The Starfollowers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  Yardiff Bey, a wraith of murderous intent, flew at Van Duyn and Katya; his horse’s hoofbeats left a trail of glowing prints in its wake.

  The American had dismounted, to snuggle the butt of the Garand firmly at his shoulder. The hellhorse grew larger in his sight picture, cannonading the ground. The sorcerer was crouched behind the beast’s neck, clinging like a thistle in the whiplash banners of its mane. “You must wait until he is nigh, Edward,” the Snow Leopardess advised, “or he may distort what you see.”

  He fixed his cheek to the rifle stock, steadied his sight blade. He fired carefully, as he did all things, leaning into the recoil. The first shot was high. The second kicked up dirt, an overcompensation, but the third hit. Bey’s eldritch mount gave its feline cry as it lost vaporous, foul-smelling blood from a wound in its left gaskin. Katya, seeing Bey could hide behind his steed’s neck, told Van Duyn to hold fire; her reckless courage had hold of her again.

  Rowling her horse, she went at the Hand of Salamá, shield up, ironbound lance pointing the way. But Bey’s mount was demoniac in its speed and strength, and feared nothing. It swerved away from her lance like spindrift, its snapping, sulfur-smelling fangs barely missing her arm. Its enormous weight slammed her horse’s side, knocking the Snow Leopardess and her charger through the air, discards of battle.

  The rifle came up again; Van Duyn fired with metronomic punctuality, one round per second. One whistled through the beast’s forelock, but others struck deep in its neck and chest. Though Bey was protected from the gunfire, Van Duyn stood his ground resolutely. It almost cost him his life; he just did manage to dive aside. The hellhorse swept by, its wounds fuming and sizzling.

  As dust settled around him, Van Duyn climbed shakily to his feet. Katya was already picking herself up, throwing off her fall. “I am unscathed,” the Princess assured him, peering eastward after the vanished sorcerer, “but the day seems mapped for disaster.”

  Springbuck, finding Calundronius, had raced for the stoneyards to rescue Dunstan and Swan, only to meet them as the two emerged. The Ku-Mor-Mai sighed his relief, shaking the lean Horseblooded by both shoulders.

  The others were at the rear of the ruined dray. The King pointed toward Salamá; Springbuck couldn’t quite see, but the others described for him the horseman coming with supernatural speed.

  “That’ll be Yardiff Bey,” grated Gil, certain. He was glassy-eyed, his skin blue with shortage of oxygen. Hightower was propped against the wagon, eyelids closed, yet they fluttered open at the name.

  The Warlord spoke to the heart of matters in a quavering voice. “Time is short, and I see but one horse.” Fireheel stood waiting, the only one not driven or frightened away. “Ku-Mor-Mai, finish this ride.”

  There was no counterargument. Springbuck took Red Pilgrim from Swan. “Fireheel is brawny,” he declared, gathering the gray’s reins, “and can bear one more beside.”

  “Then, let it be Gil MacDonald,” the old man bade, words coming in a gargle of blood. “I am late in years, and have my death-wound.”

  They hoisted Gil into the gray’s saddle and used the baldric of Ferrian’s scimitar to hold him to the high cantle, seeing he was half-fainting. Springbuck rode behind, carrying the axe and steadying his friend. Swan removed her gleaming, white-winged bascinet and wrapped its chin strap through Gil’s belt. “If you can fill this with the waters of the Tree and bear it back, Hightower’s life may still be saved. I will try to find a horse, and follow, if I can.”

  Springbuck nodded, but doubted she had the time. He spoke to Fireheel gently, asking one last effort. The stallion complied. And so the two, the ruler of a mighty suzerainty and the displaced alien, became, of all the thousands who’d answered the Trailingsword, the ones to cover the final stretch.

  The other four turned to await the sorcerer. Dunstan was still armed with Andre’s sword, and Swan had drawn hers, taking up Springbuck’s fallen shield. Ferrian brandished his flashing scimitar, and Reacher leaned against the dray, balancing on one foot, holding Swan’s javelin.

  A fey calm settled over them. Soon, the salvoes of the hellhorse’s hoofbeats could be heard.

