every direction, but circled and swarmed like bees, and drew closer again.

  Ferrian let the packhorse’s rein fall. He pulled Woodsinger’s hood down close to her face and swirled her cloak around her tightly. Taking her mount’s reins in his teeth, the Horseblooded drew his scimi
tar, guiding his horse with his knees.

  Andre had put away his bow. He, too, pulled his sword. With no time for spellcasting, they had to get out of the open.

  Gil, the Browning Hi-Power in his right hand now, also took his reins in his teeth, as Dunstan the Berserker had taught him. He peered around for any sort of cover, a cave, trees, anything. There was none. It was the perfect spot for ambush.

  The flock swept around in unison and came back in their direction. More birds were joining them every moment. “The cliff face,” Ferrian called. “’Tis better protection than none!”

  They galloped back, knowing they couldn’t outrun their pursuers. The birds ignored the riderless pack-horse and were on them in seconds, many species commingled. Streaking by, they blotted all sounds with their calls and wounded men and horses. Gil fired twice from each handgun. The birds peeled off from the blasts, then gathered again, more rapidly this time.

  In the shelter of the cliff face, they fastened up their cloaks for what little protection it meant. The horses whinnied, tossing their heads and showing the whites of their rolling eyes. Ferrian pinned Woodsinger’s mount up against the rock with his own and waited, light racing up and down his scimitar. “Is there a conjuration that would help?” he shouted.

  Andre’s brow creased. “It is difficult to say. These are no supernatural foes, only living creatures following some imposed will. I have no ready spell for it. It must be a thorough enchantment.” Given time, he could disperse it, but he had no time.

  Gil watched the flock come in again. “Andre, it’s with you now. This cliff won’t protect us from anything but rain.”

  “Rain!” echoed Ferrian. “Andre, bring a downpour!”

  The squat mage looked up dubiously. The clouds were still overburdened with moisture, but he wasn’t sure mere rain would stop the attackers.

  He dismounted, as Angorman took his horse’s bridle. His mystic passes began; the sky rumbled.

  The birds hit them again, landing and clinging to whatever skin or clothing they could grasp. Even Woodsinger was hurt, as beaks found her legs and feet. Another salvo drove some off, but the rest hovered and pecked and clung. The companions slapped at themselves and each other. Faces and hands were wounded, and the plunging horses were near insanity.

  Ducking and thrashing, Andre completed his spell with a syllable of Command. Rain came in sheets, battering the fliers but not deterring them, though it struck with driving force.

  Covered with them, Andre opened his palm. A brilliant flash of light broke forth, scattering them. It was a spell of sight more than substance; they sensed it, and resumed.

  Andre was reduced to despair. Harnessing his arts, he might fell individual birds in large numbers, but they would eliminate him long before he could finish them.

  Woodsinger screamed and began slapping at a starling that had fixed its claws near an opening in her cloak, stabbing its beak at the child’s struggling arm. Wincing in pain, the baby began to bawl. The nurse brushed the starling away and covered her charge again, but the wails continued.

  Gil heard. He slid from Jeb and lurched to Andre’s horse, hoping the wrapped Blazetongue would show signs of its fire. He couldn’t get to it; the bucking, terrified animal wouldn’t allow it, though Angorman held its bridle. The American heard Ferrian shout for him to beware. Batting at the unavoidable birds, he got out of the way. The Horseblooded leaned over, slicing with his scimitar. Thongs parted as one; Blazetongue dropped to the ground.

  Another round, fired into the air, won Gil more space and time. He snatched the sword and sprinted to Andre. The wizard was stumbling toward the cliff, covered with feathered attackers. One of his wounds, over his temple, had blinded his left eye with his own blood. Gil helped him beat himself free.

  “Andre, the baby’s scared. Can you get the sword working?”

  The wizard shielded his face and tore the coverings from the weapon, while birds whirled, pecking. “I know not; its fire is not nigh, so far as I can detect.”

  He unsheathed the greatsword and tried to hold it up in both hands, the phrases of a conjuration tumbling from his lips. He was soon buried under the fliers, his spell stopped cold. He jabbed the blade’s point into the ground and stumbled back.

  Gil dropped to his knees. Together they punched and pounded at maddened jackdaws, sparrows, linnets and jays. There was a crackle from Blazetongue. Blue effulgence whooshed up its blade like smoke up a flue, leaping off its pommel, disappearing.

  The splashing rain threw up a curtain of steam. As if poured from a kettle it came, boiling hot. The flock’s wrath became mortal pain. Humans and horses cowered against the cliff. Birds dropped, slaughtered in thousands. Those that found clear space by the cliff rebounded from the rock, blundering back to their deaths.

  Gil pressed his face to the cool stone, fearing his lungs would be cooked. White steam filled the world, but the birds’ cacophony dropped away. Only the hissing of superheated rain remained.

