The Starfollowers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  “Stories are to be told, I think,” she said.

  There was jubilation in the camp of Veganá. Lord Blacktarget had gone before them holding the baby and Blazetongue, basking in their hurrahs. But the Southwastelanders were moving up, and the next day would bring battle.

  While the Veganáns were cheering Blacktarget, the Trustee was telling Swan and the company. “They shall need all their fervor tomorrow. The enemy has more horse than we, some of it heavily armored warriors like knights of Coramonde. I pray we will see Sword and Princess in their appointed place. Andre is right; there are vast forces moving those two toward Veganá, for reasons that we do not fully understand.”

  Angorman averred, “The Order of the Axe will work to that, and you may rely upon my help tomorrow.” Andre and Ferrian seconded him.

  Gil was smoothing up a diplomatic way to steer clear of the impending battle. “What if it’s a decoy? Bey’s used sorcery trying to get at the baby and sword. Why not again?”

  Andre, Swan and the Trustee became grave. The High Constable beckoned him, saying, “Come, I shall show you the disposition of the camp, and where you may shelter.”

  She led him to the northern face of the hill. He waited, knowing he’d committed a gaffe, but not seeing how. She began, “You know of Gabrielle, Andre’s sister? Good, and you are familiar with the details of her parentage?”

  “Springbuck told me something about it, the Ku-Mor-Mai, that is. Her father was Yardiff Bey, right?”

  “Before the Mandate, long before she was Trustee, the deCourteneys’ mother was an enchantress, an aristocrat of Glyffa. She took for husband the man whose name Gabrielle and Andre bear, the first deCourteney, who came from Outside, a different place and time, as you did. He had some talent in magic. To make the tale quick, he grew jealous; he was the lesser magician and she the enchantress paramount.

  “Dissatisfied, he closed an infernal contract. He was deluded, and his forfeiture was to be his soul. But an alternative was granted, that he could escape if he yielded his wife and her favors for a night. Her love must have been strong; she agreed. Gabrielle was begat. As you say, it was discovered later that the succubus who fathered Gabrielle was Yardiff Bey in a borrowed shape, furthering his plans.

  “Gabrielle has been in communication with her mother. The Trustee is aware now that it was the Hand of Salamá who ill-used her.”

  Gil interrupted, “I got all that. I’m sorry I brought it up to her, but the question remains. How do we know Bey’s not moving around Glyffa already?”

  “Do you not see? During that poisoned union the Trustee listened and observed the inner workings of his sorcery. She heard his oaths, the Powers he invoked. She learned the concealed lines of promise and commitment. In a contest of spell and counterspell, she would have a weighty advantage by that, for she has penetrated her enemy’s most guarded activities. Bey would not much care to face her here, I am certain, or even come nigh in Cloud Ruler. This is Glyffa, where all hearts and minds serve the Bright Lady, and his might is less here.”

  Gil digested that. “What about someplace else? Could she beat him outside Glyffa?”

  “That is moot. They would be close-matched, but the Trustee is old, old beyond anyone’s reckoning, and weary. In Glyffa no foe could stand against her, but outside—well, I pray it is not tested.”

  “Swan, d’you think Bey is with the Southwastelanders?”

  “It might be so. There is such a stench of the Masters hanging over them that the Hand could be among them and not be detected even by the Trustee. It may be that he directs them, to retake the sword and the child and break asunder the focal point of the Bright Lady’s influence, at once.”

  The former sergeant saw he’d have to hang on with the Glyffans. Cynosure and Blazetongue were important to Bey, and now the Southwastelanders had suddenly driven deep into the Crescent Lands. What could that mean, except that Yardiff Bey was out to recover them? Could that mean Dunstan the Berserker was being held somewhere close by?

  Staring, thinking, Gil spied a motley collection of shabby tents to the north. A constant trickle of people was coming up from the plain below the camp, adding to the makeshift village. He asked who they were.

  “Displaced persons, flying before the Occhlon,” Swan explained.

  “Have they been checked out?”

  “Lord Blacktarget has men posted on the plain, and in the mountains. He says no Southwastelander could masquerade and fool Crescent Landers; their accents are too barbarous and their stink too conspicuous.”

