The Starfollowers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  Flaycraft held his head as blood welled from his scalp, matting his thick hair. Panting, Gil threw the figurine as hard as he could. It ricocheted from the torturer’s shoulder. Flaycraft wiped blood from his eyes and a growl started low in his chest. Gil backed away, hyperventilating both from the Rage and to recover from the choking. He wouldn’t have left the fight now if he could.

  Flaycraft charged again. Gil backpedaled, working hand combinations dredged up by the Berserkergang, chopping and snap-punching, evading clinches. He tried for the nose and piggish eyes, but heavy ridges of bone protected them. The torturer’s scalp wound, looking worse than it was, had covered his face and shoulder with blood and marked the tarot at his breast. Gil kept chipping away, using elbows and knees when he could, ducking and sidestepping. His nerves jumped and hummed with hatred. He was unaware of how much his expression resembled his enemy’s.

  He blocked reaching hands with a wide, rotary motion and threw a snap-punch to the high ribs, index knuckle cocked forward. He had enough room to slam an elbow in after it.

  Pain ignited Flaycraft. He threw himself on Gil, unstoppable, yellow canines snapping close to the jugular. Gil caught the chest hair again, holding him away, trying for a hip throw. They were too intertangled. Gil changed grips to the shaggy ears, to hold Flaycraft’s head steady. Then he crashed the top of his own skull into the snarling face. He felt bone give, and was himself staggered.

  Flaycraft reeled back, his broken muzzle reddened, his wide, flat nose shattered. Gil blinked, seeing stars, and retreated to bring his back up against a wall.

  He understood the match dimly. Flaycraft wasn’t, and never had been, a standup fighter. His trade was abusing prisoners already bound and subdued. He was unaccustomed to open combat; but the beast-man was willing, and horribly strong and determined.

  The moment’s intellectualization was swallowed up again in the Rage. Flaycraft teetered, wiping blood from his bone-visored face, left eye swelling closed. He growled through torn lips. “You have a bite, little mutt,” he slurred, “but now it is time to leash you again,”

  Gil heaved his shoulders, standing free of the wall. He topped Flaycraft by a head, but sensed, even in seizure, that the other would tear him apart if the match went on much longer. He brought his hands up again, but his vision wavered.

  The beast-man rushed him, arms spread. Gil faked left awkwardly, ducked right and put everything he had into a stiff-fingered left to the other’s midsection. He chopped with the right, but it might as well have been a pat on the head. Flaycraft, arms wide, caught him in a bear hug that ended breath and threatened to splinter his ribs.

  Gil dug thumbs under the lower corners of the torturer’s ears, behind his jaw, but Flaycraft persevered. The American swung cupped hands in to pop them into the beast-man’s ears in detonations that must have burst his eardrums. He only tightened his hold. Gil was starved for air.

  Gil’s nose was bleeding, as were his many lacerations from Flaycraft’s nails. His eyes had focused down to a narrow circle surrounded by darkness; his head wobbled aimlessly. But the Rage bore him up with ferocity. He pushed his thumbs into the inner corners of the torturer’s eyes.

  The beast-man tried to avoid it, burrowing his bloodied head into Gil’s chest, trying to sink his fangs in. The American forced his thumbs past the muscular opposition of lids, into the vulnerability behind them. Flaycraft screamed in pain. Gil ripped his thumbs away, tearing before them all that was in their way.

  The torturer released him, stumbling away, hands clapped over both eyes. Gil fell to the floor and breathed in huge gulps, desperate for a few critical seconds’ consciousness. Flaycraft groped back toward him with no other thought but to kill his enemy.

  He tripped over Gil’s legs and they both rolled on the carpet, one trying to keep distance, the other to close. Gil scrambled free. Flaycraft jumped to his feet. Blinded, deafened, he waited for smell or some vibration to tell him where his antagonist was. His face was unrecognizable; blood flowed from his ears, and his eyes were sockets of ruin.

  Gil now believed the torturer could go on indefinitely, but the Berserkergang whispered that death would end it. The American spotted the figurine’s fallen pedestal, a double spiral of metal rod with small circular base and platform, and went for it. Flaycraft sensed that somehow, charging with a roar. The beast-man took him from behind as he stooped for the weapon. Fingers locked on Gil’s throat again. With no more than four or five seconds left, Gil swung the pedestal wildly over his head, unable to aim. There was blunt, violent collision of bone and metal. The grip weakened. He fumbled clear, swung again, and grazed his enemy.

