The Saprano Sorceress

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Her mouth twisted. She could bemoan her situation, but the days ahead were no time to be self-sacrificing. She'd done that, and with little enough to show,' in her years in academia.

  She leaned forward and thumped Farinelli's shoulder again.

  87

  Wei, Nordwei

  Yes Gretslen?'' Ashtaar motions the blonde woman into the room. Through the open window at her back come the sounds of hammers, saws, and the scattered curses of carpenters and masons beginning the rebuilding of the dock quarter.

  Gretslen stops opposite the table and waits.

  "You may sit." The dark-haired woman's fingers fold around the polished oval of black agate. "What have you to report?"

  "Both the Ebrans and the Nesereans are moving toward Pamr. The Prophet has nearly eight thousand of his best armsmen, plus a number of Defalkan levies. Eladdrin has about ten thousand under arms, as well as his darksingers." Gretslen shifts her weight in the hard chair.

  "What of the blonde sorceress?"

  "She rides ahead of the Prophet's forces, perhaps two days."

  "Alone?"

  "With a personal guard and several companies of crack lancers."

  "Behlem must put great stock in her." Ashtaar laughs softly. "Or he needs her and mistrusts her."

  Gretslen does not answer the observation.

  "Can you detect any spellcasting?" pursues the spymistress.

  "Before the sorceress left, she nearly rent the chords of harmony. She opened a small gate to the mist worlds, briefly. We could not see what was involved or why."

  "And she is well enough to ride?" Ashtaar asked.

  "She was walking later that day."

  Ashtaar's fingers tighten on the polished rock. "You are certain? No burns? No fire?"

  "Very certain, honored Ashtaar. She is mighty and knows it not."

  "I would like a written report on this matter. By tonight."

  "Yes, Ashtaar."

  "Is there anything else I should know?"

  "Eladdrin is trying to seek out the sorceress, also."

  "The man is no fool. He knows his greatest danger. What else?"

  "The lady Cyndyth is traveling to Falcor with the envoy from Mansuur."

  "And?"

  "That is all… but we will continue to scry."

  Silence seeps across the room, blotting out the noise from the city repairs.

  Her fingers still caressing the black agate oval, the spy-mistress's eyes focus on the door behind the blonde woman, and she says quietly, "That is all. The report. By tonight."

  "Yes, honored Ashtaar." Gretslen eases out of the room, not quite backing, but not turning away from the spymis-tress either.

  88

  Anna rode closer to the dozen armsmen who sweated and toiled in the heat with the small spades. She felt almost guilty as they worked, but she wouldn't have lasted an hour—a glass, she corrected her thinking—digging in the heat of Defalk.

  Her eyes turned eastward, down the gentle rise that was barely perceptible to the highway from Mencha. To her left was the road cut down to the Sorprat ford. She studied the waist-high sun-browned grass in front of the trench—she'd insisted that no one walk or ride on the down-rise side— and then the trench itself.

  "That's deep enough," Anna said to Alvar, after inspecting the trench. Even Farinelli and several mounts would fit into the sloped end-ramps angled into the center part of the excavation, and with the spell, she hoped Eladdrin would not see them—at least until it was too late.

  "Clean it up, square it out," ordered Alvar. "Then mount up." The captain turned in his saddle toward Anna, as if to speak, then paused.

  In the slightest of breezes, a few stalks of brown grass whispered, not enough to cover the mutterings from the trench.

  "… glad she is pleased… not the one digging…"

  "… sshh… you want to be up here with her… when the dark ones…"

  "… better dig than die, Fifard___"

  Anna pursed her lips, then waited for Alvar.

  "I still do not fully understand the need for a trench."

  The sorceress didn't, either, but her feelings told her it was necessary, and she'd learned years ago that every time she disregarded her feelings she ended up in trouble. Here trouble meant death.

  "What is the difference between this grassland and that?" Anna gestured from where the trench gaped to the grasslands more to the south of the bluffs. "Or those?"

  "None, save their closeness to the river."

