The Starfollowers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  Gil pointed the pistol’s muzzle to the ceiling and let go twice. Everyone was startled, but Angorman recovered almost at once. Changing his grasp, he whisked the greataxe around, deep into Newshield’s shoulder. The swordpoint, already away from Dulcet’s throat, fell. The younger man tottered, eyes bulging. A second stroke opened his gullet. He collapsed. Dulcet sank her head into her hands, weeping.

  The others, terrified at the gunshots, jammed the door. Gil let them go, more as a denial of his bloodlust than an act of mercy. Andre and Ferrian appeared, the Horseblooded bearing his scimitar, the wizard with bow strung and arrow nocked. Gil picked up a discarded torch and relit it from the hearth. Angorman awkwardly tried to comfort Dulcet.

  She shook him off, sobbing. “It is as it has always been. Death abides in you!” He winced and withdrew his hand.

  Frightened servants returned and worked to remove signs of the carnage. In time, the story was pieced together. Newshield had sheltered Yardiff Bey after the sorcerer had fled Earthfast. He had been one of the “Scholars” guested in the manor house. The Hand of Salamá had foreseen that the baby and Blazetongue would come this way.

  “Who would be better for Bey to recruit,” Angorman asked Dulcet, “than a member of your household?”

  “That would be in character,” Andre seconded. “Angorman would be bound to stop here on the way south, but Newshield would have come after us had we not come to him.”

  “There’s something else,” Gil maintained. “Newshield was talking to his crew about how word would be winging to Bey. Within the hour, he said. What’d he mean?”

  Wrapped in grief, Dulcet managed, “He keeps—kept, birds, pigeons of the message-bearing kind. Perhaps that is it.”

  More questions led Gil and Andre to a tower room where cages held a half-dozen carrier pigeons. They searched by torchlight, and discovered a wooden chest. The wizard smashed the lock off it with one blow of his pommel.

  Inside they found leg bands, hollow metal capsules and strips of foil with characters written on them.

  “Prearranged messages,” Gil said. “Does one of those strips have a flaming wheel?”

  There were three strips with the mandala of Yardiff Bey.

  “Which strip do we send, Andre?”

  “All, for one or even two may be lost along the way.”

  “How do we know they’ll fly to the right place?”

  Andre deftly drew one bird from the cage. “They are all cooped together; it is unlikely any would home to a different spot.” He secured a band, with its capsule, to the bird’s leg and slipped in a strip with the mandala on it. Throwing a heavy shutter open to the night, he let the pigeon fly. “A great pity we cannot trace its route.” The bird circled the tower twice then flew southward. “But at least Bey should be deceived for a time.”

  “We could wait for him,” Gil whispered, fingering the Ace of Swords on its chain. “When he shows to collect us, we could take him out.” The simmering rage he’d felt down in the hall washed through him again.

  Andre tut-tutted. “He might arrive with enough men to take us out, despite your weapons and my enchantments. Again, he may send someone else to do this errand, or it may have been agreed Newshield was to bring his captives south himself. We shall have to warn Dulcet to engage new guardsmen.”

  He’d readied another bird. It joined the first. “Be content that, in all this, we salvaged a respite from Yardiff Bey’s traps. We shall soon be in Glyffa, where his influence will be far less.”

  Gil yielded the point. Andre banded a third pigeon. Looking southward, the American gripped the tarot around his neck. Andre was glad for the American that sheer hatred did not bestow wings.

  Chapter Eight

  What has there been, to this Man’s life of yours, but war upon Woman?

  Anonymous

  Kasara’s Plea

  THEY left Dulcet’s under a gunmetal sky. Sleep, food, baths and clean clothing hadn’t dispelled the gloom that had settled over them. Dulcet had been restrained with Angorman, pitying him; the incident had underscored an earlier rift in their lives. She said her good-byes with determined reserve, and went to see to the burial of her nephew, and the summoning of the justiciary.

  Going south, the party ran into increased traffic, commercial and military. They threaded their way past carriages and around boat-bodied wagons, and saw a column of light cavalry that had halted while its rittmaster bartered with a food vendor for rations. The brassard of the Order and transit letters got them by unimpeded. A wide river valley brought them to the borders of Glyffa where, as Gil had heard it, women ruled.