  “Do you feel like betting on it?”

  “We cannot leave them on the plain; when the sun rises it will be a battleground. See, there is even a troupe of wandering entertainers among them.”

  There was a ludicrous clown, a red-clad acrobat, and a fire-eater. A fat brown bear danced, and a tall, skeletally lean juggler kept a fountain of knives and apples going.

  “Worry not, they will be watched tonight. By tomorrow they will have decamped. None of them want to be near the encounter that will come with the sun.”

  Yeah, he told himself, resigned that he had to stick around, neither do I.

  Since the army was short on horses, Gil was requested to serve as a courier. He was no expert rider, but it suited him better than direct involvement. Angorman and Woodsinger yielded their horses to others, she to remain under guard with little Cynosure in the Veganán camp, he to command a company of infantry from Veganá whose captain had been killed. Ferrian, for reasons of his own, declined to follow any banner, but would serve with the orderlies whose job was to drag the wounded from battle and get them to medical stations at the rear. It was risky work; orderlies were themselves often cut down in the heat of the struggle.

  Andre was another question, the only living Glyffan male who’d seen combat. He was a seasoned leader, aside from talents of magic. Reconsidering the Mandate, the Trustee admitted Andre had always been exempt from its bans. He was placed over a squadron of heavy cavalry, to ride before a Glyffan flag for the first time in nearly a century.

  Dawn came chilly and hazy. Gil reported to the Trustee’s pavilion after a restless night. It was swarming with officers and functionaries, and High Constables with capes colored for their Regions in red, yellow, brown and gray.

  The Trustee sat across a little table from Swan, both of them ignoring the hubbub, playing chess as if they were alone, and this an idle day. The chesspieces were large and topped by little lighted candles. The game was going rapidly, moves coming with unusual haste, with little or no lag between. Swan’s hair was pinned up, to fit her bascinet; her armor glinted from diligent polishing.

  An aide stepped in Gil’s way, demanding his business. The Trustee looked up, saying he could be admitted. She asked if Woodsinger and Cynosure were guarded; he said they were, in the tent of Blacktarget himself. “What are the candles for?”

  Sunrise wasn’t far off. The two women began snuffing out the flames. Swan explained. “It is a variation developed by the Trustee. When a candle goes out, its piece is eliminated from the game. Wicks are of assorted duration, and we pick which pieces get which lifespans at random, except that the king goes untimed.”

  “Sounds like a fast game.”

  “Verily,” she replied, moving her chair back, “and a martial one. It has the merciless pressure of time, an uncaring randomness and rude unpredictability.”

  The Trustee was on her feet now. “I enjoyed that, my dear; it is helpful to put one’s concerns aside. You are becoming good at this wildcard game. How much do you owe me?”

  “More than I can pay. But this time I shall win.”

  The Trustee patted her arm. “I shall checkmate you in three moves when we return, you have my promise. If not, consider us even.”

  “Done.”

  The old woman took up the crook of her office. People in the tent became totally attentive. “Each of you has her particular instructions,” she said, “and if you but keep them in mind, all will be well.” She lifted
the crook. Everybody but Gil bowed to receive her benediction. As she recited the blessing her eye caught the American’s. He dipped his head to her once, politely. Gravely, she winked in return.

  Then everyone was moving. Swan went past, bidding him good fortune hastily. Someone shoved an armload of hardware into his hands. He found himself holding a lance of polished ebony and a shield of brightly painted leather, rimmed and studded with iron, bearing the Trustee’s device of a green unicorn. There was also a pair of greaves, rusty ones whose dark stains suggested their previous owner hadn’t been very lucky.

  He was about to protest; he’d be no match for an experienced opponent. Then he saw that he could throw the stuff away if he wanted, and—who knew?—he might need it. Outside, he buckled the greaves on clumsily, took the lance and tested its balance. His muscles tensed unconsciously, ready for impact. He felt a twinge of the ferocity that had filled him in Dulcet’s hall.

  The conjoined armies were drawn up, waiting. There was movement far out across the plain, the Occhlon leaving their camp and taking up positions.

