by Dave Duncan
Under other circumstances, Ylo would have laughed at that gibberish, but he continued to play statue. He was only a decoration at this meeting, not a negotiator. The history books would not mention his name, unfortunately—unless, of course, he became famous later. The prince, accompanied by the future Consul Ylo… His fingers around the pole were growing numb.
“You have strayed outside your jurisdiction, Proconsul.”
“That is what we are about to decide, isn’t it?”
The elf laughed and the bell-like sound was an obscenity in such morbid surroundings. “Nicely put, Prince! Now, the evening is inclement, so let us be brief and begone. I have a song to study, one I would fain sing on the morrow.”
It had better be a lament.
“You called for this parlay,” she said. “What do you offer to earn our mercy?”
“I find your humor inappropriate,” Shandie said. “I seek to avert bloodshed. You have seven thousand men —“
“Five. Two thousand are women.”
“You have seven thousand warriors, then, and they are trapped. I have four legions at my back and two more at yours. The lake road is blocked. Your famed elvish archers are useless in this weather. Pardon the cliché, Sirdar, but you are at my mercy.”
She did not dispute the facts. “And your offer?”
“I shall allow you to withdraw, upon your parole.”
Having been expecting a demand for surrender, Ylo barely choked back a gasp. The imperor would have his grandson’s head in a bucket for this!
The woman showed little surprise. She arched a shiny golden eyebrow. “Parole? What means that? And what happens after?”
“I ask only your word that all your warriors will disperse and return to their homes, until after Winterfest. They may keep their weapons. I shall occupy Fairgan, but I give you my word I shall go no farther. The valley of the Linder will be the border, as it used to be.”
Shandie! The Old Man will make a doormat of your hide!
Puil’stor considered, putting her head on one side like a bird. “And if we refuse your terms?”
“My orders are to butcher you.”
She rubbed her cheek with slender fingers. Ylo could not imagine her as a soldier, although common sense said she must be, and a good one. She was a looker, and under other circumstances he would have been planning an effort to advance his education in elvish matters.
“It’s tempting,” she said.
Tempting? She should have her words bronzed. It was insane generosity, that’s what it was.
“Nothing you can do can stop me taking what I want,” Shandie said. “I dislike unnecessary bloodshed, that’s all.”
“I suspect you have more scruples than you admit. Highness. You are a fine soldier. You outmaneuvered me splendidly. We elves always assume that imps are unimaginative. It is often our downfall.”
“We frequently underrate the tenacity of elves.”
“Of course the warden of the east has revealed all our secrets to you?”
Shandie hesitated. “Of course.”
The sirdar smiled ruefully. Ylo wondered what Warlock Olybino was thinking of this parley. He enjoyed bloodshed, that one, as long as “his” legions won in the end. He had appeared at least three times in Shandie’s tent on this campaign and perhaps at other times, also, when Ylo had not been present.
Shandie was a superlative leader of men because he could inspire loyalty. Ylo knew that better than any. But Ylo knew also what perhaps no one else did—that the prince’s reputation as a military genius rested entirely on the occult help he received from the warden of the east. Without Olybino, he would be only another legate.
So what was the warlock thinking of this meeting?
“I was afraid you might have some such offer to make,” Puil’stor said sadly. “I was hoping, though, that the prince imperial might be a man of greater honor.”
“Ma’am!”
“Your cause is flawed, Prince! This campaign was provoked by treachery.”
“It certainly was not!”
Oh yes it was, Ylo thought.
“Come!” the elf said. “We are alone here. Let us be honest in the presence of death. There was no elvish attack on Fort Exern. The garrison was not destroyed by elves, but by Imperial duplicity. I suspect—I hope—that the bodies were those of common felons, for I wouldst not believe the Impire capable of —“
“What you are suggesting is not what was reported to me!” Shandie shouted. Ylo stole a sideways glance at him; the tricky light made his rain-washed face seem strangely haggard.
“You are not a simpleton!” The woman’s voice was so inflected with tragedy and her face so rain-soaked that she might be weeping; it was impossible to know. “Tell me that you believe that trumped-up farrago?”