  "And if I am not on the ground, but beneath it, and the dark sorcerer can tell only that I am surrounded by grass and dirt, how will he know where I am?"

  "He will not." Alvar nodded. "But if you sat in the grass, would he know, either?"

  "Captain Alvar, sometimes you have to follow your feelings. This time I have to follow mine." She gave a slight shrug, watching as the last of the armsmen scrambled from the trench, then turning in the saddle to ease the lutar out of its case.

  "Now?" he asked.

  "A concealment spell." Anna took a deep breath and began to strum, then to sing.

  When any trace of the displaced grass and the trench vanished, gasps whispered from the squad of armsmen waiting on the west side of the rise.

  "Your orders?" asked Alvar.

  "We head back to the others," said Anna. "We will camp at least four deks west—over those rises there. Even if the sorcerer sees us in his glass now, he will not know exactly where I will be later. Then, when they near, Daffyd and I and a few riders will come back here."

  The captain frowned.

  "How can we protect you?"

  "By not being too close." Anna turned Farinelli westward, toward where Captain Himar held the main body of Anna's company.

  She hoped she wasn't being too brave, or too foolhardy, but what seer could miss two companies of lancers? And what would Eladdrin think if they were perched on top of the ford?

  89

  West of Mencha, Defaik

  Eladdrin studies the mirror on the ground, though the image wavers. Finally, he packs the mirror into its leather case and straightens.

  "Ser?" asks the mounted subofficer.

  "Behlem seems to have split his forces. Half are on the north side of the river, to the east of Pamr. The others are on the south side, on the high ground at the southernmost bend in the river." Eladdrin eases the leather case into the oversized saddlebag and swings up onto the black. "The sorceress is somewhere in the grasslands, but she could be anywhere within fifty deks of either army. She's probably in front of them somewhere, but close enough to retreat after she's done her worst."

  The subofficer looks at the Songmaster inquiringly.

  "No, Gealas, I cannot discern where she is. She has used a concealing spell. While it reveals its use, she is in the middle of brown grasses that could be anywhere in Defalk."

  Gealas nods. "Which way should we go?"

  The Songmaster blinks, then looks to the west, away from the mid-morning sun. "We do not have to decide yet. They are more than a half day from the ford, no matter which way they go." Eladdrin flicks the reins and heads toward the fronUof the long black column. "We will attain the ford, and pause, and scout."

  When the subofficer catches up and settles his mare into a trot beside the Songmaster, he finally asks, "Why would the Prophet split his forces?"

  "They are split now, but they will not be when we meet. The Prophet is drawn up defensively. If we go north and cross the river, then he can pull back the southern forces and cross the river at Pamr to support the northern body. The same of the northern forces if we go south."

  "What is the point in that?"

  "The point," explained Eladdrin, his voice slightly hoarse, "is that half his forces are well rested and dug-in no matter what we do, and that we will have to come to him."

  "That does not sound like the Prophet."

  "Oh, it does. Remember, this is not his land, Gealas. He can sacrifice territory to save soldiers, as he could not do in Nesere
a. He also has some local levies. He fights us where his own people are not harmed and makes us work. The bulk of the harvests are beyond the river valley, or in it. He is guessing that we will not take the ford, and he is probably right. Going down in that kind of lowland against a sorceress is dangerous. That's why she's out from their forces, to try and trap us if we do. But we won't."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Suppose we take two days to cover a long half-day march, then stop several deks away. We are in no hurry, and perhaps I can find the sorceress. She is not a warrior, no matter how powerful she may be." Eladdrin snorts and flicks the reins. "In any case, no sorceress alone can stop our forces."

  Gealas nods again.

  Eladdrin's eyes focus on the clear western horizon.

  90

  Despite the heat that had seeped into the chest-deep trench where she and Daffyd—along with Spirda, Fhurgen, and another armsman named Mysar—had waited since early morning, Anna could smell a shift in the weather, a hint of something like fall.