  Lord Blacktarget and the men of Veganá were to take the right flank, stretching down to the river’s side. The general could be seen haranguing his men, waving Blazetongue, though he intended to leave the sword behind.

  The left flank, to be anchored at the foot of the slopes, was under Swan. She had two thousand troops, mostly light cavalry and archers, backed by four companies of pikewomen.

  Gil watched the Occhlon assembly writhing its way into order. He couldn’t see much, except that there seemed to be an awful lot of them. The Trustee called for her horse; she would command the center herself. The women closest to her repeated the call. They were all veteran commanders, wily fighters.

  He mounted Jeb Stuart and trailed the Trustee and her knot of advisors and aides to her position at the center. They passed through ranks of waiting soldiers of both sexes, who resembled those he’d known in his own world, in a way. Young, worried, they were examining their feelings, thinking ten thousand thoughts of how the day would go. He caught snatches of conversation.

  “What should I do if—”; “Suppose my enemy comes at me so—”; “The grip of the lance is the thing, remember it and you will be—.”

  He passed squatting pike-bearers and straight-backed lancers, and ranks of nervous sword-and-buckler infantry anticipating the order to shield-lock. The Trustee was greeted with some cheers, but more silence. This army had lost before and might again today, portents or no portents. These were all people who would die if it did.

  The Trustee took her place on slightly higher ground, her green unicorn banner nearby. She took one last look right, left and behind, then raised her crook. Trumpets blared around him, and Gil’s belly twisted. The entire army began a slow walking pace across the plain. Early-morning stillness left battle pennons limp on staffs and spears. He wiggled the lance to seat it in its rest. His hands were damp; his heart banged in his chest. He hated the idea of a large-scale clash, where he could get himself wasted from any direction.

  The enemy stepped off with crashing cymbals and thundering drums. Gil noticed that the point of his lance was bobbing around and realized he’d crouched in the saddle and clamped it to his side in anticipation. If he actually had to use it, a rigid grip would spoil his aim. He sat erect again. His fingers flexed at the enarmes of his shield.

  The enemy stopped when their right flank, facing Swan and her Sisters of the Line along the slope, came to high ground of its own. Then the Occhlon center advanced to stand and form a salient point. The men at the river bank, fronting Lord Blacktarget, stayed put. The river ran swiftly, deeply at this point, offering no fording place for miles, and that was one of the reasons for which the Trustee had chosen this spot.

  Both sides halted. They exchanged challenges of a sort, soaring horn blasts of the Crescent Lands and cymbals and drums of the Southwastelanders. Then there was silence, and for the next ten minutes nothing happened at all.

  Gil knew this was common in the Crescent Lands; these were people who trusted in defense, fortification, armor, shields. They preferred to let their opponents make the first move. He fidgeted as sweat ran down from the padded brim of his cap.

  The Trustee conferred with her privy councilors. Finally, she ordered: “Archers forward.” There was no need for riders to carry the word this early, when trumpets could be heard and movements clearly seen. All along the lines of the North, bowmen and bowwomen stepped out, limbering strings, drawing shafts. The battle’s first phase had started.

  Chapter Ten

  Dream of battled fields no more,

  Days of danger, nights of waking…

  Sir Walter Scott

  The Lady of the Lake

  THE archers stopped about ten paces out, taking maul-hammers from their backs. Sharpened stakes were pounded into the ground at a forward cant as defense against cavalry. Lengthy pavise shields, protection from enemy missiles, were held by assistants while the archers shook out their quivers, arranging their arrows at their feet.

  The Sisters of the Line were armed with slightly lighter bows; few had the height and length of arm to pull the heavyweights some men preferred. The range was extreme. The archers began lofting long flight arrows in high arcs, saving their livery shafts for closer combat. Gil could hear bowstrings snapping on leather bracers up and down the line, and the whizz of pile-headed arrows. They flew beyond the wall of enemy shields, but he couldn’t tell how much effect they had. The shooting went on for a minute, then bowmen emerged from the Occhlon ranks, set themselves up in much the same way and returned fire. The Southwastelanders’ bows were giant recurve weapons, over six feet long, but simple “self” bows, not composite; they lacked the range of the Crescent Landers’. Moreover, the Occhlon used a pinch-draw in their release, less effective than the northern two- and three-fingered draws. Only a few of their shots found their way among the Crescent Landers. Gil raised his shield whenever he saw a salvo coming, but no shaft dropped near him.