  Andre gasped his foremost spell of Dismissal. Within seconds the torrent subsided. The horses began to quiet. The travelers uncovered their red, glistening faces.

  Hot curls of vapor rose from soaked ground. Remains of plants and fallen birds floated in a muddy, foul-smelling soup. Dazed, the party hunkered in the lee of the cliff, staring at the scalded landscape.

  “Andre, you far surpassed my expectations,” Angorman confessed.

  The wizard, watching the ground drain, waved the remark away. “I called the rain down, but our survival may be laid to Blazetongue. I did not release its force.”

  “The kid, then?” Gil asked.

  “You saw the weapon’s energies fly up out of it. Blazetongue itself is responsible; I did not activate it, and neither did the child.”

  He picked himself up, dabbing at his wounds, and rummaged through his saddlebags. “I have ointments somewhere, albeit none of us seems too badly burned or injured.”

  “But what about the rain?” Angorman persisted.

  Andre stopped. “My Lord, I informed you in Earthfast; there are more than mere nations in opposition. Blazetongue is the Bright Lady’s instrument. Those birds, bloodlusting on the wing, reeked of Amon, and the Five. The sword put forth its energies to advance its ends. Two primal forces clashed on this heath; the Perfect Mistress carried the day.”

  The Saint-Commander made a sign of thanksgiving. Andre observed, “This party is of enormous consequence, we have seen. I profess to understand little, just now.” He scanned the steamy distance. “Our packhorse is gone, or dead perhaps; her burden was nothing we cannot replace, if needs be.”

  Gil blew his breath out wearily. “You mean you want to go on? What if we’re walking into another ambush?”

  “Going on is safer than going back. Ahead, in Glyffa, where the Divine Mistress’ sway is greatest. Behind, it is less.”

  Gil, hand to his eyes, shook his head slowly. “How much longer will we have the option?”

  Angorman’s chin came up, harshly. “When one accepts a commission of service, one is past the point of no return. Or have you forgotten the Faith Cup?”

  Instead of answering, the American got up to make sure Jeb was all right. A cool breeze was carrying away wreaths of steam and stench. The water had receded and the ground had cooled considerably.

  Gil concluded that his only hope was that pressure would be off the party once they’d delivered the child. They rapidly prepared to leave this area, blighted by the confrontation of the gods.

  Chapter Seven

  I gave the day to Angorman, and showed to him my heel,

  and prayed he would forego the chase

  (and vowed me nevermore to face

  his bright, moon-bitted Pilgrim, poet-cleaving Red ordeal)…

  from “The Lay of the Axe and the Rose,” by the hedge-robber and self-styled poet, Kidsheerer

  TOWARD evening of the next day, they came to a towering cedar next to the Tangent. On its face an area was roughly planed off. Graven there was an in
tertwined rose and double-bitted axehead. The carving was old, but the tree’s growth hadn’t obliterated it.

  Angorman ran a hand over the aged scars. Gil assumed the tree had been planed by Red Pilgrim. They left the Tangent for a well-used side road, on the warrior-priest’s assurances of good accommodations.

  The vineyards here boasted an exotic strain of oversized grapes nearly as big as figs. The workers had no guards or weapons, and weren’t too surprised at the sight of wayfarers. The road ran past an old manor house, more or less a stronghold. Angorman entered its gate. They followed him into a pleasant courtyard that hadn’t seen military activity in years. The house had plainly been grand in its day.

  Their arrival had been signaled ahead somehow. An elderly woman waited on the front steps to greet them. She was slender and stately, with white hair caught in a bun. Her unadorned robes were as cheerless as a nun’s habit. There was a ring of large keys at her belt, a pair of scissors and a little capped jar, the kind scholars used as a portable inkwell. She held a writing quill. Her features were lined with humor; a glint in her eye said she’d laugh readily. She seemed frail, but healthy and active. Dismounting, Angorman laid his axe down—the first time Gil had ever seen him do that—and bent knee to her stiffly.

  “Welcome,” the woman proclaimed to him alone. “My heart is happy you are here, and remembers much that makes it glad.” She turned to the others. “Thank you, all, for the joy of your arrival. All that is here is yours to use.”

  Angorman made introductions, telling the others that their hostess’ name was the Lady Dulcet. A footman showed up to take their horses. Dulcet apologized for their wait, saying her chief servitor was nowhere to be found. The travelers carried their own sparse luggage. Gil took Dirge along, and his saddlebags. Andre tucked the bundle of Blazetongue under his arm.

  Dulcet led them to a high-ceilinged dining chamber floored with walnut, gleaming in age. In a hearth that must be twenty feet long, whole logs burned. In the middle of the hall was a dining table where thirty people could sit to eat with room left over. Candelabra lit the place, and close by the fire plush, pewlike benches sat on carpets of subtle weave.