“I am a soldier, ma’am. I obey orders.”
“You were not obeying your orders when you came here.”
She was right, of course. She had guessed at Shandie’s gnawing guilt, as Ylo had not. That was why Shandie had offered such extravagant terms. Ridiculous terms.
“Even if what you suggest were the case. Sirdar, I can do no more than I have already done. I can offer no more than I have already offered. Take your lives at my hand and go in peace, lest the Evil prosper more than It need.”
Ylo had never heard Shandie’s voice quaver like that before. He glanced at the second elf, the boy, but he was watching his leader intently and the uncanny underlighting threw a strange, unholy radiance on his golden features. One of their suicidal sulks, Shandie had said. Oh, God of Slaughter! Ylo hoped that it was the bite of the cold at his bones that was causing him to shiver so. The land would run with blood.
Puil’stor lowered her gaze to stare at the lanterns flickering and hissing in the rain. She wrung her hands. “Had you any trace of justice on your side, I should accept your terms gladly, for they are generous beyond belief. But I cannot acquiesce in the triumph of so perverted a cause.”
Discipline forgotten, Ylo was frankly staring at Shandie and he saw the legate’s features twist in pain.
“Ma’am, I beg you to reconsider.”
She shook her head with a great sadness. “I shall not withdraw. Perform your slaughter. Prince Emshandar.”
“This madness will gain you nothing.”
“That may be, but we must all be true to the songs our souls sing. I shall proclaim that any who wish to accept your offer may do so, but I know that none will.”
And if seven thousand elves fought to the last man, how many imps would die with them? God of Slaughter! The first casualty was going to be a certain signifer, frozen to death before the battle even started.
Shandie replaced his helmet. “Their blood is upon your head, ma’am.”
“Nay, upon yours, for you ride a cursed road. What is conceived in evil must breed more evil.” The sirdar paused and glanced at the boy beside her. “I would ask one favor, though.”
“Ask!” Shandie said.
“Joal is a minstrel of renown. Let him accompany you tonight and pass freely from this field of sorrows, so that at least one witness may return to the tree of my ancestors and record our passing.”
Shandie bowed his head. “If that is your wish.”
What did a man feel when he was chosen as Only Survivor—unspeakable relief or utter shame? Ylo looked curiously at the boyish face, but it showed no expression at all. Joal must therefore be older than he looked. He might, of course, be as old as the imperor. One never knew with elves.
For a moment the only sound was the hiss of rain on the grass. Then Joal said, “No!” His voice was a chord struck on a harp in a vaulted basilica.
The sirdar turned to him in dismay. “My love! For the children!”
He did not look at her; he was as unmoving as an Imperial sentry, although his knuckles were white on the staff of his flag. “No,” he repeated.
She sighed and faced Shandie again. “Then our business is completed. Proconsul.”
“You
will not reconsider?” Shandie asked in a hoarse whisper.
The sirdar shook her head.
The parlay was over; Shandie saluted. The imperor would get his massacre, the Eighth Battle of Nefer Moor, and it would do him no good. He would have committed the error Shandie had warned of not twenty minutes ago—he would have created a cause.
“Dragons!” said a new voice.
Reflexes jerked Ylo back a step. He almost dropped the flag. His heart fell clear to his boots.
Another elf stood beside the other two. He wore a shimmering silver cloak and a jaunty cap. The glade was not yet dark enough for him to have approached unseen. He had not risen out of the grass.
Shandie also had recoiled a pace. Now he saluted, his face suddenly grimmer than ever.
“Will your legions fight dragons?” the newcomer demanded angrily.
He looked about fifteen. A dandy. A runt.
The past months had made Ylo very blasé about the Four, although he had met none of them except Olybino. He had studied what was generally known of them and collected a few confidential hints from Shandie. He knew that Olybino had been East for forty-four years, so he was a much older man than his occult demeanor suggested. He knew that the warden of the south was an elf and he had held the Blue Throne for twice as long as Olybino had held the Gold. South must therefore be more than a hundred years old, and his prerogative was occult control of the dwindled population of dragons that still dwelt within Dragon Reach.
