by Lyndon Hardy
“But experienced troops from Searoyal!” Jemidon said.
“The toll will not be light,” Canthor agreed. “Yet there will be enough booty in the end for those who are quick and skillful.”
Jemidon looked at the scythe that was lying nearby and then at the thick-bladed sword in Canthor’s lap. “Such a view is perhaps easier for one who has seen battle before,” he said. “Easier for one who, at least, has the proper tools of the trade.”
“Stay close and guard my rear.” Canthor shrugged. “You will fare as well as I. And speak no more of tools. My head is full of your babble about drums and weights.”
“I cannot help it,” Jemidon said. “My thoughts keep circling what I have seen. Like a rhyme that persists in your head, the images remain fresh and do not fade. You see, the distortion of the drumhead must indicate the degree a craft is being exercised. When Melizar placed a tare on the one that he said represented sorcery, it remained flat. That is reasonable enough, since, except for one of his followers, there are none who know how to practice it. But the drum for thaumaturgy became a deep cone. The art was widespread, he said. It seems clear, once you think of it. What else can it mean?”
“Why speculate when the answers are so near?” Canthor asked. “You had a whole day to ask this Melizar of his craft and yet you did not. He is an ally. We strike for a common cause. At worst, he would refuse the request. Anything else would teach you more than you know now.”
“So says my father.” Jemidon sighed. “So cry my memories of Kenton’s feast hall and the fields of wheat. And Melizar is the very reason I have returned to the land of my birth.”
He paused and tried to sort out his feelings. “And yet, now that I have the opportunity, I am indeed quite hesitant. Somehow, I do not trust this strange one; yesterday, just his presence made me uncomfortable. In truth, his skills I long desperately to know. But now, now that I have experienced him more, something tells me that they must be ferreted away, not received as a gift.”
Jemidon hesitated a second time and then smiled. “Besides, I have not done so badly on my own.” He numbered the facts on his fingertips. “The first change in sorcery took place on Morgana; nowhere else in all of Arcadia was the craft practiced more. Magic has been nullified on Pluton, where the hoards of tokens were greatest. Here in the wheatlands, thaumaturgy dominates the other crafts. We have seen his use of the drums. It is as if Melizar seeks out where the concentration of the arts is strongest; somehow it makes the changes easier to come about.”
“You have the heart of a master and not that of a warrior, to be sure.” Canthor laughed. “All of your kind place so much importance on your secrets. And yet, what is the value of any of your efforts in the end? Petty entertainments, bookkeeping devices for trade, machines for the harvest. If not with your arts, then by some other means the same results would have been achieved.”
Canthor patted the hilt of his sword. “Even in battle, it is still muscle and bone that determine the final result. Illusions of great monsters or slides of rock perturb the outcome this way or that, but in the end, a blade is in your gut or it is not. It is the warriors who sit on the thrones of Arcadia, Procolon across the sea, and the other kingdoms. Warriors are kings, and not the masters. Why, even the archmage commands only a small guard and a modest house of stone.
“Yes, embrace this Melizar. Learn what you can. In the end, he will be an advisor like the others, bowing deeply to some baron and scrambling for the gold that drops to the floor.”
“If it is so simple, then why did I feel such uneasiness yesterday when he was near?” Jemidon insisted, but Canthor stopped paying attention. The warrior put a finger to his lips and pointed down the trail.
Jemidon turned and saw a puff of dust billowing lazily skyward. The royal troop was coming at last. He felt the muscles in his face tighten. The feeling of drifting was still in his stomach, but it faded into an uncomfortable dimness. Now there were more immediate concerns than Melizar’s manipulations with the drums.
Eventually, the marching column came into view. Triple file across the trail, the men-at-arms snaked into the cleft of the pass. A mounted commander, with pennant bearers stepping smartly at either side, led the procession. In full armor, he prodded his sweating horse up the incline. Behind the leading officers came the first company. On foot and dressed in mail, they breathed heavily from the labor of the climb.
Jemidon tensed as the head of the troop disappeared from view. After the second of the four companies had gone by, the rocks were to tumble. Each of the two outlaw bands would fall upon those on its side of the pass and then come to the aid of the other, if it were able to. The last of the first company entered the notch, and Jemidon waited expectantly for the next to follow.
But suddenly, just as the pennant bearers of the second group approached, the ground shook. A grinding rumble filled the air.
“Avalanche! Look out!” Jemidon heard someone shout. The flag carriers threw down their standards and turned to run. Small rocks and then heavier boulders began to rain down from above. Streaks of blurring gray fell from the cliffs. The groans of breaking stone and then of wounded men sounded over the deep, teeth-shaking rumble. Clouds of white and dirty brown billowed from the crest of the pass.
One pennant bearer was hit in the shoulder by a rock ricocheting in a flat arc, but he managed to stagger back before the larger boulders smashed him to the ground. In momentary confusion, the marching column stopped in the swell of dust and noise.
