The Starfollowers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  Yardiff Bey gestured, and the floor surged up beneath them.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  But yet I know, where’er I go,

  That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

  William Wordsworth

  Ode: Intimations of Immortality

  ANDRE and the Trustee made Signs of protection against upheaval, but Lord Blacktarget had none. The general clung to the quaking floor. His two companions had attention only for the sorcerer.

  The ruler of Glyffa held up her cursive-lettered Crook. An aura crackled around it, magic of the Bright Lady. Roof beams groaned, and dust sifted down. The Keep shivered to unleashed enchantment. Blasts of superheated air and icy wind chased one another through the chamber. Thunder cracked from wall to wall.

  Yardiff Bey threw down the counterattack, holding his own extreme efforts in reserve, until they should exhaust themselves. Their assault was fierce, but not so much so that it penetrated his wards. The Trustee was weary, and the sorcerer’s new power given by the Five would, he was positive, give him the duel.

  But as the deCourteneys built their offensives, they began to reinforce each other, as with Andre and his sister. They weren’t overwhelming, but the Hand of Salamá began to consider employing the wiles he’d prepared.

  As mystic discharges washed around him, striving to topple him, he conceived another tactic. Resisting the deCourteneys, he took aside a little of his energies and hurled a quick spell at the vulnerable Lord Blacktarget. The general went cartwheeling, long campaigner’s cloak gathering around him, constricting breath from his body. Its drawstring sank into the flesh of his neck. He writhed on the stone, kicking, struggling.

  Andre saw his plight. Sweat flowed from the squat wizard’s face, his arts extended beyond any previous mark. Without looking, the Trustee knew what had happened. Bey’s resources were in excess of what she’d expected; she was very much in need of her son’s sustenance. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to make Andre let another innocent die, as she had compelled him to do a century before.

  “Succor him,” she encouraged, her stare never leaving the Hand of Salamá. Andre rushed to Lord Black-target. The general’s face was darkening, eyes bulging, bloated tongue swelling in his mouth. It was as the sorcerer had intended. He’d withheld much of his prepotency; now he revealed it, lashing out at the Trustee. To Amon’s gift of augmented energy, Yardiff Bey had added his own ingredient of treachery.

  The old woman staggered. Flooring blocks ground together beneath her feet, and overhead a wide section of roof was flung away by backlashing of competing incantations. She mustered her fullest effort, surprising Bey; it was more than he’d estimated. Almost, it was enough. She contained his attack and launched one of her own with an explosion of blue radiance from her Crook, jolting the Hand backward with vehemence. His defense faltered. Again the Crook flared, but less brightly. Depleted, with her son’s support diverted, her endurance failed. The light in the rune-written Crook flickered. Andre, toiling at Blacktarget’s side, sensed it and turned to give a moment’s aid to her. In that instant her will let go. She was smashed down by the spells of Yardiff Bey as by the waters of a dam that had burst.

  The Crook fell from her thin hand, dimming. The sorcerer’s magic flashed triumphantly. Before he could pour into her the support she’d needed, Andre had seen her life torn from her. The symbol of her Trusteeship lay dark now. At the same time, the cord tightened around Blacktarget’s neck, killing him.

  From Andre’s throat came a wail. From depths of instinct, he invoked a wizardry that crashed black fury at Bey’s defenses. The sorcerer’s most trusted protections were in jeopardy; his antagonist’s attack, more vicious than Yardiff Bey had thought him capable of making, was barely turned. The Hand of Salamá had to shore up his endangered wards.

  Andre, in his wrath, called down his curse in a voice of such volume that cracks shot along the stone walls. His enmity beamed at the Hand, who was pounded backward a second time, bewildered at this new ferocity.

  Andre raised up his left fist, and blue lightning spat and snapped. He cried a spell of destruction so terrible that the roof beams began to split and pull themselves down. Bey parried desperately, bracing them back by his arts. Andre lifted his right fist up, howled again, and blue magic of the deCourteneys shone from it like a beacon. The stone floor fissured open with a rumble, belching deep-earth fumes, tossing Yardiff Bey to his knees. For the first time, the sorcerer thought of opening the ocular, but wasn’t sure that even that extremity would help.