This kid looked to be about fifteen, but he was threatening Shandie with dragons. He was the warlock of the south.
Dragon Reach was not very far away—as a dragon flew.
May the Good preserve us!
“You know who I am?”
Shandie had recovered from the shock. “Warlock Lith’rian. I remember you.”
The kid smiled contemptuously. “I should hope so! And I asked if you were prepared to fight dragons tomorrow?”
Ylo sneaked a look around, hoping to find Warlock Olybino. Lith’rian must be bluffing, surely? Certainly he could use dragons as a weapon if he wished—and no one else must—but not in this war! Not against the Imperial Army. The legions were sacrosanct. Even humble Ylo in his wet and smelly signifer’s wolfskin was sacrosanct. Why, then, was the humble Ylo feeling so naked and mortal?
Shandie said quietly, “I rely on the Protocol to protect me from dragons, your Omnipotence.”
“Then you will be disappointed! I am tired of this diet of blood the old monster craves in his dotage. I despise his warped methods and devious aims.” The warlock looked at the woman. “I applaud the sirdar’s decision! She shows us that there is still honor in the world.”
She bowed. “Your Omnipotence honors me.”
“You honor our race and the Gods. Help is on its way.”
Dragons.
Ylo could barely stop his teeth from chattering. He hoped Shandie would understand that the cold and rain were doing that to him; that fear was only a small part of it.
“And what of the Protocol, your Omnipotence?” Shandie asked.
“What of it?” Lith’rian snarled. “You dare invoke its name? You cosset it when it aids you and rape it when it doesn’t!”
“I have done nothing to —“
“Legally, no! You stay within the letter and you foul the spirit. Emine never intended the Protocol to sustain such noxious ventures as yours.”
Shandie straightened his shoulders. “I had nothing to do with whatever happened at Fort Exern. I have done my duty as a soldier until tonight. Tonight I exceeded my orders in an effort to spare men’s lives. Women’s, also.”
“So you will feel better when you celebrate your triumph in Hub?”
The prince sighed. “I suppose so.”
“And I ask you again if you are prepared to fight dragons?”
“Yes,” Shandie said. “If I must. Tomorrow I will enter the valley of the Linder and occupy Fairgan, or I will die trying.”
He meant it.
God of Madness! Now it was the imps who were turning suicidal.
Lith’rian adjusted the silvery cloak on his shoulders. It seemed dry, despite the rain. “I suppose you expect help from that playboy soldier in the yellow helmet? You think he will take care of my dragons for you while you savage the elves? I advise you not to count on him. Olybino has never been much of a sorcerer and he knows it. Don’t count on him, Prince Emshandar. I invited him to this meeting. I invited him to my sector. And he was too frightened to come!”
“I am here now,” Olybino said, appearing at Shandie’s side.
Lith’nan sneered. “Not much of you.”
The image of a giant young warrior was transparent. Rain was falling through him. “I am disinclined to trust a man who seeks to overthrow the rule of law. The Protocol is our shield and you will destroy it!”
The elf looked nauseated. “You pompous mirage! I say that the Protocol was designed to protect the world from the political use of sorcery and that you have been abusing it by turning that spotty-faced prince of yours into a world conqueror! I say that the Protocol does not justify such criminal fakery as Exern, nor the massacre your royal hero plans for tomorrow. You seek to buy his friendship so that he will take your part in the council when he sits on the Opal Throne.”
Shandie drew breath as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it.
“Your elvish wits are muddled, as usual!” Olybino’s voice held strange echoes, like shouting in a cathedral. “You know that the wheels of history begin to turn and the knell of the millennium is sounding. And what of the Covin, Brother? Never has there been greater danger, greater need for us to stand together. Call off your worms!”
“Call off your legions!” Lith’rian cried, his elvish treble as plaintive as the rain song in the forest night.