  As the Trustee had hoped, the uneven archery duel tweaked the Southwastelanders to move. A sally of fleet horsemen swept up the river bank, their places in the ranks taken immediately by reserves. Some of the southerners wore mottled armor with bizarre patterns of decoration. Swan had told Gil that there were warriors among the enemy who fashioned their panoply from skins of the huge snakes and lizards of their desert.

  Lord Blacktarget and his men swept their swords out. Their war-horses, hearing the sound, danced and reared in anticipation. The men of Veganá rode out to meet the foe before the Occhlon could get in among the stakes and take a toll of archers. The two sides hit with scores of individual collisions. A dust cloud went up in the hazy light while cries and chants mixed with the horns and cymbals. Gil expected to see the Trustee rush reinforcements in, but it didn’t happen. The ruler of Glyffa regarded this as an early probe and held back from committing herself. The Occhlon pressed hard, but Gil heard a thousand throats hollering Veganá! above the melee. The attempt to roll up the Trustee’s right flank faltered, reduced to maddened charge and countercharge over short distances, with swords, maces and axes in sharp opposition at close quarters.

  Off to the left an attack was launched against Swan’s command, but because the land dipped and rose that way, Gil couldn’t see clearly. He began to appreciate the importance of gonfalons and banners. Everyone in the armies—himself included—depended on the battle flags to tell if their side was moving forward, making a stand or being driven back. The Trustee told him to go tell a particular cavalry unit to stand ready. He spurred away, trying to keep some speed and still not gallop over massed soldiers in his way. He found the correct outfit and relayed the order. The Sisters of the Line were already in their files, nervously adjusting helmets, lances and shields.

  Finding his way back, he went along the seam of the two armies on the right flank, where men of Veganá marked time next to Glyffan women. Gil was amazed again at their youth. They called to him for news b
ut he couldn’t stop. He knew, though, that in their place he’d have ripped a bypasser out of the saddle and clubbed the latest reports out of him.

  The leader of the reserve element came up and awaited orders to move. The Trustee instructed her to go in either direction when the next probe came, but to wait toward the left flank. Then she ordered Gil to see how things were going on the Veganán flank.

  He barrel-rode off again, cutting deeply behind his own lines. The front might shift down there, and he was a messenger, not a grunt. The arrow showers had stopped nearer the river, the sides being too intermingled.

  The fighting had overflowed into the river. The clay bank and bed were too treacherous to maneuver on with a horse; men were clashing on foot, the river running around their legs, muddy-red. Then he spotted Lord Blacktarget.

  The general had dismounted and waded out chest-deep, holding the extreme end of his flank himself. A rope around his waist ran back and slightly upstream, belayed by two husky squires. He was jubilant, sure that the battle would go his way. He’d called for his piper, who stood on the river bank blowing a lusty war-song. Lord Blacktarget would occasionally bellow a snatch of the lyrics, waiting for the next adversary.

  His two-handed broadsword whirled and chopped, throwing back every opponent. Further downstream, Gil could see corpses of men and horses being whisked away in the current. The Occhlon had lost an ambitious gambit, trying to outflank through the river itself. As he watched, Blacktarget lost his footing and was yanked up again by the two squires.

  The river bank was in the firm control of Veganá again, so the general had himself hauled in. Dripping and wounded, he accepted his wineskin from an aide and drank deeply, while his injuries were being bound. His pink skull gleamed with sweat and muddy water.

  In response to the Trustee’s inquiry, he leaned on his broadsword and studied the front. “This may have been the feint, or may be a feint-in-deception. We will hold here against any attack, but I will retain my reserves. Tell her Veganá needs no succor.” Forgetting Gil completely, he called for his horse. The piper struck up another song.