  Fireheel churned to the summit of the steep, grassy slope. Springbuck, who’d barely been able to hold Gil in the saddle, slid off, unfastened the baldric, and eased his friend down. The American couldn’t stand, couldn’t breathe or speak. He lay on the ground, clawing at his throat, as the pressure in his chest choked life out of him. Springbuck, beyond knowledge and beyond prayer, took Red Pilgrim in a woodchopper’s grip, and with a broad stance, raised the axe.

  When he sighted the four waiting for him in the road, the sorcerer recognized that his options were exhausted. The hellhorse was beginning to falter, and there was no time for spell-casting. He must unleash that weapon he wore where his left eye had been.

  He’d lost the eye, long ago, in mortal combat beneath the earth. He’d wrenched from its socket the single Orb of his monstrous opponent, and made it his own in replacement. Now he leaned to one side of his mount’s neck and flipped open the ocular.

  The Orb seemed to turn the whole world a harsh, unendurable white, abolishing all color. There were only outlines to be seen in its brilliance. The pain Bey felt, liberating those energies, threatened to rob him of consciousness. Dust swirled up, and the air was superheated. The four mortals fell away, covering themselves, seared and blistered.

  But the Hand had already elevated his awful gaze up the mound. There, its venomous light caught Springbuck full in the back as he raised the greataxe. Calundronius didn’t protect him; the Orb was no enchantment, but a living property, like dragonfire. The Ku-Mor-Mal pitched forward, but brought the axe through its arc. The crescent bit dug deep into the earth. From that crease water gushed, to fountain and flow.

  Bey had already clicked the ocular shut, clinging to his horse’s mane; the Orb was fueled by its user’s life, and a moment’s exposure had nearly cost the sorcerer his. He barreled past the dray and his downed opponents like Death, the Hunter. Near the top of the hill though, his steed came to the end of its unnatural endurance. As it sank to its knees with a resentful sibilance like a snake’s, he slipped clear and continued afoot.

  At the summit he discovered Springbuck stretched out full length on the ground. Not far from him, Gil MacDonald’s body lay face down in the runoff from the hill’s mystic waters. But that runoff was becoming less and less; between the two forms, the Lifetree stood.

  Angorman’s axe haft had awakened from the sleep of centuries and put forth roots, growing with preternatural speed, as if years were passing like minutes. Even now, it was less a helve than a sapling, knurled with the promise of limbs.

  Yardiff Bey smiled; he was in time. The Tree was still young and vulnerable to his powers. His hands danced skillfully, calling sorcery to him, but without effect. Then it came to him that Springbuck still wore Calundronius. He started for the Ku-Mor-Mai, meaning to hurl the gemstone off the hill, but stopped dead. There was a gurgle, a watery snort, movement, a gust of exhalation.

  Gil MacDonald rolled out of the runoff, shaking water from his eyes, spitting, coughing. He’d been healed, not drowned, by those rarest of waters.

  The last thing he remembered was an unbearable light that had downed Springbuck; the first thing he saw was Yardiff Bey. He bounced to his feet, forgetting he’d been as good as dead, but recalling he was unarmed. Bey’s hand went to his ocular. He would risk its use one more time; Lifetree and enemy would both fall.

  Gil concluded that the ocular was connected with whatever ray had struck the Ku-Mor-Mai; but too much distance separated him from the sorcerer.

  “The episode ends well,” allowed the servant of Salamá, finding the catch of his ocular.

  A white puff of feathers struck his cheek. He recoiled instinctively. Another streaked past, as several more hovered before his face. Suddenly, the air was alive with piping, swarming Birds of Accord, like a snowstorm of wings and song. Bey swatted them away, wildly angry, and made to un
latch his ocular.

  Gil MacDonald was no longer there.

  The Hand of Salamá spun, searching in the blinding, deafening blizzard as Birds blundered into him. Gil hit him blindside, taking advantage of the unseeing ocular. They grappled on the ground, the American’s punches and chops hardly hurting the sorcerer. Bey’s strength was immense; he struck away a groping attempt for a choke-hold on his throat, but Gil got his wrists, holding his enemy from behind in a leg-lock, moved not by Rage, but rather by outrage.

  Still, this was Yardiff Bey. Irresistibly, his hands came to the ocular. It would serve him one more time, and win him all his desires.