  Flaycraft shook his head angrily, dazed. Gil’s world was blacking out; the Rage couldn’t keep him going much longer. He brought the pedestal over his head in an arc of calculated hate. Even the beast-man couldn’t take the blow without damage. He fell, the side of his skull opened, blue-white bone dashed in. The carpeting was sodden with his blood.

  Gil, too, had fallen to his knees with the force of the swing. The torturer swayed before him, gurgling and growling, ruminating somewhere in the depths of his fury. He extended a cautious hand sightlessly feeling feebly, still seeking the grip that would let him kill.

  Gil shifted his hold on the pedestal and swung again. It was his last effort; he never felt it end. He only saw the hated darkness rise.

  Lying headlong, he held his aching throat where blood ran from nail wounds. Near him lay Flaycraft, sprawled dead. Between them was the pedestal, bent in the middle from the last blow, its base stained with blood. Some of Flaycraft’s brown hairs still clung to it.

  He toiled to his feet in the weakness that followed the Berserkergang. Something caught his eye, the Ace of Swords covered with Flaycraft’s gore. He leaned over unsteadily, took it and put it on with bloodied hands, hiding the tarot under his shirt. He passed down the long gallery slowly, breathing deeply.

  But at its end he realized that, in taking the Ace, he’d left proof positive that he’d killed Flaycraft. If Evergray noticed it on him, the Scion of Salamá would be suspicious, even if he didn’t know what had happened to his servant. With a sudden thought to hide the body, he returned to the other end of the gallery.

  One look around there convinced him it was futile. There was blood everywhere and no immediate place of concealment, even if he could move the torturer’s bulky corpse. His breathing had begun to even out; now he heard the celebratory music of the Masters, louder than before, as if its crescendo were near. He lifted the beast-man’s head and tossed the Ace of Swords beneath it.

  “You wanted it, Flaycraft. Now you’ve got it.” Listing dizzily, he went to free his friend.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  All theory is against free will; all experience for it.

  Samuel Johnson

  GIL went along the rock face of the corridor until he came to the rune hanging in the air. Nothing more was necessary. The passageway dilated by Evergray’s previous command. At the far end, a figure was outlined against the cone of light.

  “Dunstan, c’mon; you’re sprung.”

  The Horseblooded shielded his eyes from the orange light. He leaned weakly on the edge of the passageway. The gaunt face, like a sad clown’s, achieved joy and sorrow at once. “The words you needed must have come to you.”

  “I made a few points, but he’s not convinced. Wants to talk to you.”

  Dunstan stood upright, gazing at his hands. “I heard a voice call my name, and I was whole once again. Do you suppose I was never truly part of the stone? Perhaps Bey only made me see and feel what he wished. Mayhap I was imprisoned by what I believed, and could have walked free at any time.”

  Gil had been working with his tongue at a tooth that had been loosened in the fight. He spat it to the floor with a gobbet of blood and saliva. “What’s it matter? You’re free now.”

  That fact penetrated at last. “I am free!” He threw back his head, crowing his triumph. He leapt into the corridor and began a
jig, hopping, stamping his feet. The music of the Masters swelled, but he used it for his fling, locking elbows with the protesting American, swinging him do-si-do. And what matter if the tune was played in demon’s tri-tones? He laughed and sang, clicking his heels in the air, his long horsetail of hair flying; Gil’s objections went unheard.

  Then he saw the red stains on Gil’s hands and clothes, and how he had his arm clamped to his side, feeling as if some of his ribs were cracked. Dunstan stopped. “What’s happened? What have they done to you?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! Evergray sent me to get you, but Flaycraft tried to stop me. It was him or us, so it was him.”

  Dunstan’s face was bleak again. “Almost, I could hate you for that. Simple death was ten thousand times easier than he deserved; it was damnable largesse.”

  “Give it over; the clock’s running out. Evergray’s got to go back to the Masters for his last session any time now.”

  “Come, lean on my arm.”

  “I’m okay. I’ll fill you in as we go.”