A horn sounded from the cover on the other side of the trail, and Pelinad’s band jumped to the attack. With swords raised high, they thundered into the third company’s flank.
“But Melizar was supposed to wait until two companies had passed through!” Jemidon shouted to Canthor. “And you were to stage your glamour among the wagons from behind! Now Pelinad charges on the side, rather than into the rear.”
“A misbegotten plan, to be sure,” Canthor said, suddenly alert. “Leave it to a practicer of the arts to bungle what chance we had.” He grabbed his blade, bounded around the rock, and looked up and down the trail. “Quickly, follow me,” he said after a moment. “With three companies rather than two, the line is too long; we are blocked from the others. But despite Pelinad’s odds, we will fare better on his side of the trail than here. There is no time for a pretense of sorcery. Our hope will be to circle through the confusion of the avalanche, if we can.”
Jemidon scooped up the scythe and ran after the bailiff as Canthor scrambled toward the pass. The attention of the royal troops was focused on the charge of Pelinad’s men, and no one noticed them in the swirling dust. With practiced precision, the middle company turned its shields to meet Pelinad’s attack, while the ones on either side made ready to engulf the flanks as the ragged line drew closer. Soon the rumble of the rock was replaced by the clang of steel and cries of pain.
Canthor jumped among the boulders with an agility that belied his age. He headed directly for the broken rock that had spilled out of the confines of the pass. The royal troops were giving the area a wide berth. In the confusion, Jemidon and the bailiff managed to reach the edge of the rubble before they were noticed. Without slowing, they climbed onto the fresh talus and began to scramble toward the other side of the trail.
But three-quarters of the way across, they were spotted by a pennant bearer. Before Canthor could reach him, he cried out an alarm. In answer, half a dozen men-at-arms turned from the rearmost line and started to climb the rubble. As they approached, Jemidon flung out the scythe at arm’s length and struck the nearest in the temple. Two more closed on Canthor, who slashed with his blade, biting deep into the wrist of the one on the right. Undaunted, the other four pressed forward, one waving an axe, and Canthor stepped back in order not to expose his side. Watching the bailiff out of the corner of his eye, Jemidon retreated as well, taking a few steps up the slope.
One of the men-at-arms tried to circle from the left. Jemidon picked up a jagged rock at his feet and
threw it squarely into the attacker’s face, breaking his nose with a splash of blood. The remaining attackers continued forward, waving their swords in menacing arcs. Jemidon found himself retreating farther up the jumble of rocks, swinging the long scythe back and forth as best he could.
As he retreated, Jemidon jabbed tentatively point first, using the shaft like a pike. The man he faced reacted swiftly. Before Jemidon realized his mistake, a slashing sword hacked the blade from the head of the pole. Jemidon instinctively jabbed a second time, but saw his adversary continue forward, this time removing two more feet from the shaft. Jemidon threw the useless pole aside and turned to look at Canthor, to see what he should do. But as he watched, the bailiff stumbled on loose rock and fell onto his back, his sword sailing out of his hand.
The man-at-arms on the left ran forward, seeing his advantage, and swung his axe high over his head for a fatal plunge. Canthor threw his hand upward in a desperate attempt to ward off the blow, his eyes wide with the image of death. Then, like a drowning man grasping at leaves on the surface of a lake, he sang one of the sorcerers’ chants. The three recitals tripped from his tongue faster than Jemidon had ever heard a glamour spoken before. He recognized it as the illusion for a windstorm. He saw Canthor scoop up a handful of dirt and pebbles and throw them in the axeman’s face.
Then, as Canthor threw, Jemidon experienced a great lurching in his stomach. The feeling of drifting that had been submerged by the danger of battle boiled upward from where it had been pushed away. With a breathtaking blur, Jemidon felt himself flung across some measureless space and time. His senses reeled. He was overcome by the same disorientation he had felt in the presence of Melizar and his drums.
As suddenly as it had come, the feeling vanished. Like a speeding arrow wrenched from the air in midflight, he jarred back into focus. His stomach was calm, the sense of falling was gone; everything was sharp and clear. It had all happened in an instant, and Jemidon blinked in surprise. He looked at Canthor’s adversary and saw the man clutching his face and staggering backward, the axe flung aside on the rocks.
“The sand, the wind!” the man-at-arms shrieked. “It is worse than the high desert. We will all be buried alive!”
Canthor turned to face the others, who now approached with hesitation, looking at their comrade out of the corners of their eyes. Then they, too, dropped their weapons and staggered back. One threw up his forearm across his face. The other dropped to his knees, burying his head in his hands. Canthor turned questioningly to Jemidon. As their eyes met, Jemidon felt a sudden rush of skin-blistering wind and the bombardment of stinging sand.
“What is happening?” Canthor asked. “I do not know why I spoke as I did. It is strange what a man will say when he thinks the words are his last.”
“Louder,” Jemidon gasped. “Speak louder so I can locate where you stand.” He staggered forward, arms across his face, hunched against what seemed like a buffeting gale. His ears roared with a deafening whir that almost drowned out all other sound.