  The frontier guardpost contained only two sentinels. They were helmeted women in ringmail hauberks covered by blue tabards. They carried cross-hilted hand-and-a-half swords, and one held a glave, the other a bow. Both bore themselves in martial fashion with a succinct, no-nonsense air. There was a wooden gate blocking the road, but the women made no move to lift it. Gil had expected Andre to parley, but the pudgy wizard hung back.

  “This border is closed to all,” announced the glave carrier.

  “And might one inquire why?” asked Angorman.

  “War. It has overrun Veganá, and come into Glyffa. The men of that nation were driven into our territories by invaders from the Southwastelands.”

  “And what will Glyffa do?”

  “My own opinion, you mean? Make common cause with them, most likely. As may be, this border is sealed.”

  “It’d be a cakewalk to sneak in or out by staying off the road,” Gil pointed out.

  “Those who attempt it will find it risky business. We have our safeguards. But enough; you cannot pass, and must perforce turn back.”

  “Our avowed way lies ahead, to Veganá,” Angorman replied.

  The bow was drawn, the polearm raised. “Your chosen path has led you on hazardous ground, stranger,” said the archer softly.

  Gil broke in, “Hold it, whoa. Isn’t there somebody we can talk to? It’s really important.”

  It was enough like concession to placate them. The arrowhead lowered a degree. “Our High Constable, administrator of the region, is due here later today. You may make your plea to her if you will. But heed: On that side of the barrier must you remain.”

  The travelers tree-hitched their horses, then made themselves comfortable on the grass at the side of the road. The guardswomen re-entered their station house, peeking out often to check up on them.

  As the party passed waterskins around, Gil noticed autumn hadn’t touched here yet. Angorman sat cross-legged, drawing a hone across his axe blade with the patience of years. The wizard sat like a Buddha, staring out over Glyffa. Ferrian went aside a few paces to lie down and study clouds, head pillowed on his arm. Woodsinger took the child and suckled her.

  “How’s it happen to be women in charge here?” Gil asked Andre. The honing stopped a second, while Angorman gazed at the wizard. Gil hadn’t caught what had passed between them.

  Andre was a storyteller, always enjoying it, but now he had a distracted, unwilling look. Gil had heard that Andre’s mother was from Glyffa, but he’d never asked either of the deCourteneys about it. Glyffa was just one more obstacle between Gil MacDonald and Yardiff Bey.

  Andre got started. “This was a place not much worse or better than most, over a century ago. Its king paramount was young and headstrong, named Sunfavor. Handsome, vain, doughty fighter, he thought himself irresistible to women. His fancy lit on a courtier. Promised to another, she refused him. Her name was Kasara.

  “He grew wroth. To his own end, he instituted legal sanctions against the rights of her sex. To him rallied men who concurred with him, or stood to gain by his new laws. Soon, a woman couldn’t own property, choose her own mate or cite any birthright. To travel required consent of father, husband or brother. She was forbidden reading, writing and numbers. Aye, and speaking out in public, too; that pleased many men.

  “Women who resisted and men who objected were squelched. Kasara escaped with h
er fiancé, who was a resourceful fellow, I suppose. She might have changed things with a word and a brief surrender, but did not. Well, she was in love, you see, and her lover could not bear the thought any more than she.

  “From her exile she reviled Sunfavor; that provoked even greater excesses. Suppression became slavery outright. Two aborted insurrections led to mass arrest and wholesale slaughter. Women were chattels, as cattle would be. Old evils appeared, the piercing Virtue Ring, the locked chastity belt, whispered moronisms about women’s cycles and life-change. Punishment was meted for the simple misfortune of infertility.

  “Worship of the Bright Lady was, of course, outlawed. Even the Brotherhood could not alter that. Sun-favor left his mark forever, making his name and country an obscenity on the lips of any sane person.

  “Late in life Kasara reappeared at the direction of dreams sent by the Goddess. She declared that neither sex could rule the other, any more than the right hand could chain the left. Kasara went unhindered, protected by unseen powers. A day came when she entered Sunfavor’s courtroom.