  The limestone pulpit tottered. Andre summoned up blue, plasmic hatred in a last dreadful bolt. It was insignificant if the Keep were broken in pieces and swallowed up, or the Isle itself consumed by the ocean. In primal malice, he cared only that Yardiff Bey die.

  An arcane aura swirled around him. He gathered it in, hands outstretched. The sorcerer saw with amazement that all his newfound energies were no match, in this moment, for deCourteney’s stark emotion. But he had a last, hidden recourse, short of the ocular. Reaching behind him, he drew up the captive who’d lain, dazed and motionless, out of sight at the rear of the pulpit. Andre’s hands swept around in unison, funneling their forces.

  Gil MacDonald felt himself hauled up, sick and weak, from half-dreams of storm and lightning. He remembered little since the Southwastelanders had taken him, beaten, into captivity, to be held in occult sedation. Now Yardiff Bey’s unnaturally strong hands used him as shield.

  Andre spied Gil at the last instant, as his bolt went out, too late. He blurted a Dismissal on the heels of his own spell, but was only partially effective. The American’s body arched backward in spasms, wreathed in vines of azure light, as Bey snatched his hands back. The wizard broke off his attack. Gil went stiff, eyes rolled up into his head, tongue bulging in his gullet. No pain had ever been as bad as the one in his chest. Awareness slid away.

  Andre, appalled, stood motionless, hands slumped to his sides, mouth agape. Bey had the American’s body up again, in front of him, backing away. At the rear of the pulpit, he escaped into pitch darkness, taking his hostage.

  The ground shuddered beneath the rent floor. Roof beams groaned, splitting, raining slivers of wood. Andre shook himself from his disorientation and saw he couldn’t repair them. He’d done things in his transport of fury that he’d never match or undo in any sane moment. He bent, took up his mother and her Crook in one arm and Lord Blacktarget over his shoulder, and lumbered, ungainly, for the entrance.

  Outside, in gathering night, Swan and Angorman were preparing to enter. They’d held back, hearing the conflict, knowing there was little they could do, but their anxiety had gone past their control. Just in that moment, Andre came.

  Seeing the Trustee in death, the High Constable lost all color. Men of Veganá clustered to their slain Commander.

  The Keep’s roof collapsed, and the stronghold fell in on itself, into the earth-cleft. Clouds of dust and subterranean gas rose, and the Isle trembled under their feet. The shocks sent other portions of the fortifications into rubble, with creneled turrets and ramparts following the donjon into the earth. Waves in the harbor tossed the anchored Mariner fleet around like toys.

  From the ruin a silvery shape lifted on streamers of demon-fire. Cloud Ruler swung southward; the sorcerer only wanted the Isle of Keys behind him. There would be ample time to deal with deCourteney; next time, the wizard would have no tidal wave of emotion upon which to draw.

  At the lip of the crater where the Keep had vanished, Andre bent over his mother. Swan ordered her Sisters of the Line to build a pyre, thinking of her brother Jade’s words. “The last of the Old have passed away,” she whispered. Men of Veganá began mourning dirges for Lord Blacktarget.

  Andre shut out his grief and called Swan and the other captains. He issued directives for disposition of captives and departure. The subordinates looked at one another uncertainly. Some bridled at orders from an outlander.

  But the wizard’s mien was locked, with unspe
akable anger riding his brow; no one would risk defying him. Angorman proclaimed, “The rein has passed to your grip.”

  Swan went to do as he’d said. The men of Veganá, seeing it, did the same. “Tell the Prince of the Waves to make him ready,” Andre said, “and begin reloading our picked forces at once.”

  “The winds give that no favor,” Angorman cautioned.

  “There will be wind to overfill all sails, I vow.” Andre took up the Crook of the Trustee, and removed the arming girdle and scabbarded Blazetongue from Lord Blacktarget’s body, slinging it over his shoulder. He looked south, where Yardiff Bey had gone. The Trailingsword hung in the sky there; he shook his fist toward the Necropolis, and it left a blue glow in its wake.