“You imperil the Protocol itself at such a time?” East boomed. “What folly is this, my brother of the south?”
“It is not I who imperils the Protocol, it is you who have perverted it! Your bronze bullies are a stain upon my lands—clean it up or I will burn it off!”
“You are crazy! You destroy us all!”
“Then be it so!” Lith’rian folded his arms in defiance.
What was going on here? Glancing around all the faces, Ylo could see nothing helpful in any of them. Sorcerers fought duels—according to the ancient tales—and the stronger destroyed or enslaved the weaker. They might call up armies of occult votaries and unleash hellfire and horror. The city of Ginlish was under a mountain now… But the principle behind the Protocol was that the four most powerful sorcerers in the world would regulate one another and together control all others. They had means to achieve consensus—why were they not being invoked? And East seemed to be hinting at even greater dangers. There were unexplained mysteries here. Just as his thoughts had struggled that far, Shandie put the question into words.
“My Lords, what of your associates? In such a grave matter, should not the Four take counsel together?”
“Ah!” Lith’rian said, never taking his eyes from the ghostly shape of Olybino. “As of this morning, we are but Three.”
“The warden of the north is dead,” the other warlock added.
Witch Bright Water had been centuries old, Ylo knew. Her departure was hardly surprising and probably not to be regretted, if half the stories about her were true.
Shandie whistled. “You have not yet appointed a successor?”
“Not yet.” South’s strange elvish eyes still watched East intently.
“Then the matter may be decided by a simple vote, surely? May I ask where the warden of the west is?”
“You presume far, Little Prince!” Lith’rian snapped, although he looked to be ten years younger than Shandie. “You are not yet imperor!”
“I make no claim to have rights in this! I am only trying to help.”
“The mundane is wiser than we are, Brother South.” Olybino’s tone was as magisterial as ever, yet Ylo thought it concealed a wh
ine of appeal. “Let us place our differences before our sister of the west.”
Lith’rian scowled, pulling his cloak tight about him. His anger was directed at Shandie, but on him anger seemed too much like juvenile petulance. “Withdraw your legions, Princeling!”
“Your Omnipotence, I am sworn to obey my grandfather the imperor.”
“Flunky!” The warlock spat the word. “Accomplice!” Then he faded away and there was only falling rain where he had stood. The grass there did not seem displaced.
“This has been an evil night’s work!” Olybino said. “See what your foolish scruples have wrought?” Then he also was gone.
The four mundanes stood alone in the sodden clearing—but had the warlocks ever been truly present? Darkness had settled in utterly, so that nothing was visible beyond the lamps’ comforting glow, not even the treetops against the sky. Ylo had a strange sensation of awakening from a nightmare.
The sirdar made a wordless sound of relief. “Well!” She smiled grimly. “You chose a poor time to invade Ilrane, Prince!”
“Perhaps!” Shandie said. “I think Lith’rian is bluffing, though. Even if he is a match for the other two, he would be criminally stupid to abrogate the Protocol as he threatens. They will appoint a successor for Bright Water soon enough and restore the balance.”
She shrugged. “Tomorrow we shall see who is bluffing and who is not, Highness. Until then—farewell!”
“Farewell, Sirdar. I still hope that you will change your mind and seek to promote the Good.”
“And I hope the same of you, Proconsul.”
“Let us go, Signifer,” Shandie said.
The night was an opaque blackness, swallowing the lantern’s feeble glow. Stumbling and slipping, Ylo led the way up the track, worrying about straying off the feeble path, worrying about falling and extinguishing the lamp… just worrying in general. And shivering. And feeling horribly insignificant.
His dreams of taking part in historical events were bitter memories now. The Four always got what they wanted, his father had said. A humble signifer had never been important in the sweep of strategy, and apparently a prince was of little more account when the wardens intervened. Dragons?
But now the Four had become the Three and the balance was overthrown. Without the Protocol to ban political use of magic, the world would be plunged back into the Dark Times, the times before Emine. Three thousand years of civilization would be overturned. War would again be fought with sorcery, with fire and earthquake—and with dragons.