  “She bade him end his crimes. He blanched with fright, and struck her down with his scepter. A funeral pyre was built. The King lit it himself. Her husband lay in chains, proscribed from interfering, though it might have been within his ability.

  “Flame blossomed. The final wrong was done.

  “When it was finished, the Bright Lady made herself manifest to all of Glyffa. They shrank from her in sudden anguish. All her glory was made into blinding fury.

  “Sunfavor’s mind snapped. He threw himself on the pyre and was consumed. The Bright Lady mandated that for one hundred years, men of Glyffa were to meditate on what they had done. They would bear no arms, hunt no game, eat no meat, own no property and do no harm to anyone. They were never to ride, nor take a wife. They could engender children, but never know them.

  “So that is the Mandate of Glyffa, and why its men are monkish and withdrawn. But when the Mandate ends, and men have searched their consciences, they will reveal what form they think life here should take. That is called the Reconciliation. Until then, women conduct the country’s affairs.”

  Something occurred to Gil. “Wait, you’re from Glyffa, aren’t you? How’s it you’re not under that Mandate?”

  The wizard’s face closed up. “My sister and I have our own destinies to follow, given long ago.”

  Gil rolled over on his back, sucking at a blade of grass. How much of that was legend, how much verbatim truth? In the Crescent Lands, bald-faced lies and unlaundered gospel were equally likely.

  Ferrian correctly saw the dust cloud to be cavalry. A troop came at the trot, drawing up to the checkpoint. Its leader alighted.

  She was taller than her two sentinels. Like them, she wore a long hauberk, but her helmet was a brightly polished bascinet with white, spread wings fixed to its sides. Throwing back her billowing sky-blue cape, she uncovered a wide belt of tooled leather with bronze filigree. From it hung a hand-and-a-half sword and gleaming dagger sheath. Removing her helmet, she asked her guardswomen questions while they pointed to the party from Coramonde. Her skin was a light olive, her face open and high-cheeked. A dark birthmark spilled down from the hairline over her right ear to her collarbone.

  She gave her women permission to dismount and rest, then came to the travelers. Her blue-black hair was pinned in mounds to pad her bascinet, Gil saw, and as she scrutinized them her face creased, flashing white teeth. Her brown eyes had a heavy-lidded look, but her posture was unsparingly correct.

  “What is your business in Glyffa?” she asked.

  Once more it was Angorman to the barrier. “Our endeavor enjoys the auspices of the Crescent Moon.”

  She inspected the brassard on his slouch hat. Her mouth pursed in thought, lips fuller than when she’d narrowed her eyes at them. She tugged off mailed gauntlets and leaned her elbows on the gate. Her hands were graceful, and slim. “What bona fides do you offer?”

  “May I ask to whom I speak?”

  “I am High Constable of Region Blue, this Region. Yourself?”

  A deep bow from the Saint-Commander. “Angorman, of the Order of the Axe.”

  Her eyes widened. “I thought you might be. We have only had tales of you here. Is that Red Pilgrim then? The original one?”

  He smiled benignly. “There is only one. But I am unused to your warm clime. If we might continue our conversation inside—?”

  She straightened and gave a thumbs-up behind her. The gate swung away. They all trailed her into the checkpoint building. Andre had Blazetongue, wrapped, on his shoulder.

  There was a spare sort of mess hall there, built for more troops than used it now. She seated herself at a bench, inviting them to do the same, keeping her dark birthmark to the wall.

  “We have spread ourselves thinly along the border. I suppose that much is evident. Most of my troop strength had been reassigned southward. I am going there myself, directly.”

  Gil spoke for the first time. “Your—your guards-women said there’s been some kind of invasion.”

  She checked him over frankly. “The men of Veganá have been thrown back over our border by Southwastelanders. We have made common cause with Veganá, not a moment early. Now, what errand takes you through Glyffa? I must have the tale.”

  “We are on our way,” Angorman said, “to bring this child back where she belongs.”

  “And why is she so important?”

  “Because she’s connected to this,” Gil answered, taking Blazetongue from Andre. He unwrapped it and held it out. Andre had assured them they could trust the women of Glyffa; they might as well find out.