  “We come! If that Lifetree is destroyed, and you are invulnerable, I care not. Salamá, we come.”

  Two days after the invasion, one of the Isle’s taprooms had been revivified. The place had been called the Dogfish; its shrewd young proprietress had buried barrels and cases of her best under a false floor in the celleret when the Occhlon had come, months earlier. She’d dug them up and reincarnated her establishment, naming it the Broken Yoke. She’d scarcely unlocked her door when two Mariners crowded in, and began depleting her modest stock.

  “’Tis the source of no small bitterness,” Wavewatcher complained a little later, “this reaping unkindness where the harvest ought to have been gladsome thanks.” He was squiggling doodles on the tabletop with moisture from their tankard rings.

  “If our intermittent shortcoming has been disregard of orders,” Skewerskean added, “why, ’twas done holding the Mariners’ best interests uppermost. Most times.”

  Foxglove, the proprietress, she of the tumbling sable locks and swaying hips, was bringing their next round. “Wherefore are these complaints? Is it so perishing unpleasant to be put in authority over your own ship?”

  The harpooner growled, “Life becomes charts, schedules, manifests—”

  “He feels worse about it,” Skewerskean confided to her, “because he was named captain.”

  “Pay calls, customs men, pilot’s fees—” the redbeard droned.

  “And I am first officer, purser and supercargo.”

  “—ship’s log, inventories, credentials—”

  “We can embark on compensatory business ventures only, or the Prince promises to make us grease-boys in the sculleries.”

  “And,” finished Wavewatcher, pointing to the ceiling, “just try getting a goddam shipwright to pick up a mallet without letting him hold the mortgage on your oysters!” He plucked up another drink.

  “Oh, la!” Foxglove commiserated, “the weight of the world, hmm?”

  “We always saw that it threatened,” Skewerskean admitted, counting out her exorbitant price, “and avoided it also. But the Prince had replacements to appoint, and we are both qualified.” The chanteyman held her hand now, playing his fingers over her wrist. She gave a preliminary tug, not completely unhappy with that inter-sport. “Telling no to a Prince is one of those matters better left unassayed.”

  The door’s opening, admitting another customer, interrupted the game as Foxglove whirled her hand free. Wavewatcher, scrutinizing the man framed in the light, let out a snort. “There; all courses cross in time, just as is said by the old grand-daddies. You are a long haul from your Earthfast, old son, and farther yet from the High Ranges.”

  Ferrian took a chair with them, the toll of diligent riding apparent on him. “Your memory is spry. I congratulate you on the news I had at the docks, that you two have arisen in this world. I was seeking a ship and, hearing your names, thought it could be no others but you.”

  “Pray waste not those well-wishes,” Foxglove advised from behind the bar. “Success depresses them.”

  The Horseblooded told them, “I arrived at the coast this morning, and ferried over on one of these supply ships that are ending the starvation here. I am informed I am too late to speak to Andre deCourteney.”

  “As all will attest,” replied Skewerskean. “The wizard enlisted our Prince’s further aid, half by plea and half by statement inflexible. They sailed for the Southwastelands, and all those allies and mounts with ’em, in great haste and with precious little ullage. The Trustee was slain in combat with Yardiff Bey, as was Lord Blacktarget, but the Crook and that especial sword Blazetongue go on with Andre deCourteney.”

  Ferrian was nodding. “I had the tale from a Glyffan woman, and heard this news of Gil MacDonald as well. I thought the balance of these hodge-podge soldiers would go along soon, but there are some to garrison the Isle, and others to be set back on the Crescent Lands.”

  “Aye. That wizard did insist, all speed and mobility was his preoccupation. Hence, most foot soldiers stayed here.”

  “Where will the fleet make landfall?”

  The chanteyman was playing with his tankard. “Not near here. Observers report amassed southerners, frustrated with their lack of passage ships. The Prince and deCourteney, avoiding them, were making southeast. The wizard called up the very air, filling all sailcloth. Common thought has him landing farther east, where he can drive toward Shardishku-Salamá with less resistance.”

  “And the Crescent Landers put themselves under him?”