  Something pressed hard at Gil’s side as he wrestled; Swan’s helmet. He released his hold, and Bey’s hand flew to the ocular. Gil tore the helmet loose, grasping it by its white wings and, as the Orb shone forth, jammed the glittering bascinet down backward over the sorcerer’s head, holding it fast.

  The Hand of Salamá arched backward, squealing in horror. Smoke, glaring white light and the crackle of mystic fire escaped around the helmet’s edges. Gil clung, literally, for his life. Then he had to yank his hands away, as the bascinet became too hot to touch.

  It lasted only seconds. Bey slumped, paroxysms ended. The Orb, unpowered, went out. Gil worked up the meager energy to shove himself free.

  As he did, a gale sprang up on the hillside. A chorus of gloating, gibbering voices came on it, invisible, circling the hill. Then there was a new voice, surrounded by ranting and wailing in the manner of the damned. Gil recognized it: Yardiff Bey’s. Sobbing, pleading to no effect, the sorcerer’s soul was borne away to pay unholy debts.

  Then calm returned, and the Birds of Accord resumed their waiting.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  I cannot rest from travel; I will drink

  Life to the lees.

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  Ulysses

  IN the Fane of the Masters were whines of utter despair. The Lifetree had taken root, exerting its equilibrium.

  The influences of the Five pulsed erratically against blue deCourteney enchantments. Andre spread his arms wide with a gusty laugh; Gabrielle’s luminance was renewed. They’d been beleaguered, but now the attacks were dissipated like so much mist.

  Gabrielle’s green eyes narrowed. Arrogant Masters who’d been within an instant of godhood were naked to her. The sorceress’ unquenchable will, supported by her brother’s arts, dragged her enemies from their places. Their dreams of deity were broken, leaving only their obscene shapes. Skaranx, faithless watchman; Temopon, deceitful advisor; Vorwoda, hateful lover; Kaytaynor, friend-slayer; and Dorodeen, flawed hero; they came in a semicircle around the deCourteneys as failed, petty spirits.

  One by one, Gabrielle called their names. They came to touch their heads to the floor at her feet, monstrous shapes bending to an unforeseen task.

  No words passed, but the same sharp aspect was in both the deCourteneys’ miens. Gabrielle raised both hands high, a very empress of magic. A final radiance broke from the two. The central column vibrated, a webwork of cracks appearing all along its granite height. The deCourteneys turned to leave their enemies. The Masters made a tentative move to follow. She whirled back; they were cowed by her glance alone.

  The stone pillar was wrapped in a sleeve of blue glory, held together only by Gabrielle’s imperatives. Brother and sister came to the doors, which Andre opened with a motion of his head and a word of Compulsion. Men fell back, averting their eyes from the unbearable light. Framed in it, Gabrielle made a last Dismissal. The central column came apart in a shower of stone and dust. The roof cracked, enormous chunks of it breaking loose. The immeasurable weight of the Fane collapsed.

  In that penultimate moment, the Five shook loose from the ages of their plotting, resigning themselves to death with a perverse curiosity, as their Fane crashed down upon them.

  Returning down the road from Salamá, Andre and Gabrielle and the army came to the broken dray. There, Ferrian and Reacher kept watch over the body of Hightower.

  Gabrielle went to him slowly, stooping to kiss the Warlord’s leathery brow. “He was at peace, at the end,” Ferrian told her gently.

  Her eyes were brimming. “It was granted us both to know why we failed against Salamá so long ago. Seeing the Lady’s whole plan was a measure of compensation.”

  Healers were seeing to Ferrian’s temple and Reacher’s leg, applying demulcents to the burns they’d gotten when the Orb had opened against them. They had no news yet of what had happened on the hill, so wizard and sorceress hurried on, as Van Duyn, Katya, Dunstan and Swan already had.

  Riding up, they saw a blackened area in the grass, not knowing it was the spot where Bey’s hellhorse had fallen and evaporated as its unnatural life was consumed.

  At the top of the hill, the rest had gathered by the Lifetree. The Tree towered over them, already crowded with caroling Birds of Accord. The timeless artificial twilight of Salamá was dispersing, and honest night breaking through.

  Swan, Van Duyn and the Snow Leopardess stood over them as Gil and Dunstan knelt by Springbuck’s unmoving body. Andre grieved anew, thinking this last death might be more than his sister could bear. Then the Ku-Mor-Mai groaned, drawing up one knee. Gabrielle ran to him, as Gil recounted the events of the chase. Sisters of the Line crowded around their High Constable, pressing ministrations on her, and on the others’ wounds as well.