  Whhnnnnn! From the north end of the trench came the sound of Farinelli's displeasure, echoed by a similar sound from one of the mares.

  "Quiet!" hissed Anna.

  Whhhnnnn!

  She sang the word, lingering over the syllables, and surprisingly, the horses quieted.

  Beyond Daffyd, to her left, she could see Fhurgen jab Mysar in the ribs. The younger armsman handed a copper to the black-bearded man. Anna felt amused and irritated simultaneously.

  "How much longer?" whispered Spirda, leaning toward her from her right, his breath smelling of something like garlic.

  Anna shrugged. "I don't know, and I'm not about to use another spell. If Eladdrin is close, he might be able to tell where we are."

  The sun inched higher, and over the faint and intermittent whispers of the grass came the calls of something like a meadowlark. The sorceress smiled, recalling the time she and the children had spent a week in the Garrisons' cabin in Estes. So long ago… so far away.

  She swallowed and looked up at the grass that hung on its brown stalks, still in the mid-morning heat—so still, as if the world were hanging on a thread, waiting for her to act.

  Anna snorted. Delusions of grandeur! She was a singer, lucky enough to have talent, and hardworking enough to have mastered technique and repertoire, and those talents enabled her to cast spells, not manipulate worlds.

  Daffyd sniffed, stifled a sneeze, and rubbed his nose. Was he allergic to grass, wondered Anna, or getting sick?

  Perhaps another glass passed before Anna readjusted her hat once more, blotting away the sweat that gathered under the band and oozed onto her forehead. Her hair was damp as well, and she wanted a bath or a shower. Washing her hair in a basin left it feeling still unclean, but cleanliness wasn't high on the priority lists in Defalk.

  She cocked her ears. Was that a dull thudding, a rumbling in the soil?

  "Something out there," hissed Fhurgen.

  Spirda eased past the mares and partway up along the earthen ramp, peering through the grass. After a time, he slipped back. "There are a good four companies of lancers, but they've halted back a dek or so."

  Anna eased past the blond officer, careful not to make contact with him in the narrow confines of the trench. While he wasn't her type, she still didn't want to convey any ideas. Except for a few like Alvar and Hanfor, most of the arms-men seemed so young. Then, they were. People on Erde lived fast and died young, except for lords and ladies. Lord Jecks was probably the only one near her age. He was almost like a white-haired Robert Mitchum. She'd liked the actor, thought he was sexy, and so was Jecks. She pushed away the thoughts and concentrated on the present.

  She studied the distant horsemen, and the two drooping black banners. They were on the fringe of the area she had prepared, but only on the fringe, and they clearly waited for someone or something.

  The sun climbed higher, and the horsemen waited, and Anna readjusted her hat and blotted her forehead and neck, and Daffyd sniffed. The two armsmen looked at each other, and Spirda rocked from one foot to the other, and the grass hung limply in the hot air.

  Then a single horn sounded, and the horsemen turned toward the ford, letting their mounts walk slowly toward the bluff. They were within a dek of the concealed trench before the first dark figures of the main body appeared on the eastern rise of the highway.

  "What's she waiting for?" whispered Mysar.

  "For all of them to get close enough to destroy them!" hissed Anna at him. She shouldn't be whispering, she realized. So she eased the lutar from the case, and began to check its tuning, as quietly as she could. Following her example, Daffyd took out the viola and did the same.

  A whisper of wind ruffled the grasses and was gone, and Anna shivered, sensing the unnaturalness of that seeking wind and feeling vindicated that she had insisted on the trench. A grim smile appeared and vanished.

  To the east of her vantage point, the horse troops reined up again, this time at the top of the bluffs, a good half-dek east of Anna, at the beginning of the road cut down to the ford. Several dismounted and stretched, walking around and pointing to the river and the valley, talking, although she could not hear their voices.