  “Well, the Sisters of the Line are under their commander, that Swan, and the Veganáns have some interim general, but they did indeed obey the wizard. All of them were angry for the deaths of the two great leaders, and time and again Blacktarget and the Trustee publicized that the Trailingsword must be heeded. And so, too, thinks the Prince Who Sails Forever. Off they all sailed.”

  Ferrian leaned forward. “Everyone, is that so? Angorman too? Well, my hearty sea-rovers, it falls to me to catch up to that fleet as soon as ever I may. Is it enough to hear that many lives ride with it?”

  Their faces perked up. Until this moment life had been a dreary sentence of sober industry. For the Horseblooded’s words there was the enthusiasm reserved for stays of execution.

  “We can accept only offers of business,” Skewerskean reminded his friend and captain, “on the Prince’s order.”

  The tall Rider frowned, left hand burrowing in his pouch. He came up with a pair of copper bits, all the money he had left from what Silverquill had managed to find for him. He laid the little pellets on the table, where they clicked together, a preposterous sum with which to purchase passage.

  “They’ll do,” Wavewatcher announced, and scooped them up. Foxglove shook her head unbelievingly.

  “But can you overhaul them in the fleet?”

  “Horseman, meseems ’tis fundamental; breezes that drive them eastward must pass us. Or if not, we may still make our attempt.”

  Skewerskean warned, “The Prince will see us hung.” But he threw back his drink, rising to go.

  Over his shoulder, Wavewatcher called to Ferrian, “Meet us on the quay in the half-hour, and all will be ready.” To the chanteyman, he philosophized, “Remuneration is remuneration; nobody ever said anything about profit, witling.”

  Ferrian watched them go, then chortled down into his drink with the humor of long sleeplessness. He caught Foxglove staring at him quizzically, and raised the toast to her. “Here’s to as perceptive a pair of businessmen as this old world ever saw, and to good ends for two-penny rovers.”

  PART IV

  Proprieties of the Apocalypse

  Chapter Twenty-three

  And when fate summons, monarchs must obey

  John Dryden

  MacFlecknoe

  THERE was no elation to be had from this rallying of blazonries, clan totems and banners of war at Seaguard. Coramonde, generations’ labor of the Ku-Mor-Mai, was coming undone in rebellion and civil strife.

  Springbuck had been working toward a time when, his realm secure, he could gather a host here and sail for Shardishku-Salamá. But he hadn’t envisioned it this way, a desperate rush to gather what troops he could and confront the Masters while it still was possible. He’d left trusted Honuin Granite Oath in
command, yet even Earthfast was no longer secure.

  Springbuck’s decision to cast all his strength southward, and not stand fast in a wasted effort to subdue Coramonde, had come hard. His every instinct had told him to hold on, as his ancestors had done, to grip the suzerainty with the martial fist. But, from what he knew of Bey and of Salamá, Coramonde couldn’t be saved if the Five worked uninterrupted.

  “Can I expect further loyal contingents?” he asked his Warlord.

  Hightower sighed, raising frosty-white eyebrows. “Communication has fallen apart. Some have sent you knights and scutage and men at arms, and posted the call along to those they trust. The strike force that was Bonesteel’s own before his death stayed true, made a forced march here, flying the crimson tiger and your own stag’s head.

  “We may expect no more from Honuin Granite Oath either, than that he hold Earthfast and some of the suzerainty. So, we have a quiltwork. There are archers from Rugor, Clansmen from Teebra, four of the war-drays of Matloo dispatched by loyalist septs, and your personal guardsmen who number less than two companies. Oh, and members of the Constabulary of the Way continue to drift in. There is also Balagon and his One Hundred, the Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, along with a good part of the Order of the Axe. Strange, to see them more in comradeship now than enmity. But those are all you have, and a goodly part of Coramonde in chaos.”

  “As it would be,” informed Gabrielle deCourteney, “whether you stay or go. Salamá has many intrigues incubating in Coramonde, and cares not which ones hatch, so long as there is discord and confusion.” Her wide mouth smiled, dimpling, sardonic. “Put aside any idea that you two could have held on here, my desperadoes; that is what the Five would most have liked to see.”