  She didn’t try to take Blazetongue, but ran her fingertips down the rune-written blade, perhaps seeing if it would burn at her touch. She whispered the sword’s name.

  Gil nodded. “They used to call it Flarecore in Coramonde. This goes home too.”

  She looked from weapon to child. “We had heard the last survivor of the Royal House of Veganá had been spirited away months ago. A baby girl, she was. This is the same?”

  “Without question,” Angorman stated.

  “Then, there will be jubilation in that beaten army.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “But this transcends my authority. You cannot be turned back, and I certainly shan’t allow you to go unaccompanied with Southwastelanders abroad. Ah, Red Pilgrim and Blazetongue side by side, when they are most needed. What a goddess-sending! I live to see interesting times.”

  “The way to Veganá is closed?”

  “Veganá is occupied soil. Still, the tide of battle will ebb after it carves its sea-marks. We Sisters of the Line have withdrawn and withdrawn, beckoning the Southwastelanders onto ground we chose. The battle will begin soon; I go there with my contingent.”

  “Do the Southwastelanders not overextend themselves?” Angorman asked.

  “We think so, for they have moved up every man for this coming fight.”

  “What about Death’s Hold?” Gil interrupted.

  She shrugged. “What of it?”

  “We heard it was reoccupied, that Yardiff Bey was there.”

  “No. Or rather, not now. Death’s Hold had been cleared of enemies in years long gone by. Months ago, activity began there again, but we were too busy to go in and dig the troublemakers out. Then, less than a week ago, the Mariners landed in strength. Our news is that they cleaned it up, dispersing the evil there.”

  So, the Mariners had made good their promise to pursue their enemies wherever they had to. Gil wondered if that meant Dunstan had been taken somewhere else; it didn’t sound as if Yardiff Bey had been located. The High Constable knew nothing of his whereabouts nor had anyone sighted his demon-ship, Cloud Ruler.

  Gil pondered. Did it mean Bey had never been in Death’s Hold? He’d hidden out with Newshield after his flight from Earthfast, failing to find the secret he’d hoped to uncover in his copy of Arrivals Macabre. Where had he gone from there, back to Salamá? But what about the insights of the Dreamdr
owse? Muddled, the American tried to rearrange the new data to make some sense.

  The High Constable was saying, “You must continue your commission under my protection. Whatever is left of the government of Veganá will be with my Liege, the Trustee. Thus our two paths are one.” She stood, tucking her gauntlets through her belt. “We leave in short order.”

  Everyone concurred, glad for escort. Gil thought about going off on his own to Death’s Hold, but she’d sounded definite, telling him it was now empty. Besides, there was the Faith Cup.

  Andre was watching him, knowing what he was thinking. “If Bey is hidden, should you not look for him where his minions are most numerous? If a Southwastelander army is assembled, his attention must bear on it somehow. Your direction still lies with ours.”

  Woodsinger and Ferrian were puttering around the child’s rack, talking about rigging a dustcover for her, since she’d be in the cavalry column. The High Constable gauged the light as her troops scurried to their horses.

  “We have another three hours’ light before we must stop,” she judged. To the two sentinels she commanded, “This border’s clear to the west; do your duty here as best you can. Do not throw your lives away foolishly if numbers are against you; you are a watching detail only.”

  They lifted their hilts in salute. She turned, slipping an arm through Angorman’s elbow on one side and Woodsinger’s on the other. “By the Lady, but the men of Veganá will be delirious with these tidings!”

  The travelers got their horses, joining her at the head of her column.

  “Excuse me,” Gil remembered to ask as they moved out, “what do we call you?”

  “I am Swan,” she threw back over her blue-caped shoulder.

  The ride was punctuated with clinking accouterments, tintinnabulation of bits, beating hooves on the Tangent and the slap of scabbards. It was interspersed with walks to rest the horses, and occasional stops for water. Swan had a single-minded approach to her job.

  They camped as the sun was setting. Swan stood to one side, hands clasped behind her back, to insure that her troops were fed and squared away to her satisfaction. The Sisters of the Line, regular soldiery of Glyffa, were as proficient as any Gil had seen in the Crescent Lands, but made less banter than most.