  But when they re-entered the gallery, Evergray was standing beside the torturer’s body, with Yardiff Bey nearby. In the Scion’s hand was a greatsword nearly his own height.

  And that’s the end of it, thought Gil. Evergray no longer showed a smooth, emotionless face; now it was taut with righteous anger. He saw the two.

  “Mad creatures, this was my friend,” he boomed, his voice hurting their ears. “He was my teacher, my companion, my guardian, my servant. What have you done?”

  Gil didn’t evade. “Only what he would’ve done to me, tried to do to me.”

  “Of course you did, MacDonald.” Yardiff Bey transferred his calm stare from the mortals to his progeny. “I knew it as soon as I happened upon the corpse. It is in his free-will nature to slay and maim, and bring suffering without thought or pause.” Gil glowered, knowing his appearance must suggest the red-handed butcher Bey was making him out to be. “How many lives have you taken, MacDonald? You murdered in those first seconds that you were in Coramonde. You have been murdering ever since.”

  “Shut up, Bey! What about you? For God’s sake, what about your killings, centuries of them?” He floundered, unsure that it was any defense at all.

  The sorcerer’s tone stayed calm as a tranquil river. “I? When have you seen me kill?” He knew the American had been too dazed at the Isle of Keys to note the death of the Trustee.

  Gil couldn’t find a retort. For all the deaths with which Bey was connected, Gil could cite no time when he’d seen the Hand commit murder personally. As he’d told Dunstan, Bey was smarter, smoother. The sorcerer spoke to his creation again.

  “Understand, child of my arts; free-will beings are treacherous and ungrateful. I knew that when I besought you to arm yourself. It will be no loss when the memory of free will is wiped away forever before the glorious New Order. There is death in everything they touch, just as there is ruin implicit in that tarot MacDonald wears.”

  Gil broke in. “Spare the tears, Bey. How many people died to suit your plans? Quit splitting hairs; you’re just as guilty as—”

  Insight came to him. “Oh, right! You’re not here by accident, and neither was Flaycraft. You bastard! You set me up again, didn’t you?” It was clear now, Yardiff Bey had used Gil one last time, to dissuade Evergray from his stubbornness about free will. The sorcerer had arranged the fight.

  “Evergray, don’t you see what’s going on? You, me, Dunstan, Flaycraft; Bey’s played us all off against each other. If Flaycraft killed me, fine and dandy; I’d have looked erratic and everything I’d said goes out the window. And when I won, it was all the same: You still end up hating mortals and going along with the Masters. It’s fail-safe.”

  “He is mad,” Bey intoned placidly, “and the mad will claim anything.”

  Gil snarled furiously. In the back of his mind, something had been yammering for attention. Then he had it.

  “Bey, what did you just say, something about the tarot I wear? Flaycraft took that from me. Why did you think I was wearing it again, unless you saw me take it off him?”

  He grabbed the ragged front of his shirt and tore down the rotting sealskin. Flaycraft’s toothmarks were all he exposed. Bey was nonplussed. “He arranged it all. He must have watched from somewhere up there in the dark, one of those balconies. Evergray, he witnessed the fight. Yes, I took the Ace, and he saw it and left to get you. But he wasn’t there when I came back and left it here.”

  The sorcerer had composed himself. “It was only misstatement. No minor confusion of mine can palliate what you have done—”

  He was drowned out by the American, screaming to Evergray: “Roll Flaycraft over!”

  The giant brushed the squat body over with one hand. The Ace of Swords lay in a red puddle. Yardiff Bey’s disclaimers stopped. Evergray clenched his fist, shrieking into the air. The other three clapped hands to their ears, their hearing jeopardized. He pointed a long finger at the sorcerer.

  “My one companion, my only friend. His life mattered not at all to you. Now hear my troth: Your plan will never come to pass!” His head snapped around, listening to his Masters. At the top of his lungs he bellowed, “Never!”

  He pointed at Gil and Dunstan. “These death-lusting mortals are unfit to shape their lives. In like wise, the Masters are worthy of no godhead.” A circle of radiant, crackling energy sprang up around the horns and projections of his crown-helmet. “There is only one entity with the power and sanity to bring order to the world, and he is Evergray. I am the synthesis of Might and Right. Both sides will be abased to me. To me!”