  The next set of horsemen, leading the main body, became more than outlines, became real men in black, bearing sabres. Some had lances. From the concealment of the trench, Anna looked through the browned grasses at the oncoming mass of armsmen. The dark ones had even more troops than she had seen at the Sand Pass. In the van were the dark horse, hundreds of them, followed by a long column of foot, then wagons, dozens of wagons, followed by more foot.

  Anna wanted to shake her head. The Ebrans were too strung out. She hadn't realized how far a marching army would stretch along the road, especially a large one.

  "Dissonance! How many are there?" murmured Daffyd.

  "There might be five hundred-score." Spirda wiped his forehead.

  Ten thousand troops? Could she? Anna swallowed, thinking about what ten thousand troops would do to Pamr, and Gatrune and Firis—or Falcor. Could she not?

  "Lady?" ventured Spirda.

  Anna shook her head.

  Another sweep of the dark, seeking wind ruffled the grasses and passed, and yet more horn signals echoed across the grass toward the bluffs. With the signals the scouts who remained afoot remounted, and formed their mounts into two rough lines.

  A square of black banners borne by black-coated arms-men appeared. The column split to allow the bannered group to advance.

  Eladdrin? Anna swallowed, then turned to Daffyd and motioned. She eased up toward the south end of the trench, hoping the concealment spell would hold, stopping where the excavation was only knee-deep.

  The wind swirled around her, and several of the banner-bearers turned toward them.

  "Now! The sinking song."

  Daffyd stroked the bow, twice, then began the song, and Anna chorded the lutar, trying for the maximum volume, not belting, but full-voiced opera technique, launching into the first spell, the one that she hoped would neutralize the Ebrans. Neutralize? her mind asked. She pushed away the nagging thought, and concentrated on spellcasting, matching lutar and voice with Daffyd's viola.

  "Sink, sink, sink the land deeply through the ground easily, easily, easily, mud is all around.

  "Churn, churn, churn the rocks…"

  Even before she hit the second stanza—and her perverse mind insisted on pointing out that spells were strophic— the ground trembled—once, twice, and then even harder.

  BBbrrrrrrrrrr…

  She shifted her feet and kept singing.

  At least two squads of horsemen galloped toward her, but they seemed to move in slow motion, and several horses stumbled, throwing riders, as the ground swayed under them.

  Still, five or six riders thundered toward Anna and Daffyd.

  Spirda ran past Anna, his blade out, followed by Fhurgen, who carried a sabre in each hand. Both staggered as the ground rumbled and lurched, and another Ebran ri
der went down.

  Anna could sense some sort of activity around the Ebran black banners, a gathering of power, but she kept her voice and mind on the spellsong, concluding with a perfect on-key finale.

  "… swirled underground!"

  A massive chord seemed to vibrate both through the ground and across the clear blue-green heavens, even casting a nickering shadow over the sun momentarily. Anna's ears rang with that timeless, yet instantaneous, vibration.

  Then the grasslands seemed to whirl around her, and a ground wave rippled the grass and the soil as it spread outward from somewhere to the east of Anna, just as though it had been caused from the impact of a stone on a quiet pond.

  RRRRUuuuuuurrrrrr…

  That rending, grinding roar paralyzed Anna's hearing, as the second set of ground waves rumbled across the grasslands and brought her to her knees. Somehow, she kept from going all the way down and crushing the lutar. Hammers slammed at her skull, and the ground kept trembling.

  Somewhere before her, Spirda slashed at an oncoming Ebran armsman who had struggled off a fallen mount, while Fhurgen flailed through the grass toward the blonde subofficer.

  Anna tried to rise from her knees, but had to put a hand out as another tremor raced through the ground. She blinked as she realized that the grasslands ended not more than thirty yards in front of her. They just… ended.

  A vast chasm, more than a dek long and slightly narrower in width, centered on where the highway to Mencha had been and ran down where the road cut to the ford had been, so that water from the Chean was already oozing into the depressed area, across the mass of mud and grass-covered patches of earth that filled the sinkhole.

  Slowly, her head pounding, and her ears ringing in the aftermath of the subsidence of her massive sinkhole, Anna struggled to her feet.