  Of Bey’s body there was little remaining except dark powder; its spirit had preserved it all these centuries.

  “The water stopped running before I could get to it,” Gil told Andre sadly, “and now the Tree’s taking it all; no more runoff.”

  “’Twould do Hightower no good,” the wizard admitted. “He died even before you came to the mound.” He gazed to one side, and saw the double-bitted axehead, its collar snapped open by the insistent growth of the Lifetree.

  “What about the Masters?” Gil wanted to know. Gabrielle pointed back toward the city. Shardishku-Salamá was consuming itself in fires leaping upward toward the sky.

  “I’ve got to see,” he announced. Jeb Stuart’s hurts, and Fireheel’s, were being attended by knowledgeable cavalrymen. Gil was about to borrow a horse when Springbuck, struggling to his feet, called for two.

  “Where is the injury so grievous it will keep us two from seeing this sight?” he demanded. No one contradicted him, or pressed to be taken along.

  By the time they’d gotten to the city, the fires were burned out. There were only minor drifts of smoke; of the Necropolis there was nothing. The sky was nearly dark now, but the light of dawn was coming up in the east.

  “So fast,” Gil murmured, “how could it have gone up so fast? Even the stone is gone.”

  Springbuck shrugged. “The Masters endured long after they should have died, and so did their magic, and the things it built. All this destruction, held in abeyance, was accomplished in quickened time.”

  Gil dismounted. “Coming?” Springbuck followed suit slowly, babying burns, aches and wounds.

  They passed where the gateway arch had been, and stopped at the spot where the Fane had dominated Shardishku-Salamá. The place was flat, with no block, no timber, not so much as a potsherd to show a city had stood there. It was now a table of scorched earth. The American felt his side, where the wound had disappeared; something told him Dirge, too, had ceased to exist. Springbuck looked straight up, but there was no sign of the Trailingsword. He was unsurprised. Gil took the Ace of Swords and let it fall to the cauterized earth.

  They made the long hike to their horses, mounted, rode away and never glanced back. Pale dawn had begun.

  The armies had encamped around the base of the hill. Warriors of both sexes had begun ascending the hill, to bear witness of the Lifetree.

  The deCourteneys and the others came down. Andre, guessing Gil’s thought, indicated the Tree and said, “By evening it will achieve full growth. It’s uppermost branches will be in the clouds, its roots deep in the earth.”
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br />   Springbuck was speaking to Ferrian. “Friend Rider, your timing is harrowing-fine.”

  The Horseblooded grinned, adjusting the bandages on his head. “Victory is its own excuse, as we say on the High Ranges. I came to the Isle of Keys just after the Mariner fleet set out. Andre, you rule the winds all too well!” He struck his thigh with his left hand. “For fact, I did, in haste, neglect to say something to Gil.” He looked to the American. “The ship I took was under two who said they knew you, said you needn’t seek for them yet at, um, ‘Fiddler’s Green,’ but might find them at the Golden Fluke.”

  Gil laughed, then noticed Swan watching him. He sobered. “How would you like to see the Outer Hub?”

  Her face was fond, but unhappy. “Region Blue has been without a High Constable long enough,” she declined. Catching Gabrielle’s eye, she added, “And Glyffa, far too long without a Trustee.”

  The sorceress returned the appraisal. “Region Blue will have a new High Constable, in sooth.” Swan was startled; Gabrielle finished, “I cannot squander my best administrator on one area.” She saw Gil’s frown, and laughed. “No hangdog faces! You may visit, but there is the Reconciliation to consider.” To Springbuck she moved her glance, pretending still she spoke to the American. “We have much to do, you see, though there will be leisure too.”

  The Ku-Mor-Mai held her eyes. “One mustn’t neglect affairs of state.”

  Reacher surprised them all, saying, “I, for one, do not answer that plea of politics.”

  Katya puzzled, “What now, brother?”

  “You are clever, sister, and willful. And as formidable as you have to be.” He eased his injured leg. “Therefore, you have a season in which to do as you like, be it going with Edward again or returning with me to Freegate. But when that is done and this leg is sound, I would like you to take the throne, if you will. I am for the High Ranges.”