  He faced Yardiff Bey. “Stand aside. The armies of the north are engaging the Host of the Grave, but I shall take them under my command. The Spell of Spells will be stopped, and all will yield to me.”

  The sorcerer stood to stop him, half-drawing Dirge. “What my magic has made, my magic can unmake.” Evergray raised his own weapon. Bey hesitated, seeing it. The Scion snatched Dirge from the sorcerer’s grasp, handing it aside carelessly. Gil took the deathblade with all caution. Bey’s fingers flew to the ocular he wore where his left eye had been.

  Evergray set his feet firmly, his aura crackling brighter. “Use that last desperate resort, father, but be warned; if you do, your life lies upon it.”

  Knowing Evergray was filled with the energies of the Five, Bey let his hand fall from the ocular. His shoulders drooped. Gil stooped and snatched up the Ace, shoving it into his waistband. It had brought him a convoluted turn of luck; he was unwilling to abandon it. Then he stood, Dirge in hand, to face Yardiff Bey.

  But a tempest came up in the sorcerer’s mansion, the Masters’ efforts to stop their Scion’s defection. They’d put too much of their power into him though, and he defied them. Wind and lightning broke around him, but didn’t touch him. The fury of it drove Gil, along with Dunstan, into the shelter of Evergray’s magic. When the American looked again, the sorcerer was gone.

  “Come!” Evergray commanded over his shoulder. The two fell in close behind, having to trot to keep up with the aroused giant while the wrath of the Five crashed around them.

  Evergray led them out onto the balcony, to Cloud Ruler. No guards appeared to interfere; if the Masters couldn’t halt Evergray, no show of arms would. He spoke a syllable, and the flying craft’s hatch rolled open. They boarded.

  Inside, Gil and Dunstan gazed around at the rich appointments of the command chamber. The giant seated himself before an enormous lens, straddling the command chair which was too small for him. He put his sword aside, set hands on knees, and went into deep concentration, breaking the vessel free of Yardiff Bey’s control. Cloud Ruler shuddered, belched flame and lifted off slowly.

  The demon-ship rocked turbulently for a moment, then steadied again. Evergray laughed. “He tried to liberate the fire-elemental entrapped in Cloud Ruler’s bowels, but I contained it again instantly, by my arts. I am mightier than the Hand of Salamá!”

  Gil peeked around Ever
gray at the lens. Salamá shrank in its convex fish-eye. The American could see dark masses moving on the desolate plain. Off in the distance was the hill where the Lifetree had bloomed.

  One lone figure came out to stare up from the balcony. From this height, Bey looked insignificant, almost pitiable. After all the centuries, Yardiff Bey had made his greatest error. Eager to summon Evergray and accuse Gil, he’d left the gallery too soon.

  The only time you’ve ever been careless, Bey, and now it’s all coming unglued. The American found he couldn’t savor the irony. The tiny figure was barely visible.

  Don’t go away; we’ll be back.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The glories of our blood and state

  Are shadows, not substantial things

  James Shirley

  “Death the Leveller”

  ON the desolate plain, swords rushed in ritualistic curves, approaches and interplays of war. With no effort to defend themselves, the Dead attacked relentlessly.

  Springbuck’s first match was definitive. The dead soldier came at him, eyes glowing, skin decayed, armor corroded. It swung a notched sword; the Ku-Mor-Mai blocked with his shield and responded with Bar. In a moment, they were trading strokes. The corpse-warrior wasn’t particularly strong, nor certainly a clever swordsman, but its offense was ceaseless.

  Springbuck and his opponent wheeled around each other, angry Fireheel setting his shoulder against the spectral mount’s. The Ku-Mor-Mai saw the Dead would be as avid to fight, unwearied, an hour or a day or a year from now as at this second. His army could match any mortal opponents, but how long could they stand against these insatiable foemen?

  He caught the sword on his shield and got a blow in. Bar dug deep, severing an arm. The specter dropped its shield and plucked a rusty mace from its saddlebow, coming on again. Springbuck intercepted the mace, the blow numbing his shield arm, and buried his blade deep in the corpse’s side. The dead man twitched with the impact, but lifted its mace again.