“What nonsense is this?” Canthor persisted. “Stand straight and grab a weapon. We are not yet through.”
“It is your charm,” Jemidon shouted, trying to hear his own voice above the windscream that surged through his mind. “Somehow it worked. Somehow, someway, sorcery has been restored.”
For a moment Jemidon heard no reply, and then, above the roar, Canthor’s voice shouted back.
“Wait here,” the bailiff yelled. “Wait here until I am done. I will release you from the glamour after I have helped the others as best I can.”
Jemidon tried to crack open his eyelids, but a feeling of swirling grit and dirt immediately forced them shut. He sighed and curled into a ball, helpless to do more than await the outcome of the battle.
After some measureless time, Jemidon heard the words that ended the illusion of the blasting sands. He stood and stretched, then blinked at what he saw. It was night, and the moon had nearly set. Upslope, barely a hundred feet from where he stood, ran the crestline of the mountains.
“I remember being led like a blind man and stumbling upward for an eternity,” he said. His mouth was dry and felt full of old rags. “What happened? Why are we here?”
“My apology for taking so long to release you.” Canthor clasped him on the shoulder. “But others had wounds more grievous than your discomfort. Putting as much distance between us and the pursuit was the primary goal. Enchanting away the pain, when we finally were able to stop, was the next. The royal troops have camped for the night. We can rest here until the dawn.”
Jemidon looked about a second time with more care. The trail and pass were nowhere in sight. Below him stretched the downslopes of the mountains. Like the crumpled robe of a master, the ridges and folds disappeared into the blackness. The ground underfoot was smooth and nearly devoid of plants; it curved gently in a flat arc to form part of the rocky spine that ran to the horizon. Except for the camp, there were no other lights. Of Pelinad’s band, barely forty remained huddled around two small fires of brush.
“I caused enough confusion with the glamours for the prince’s men to fall back and regroup,” Canthor answered Jemidon’s questioning gaze. “It gave us enough time to withdraw. But by then, Pelinad and most of the others were gone.” The bailiff shrugged. “The shirts of mail were too many. We did not attack from the rear as was our plan.”
“Ocanar—why did he not appear?” Jemidon asked. “If we had to bear the brunt of three companies, then he would have had to face only one. He should have finished up quickly and scrambled over the rubble to come to our aid.”
“It was only byrnies from Searoyal that we saw pouring back through the pass,” Canthor said. “Not vests of leather, or scythes and flails. Somehow, despite the strange one’s craft, I suspect that Ocanar fared no better than we.”
Jemidon wearily sagged back onto the hard ground. “But why did we then retreat into the mountains?”
“There was no open path down the trail in either direction,” Canthor said, “and by striving for the peaks, we were more likely to link up with what remained of Ocanar, if he was doing the same. Indeed, his thoughts did run in a similar path to mine. The lookouts on the crest have seen a tattered band on the far-side downslopes. In a few moments more, he will be here.”
Jemidon grunted and looked at the dark line that marked the skyward limit of the peaks. Almost instantly, he saw Canthor’s pronouncement come true. A triangle of black shadow poked above the crestline and then, beneath it, a rectangle with gently undulating sides. With a whoosh of air that Jemidon felt from where he sat, Drandor’s tent settled on the crest.
Weary fighters appeared on either side, some dragging scythes and others totally unarmed. In twos and threes, they staggered down the slope into Canthor’s camp. Silently, they slumped around the small fires.
One of two shirts of mail mingled with the rest. In a clump of lieutenants, Ocanar stomped down the slope, each step a thump of anger rather than the stumble of fatigue. The leader looked about and saw that only Canthor stood, of all of Pelinad’s men. Stroking his beard, he approached and squinted in the dimness.
“Pelinad?” he asked.
“They follow me now,” Canthor said.
“But you were only the sorcerer,” Ocanar said.
“It was my skill as a man-at-arms more than any craft that saved the few whom you see here.” Canthor shrugged. “Glamours do not organize a retreat or pick the course of the march. But that is of no consequence. Because of the odds, how we fared should be no surprise. Why are you running along the crestline, too, rather than polishing shirts of mail and bragging to the villagers about your victory?”
“Ask the cold one who claims to be a master,” Jemidon heard Ocanar growl. “We would rout them all without the loss of a single man, he said. And so, after the scouts had ridden by, we stood by the mouth of the pass, not even bothering to group into any sort of formation. It seemed amusing to watch instead the elaborate preparations, lanterns and foc
using lenses, and the vast expanses of white linen on which some great glamour was to play. The royal troops were to be petrified, frozen in mid-stride. We were to be able to move among them unchallenged and slit their throats at will.”
“The rock slide started prematurely,” Canthor said. “Three-quarters of the men-at-arms were left on our side of the pass. What upset the timing of our plan?”
“The timing was perfect,” Ocanar spat out. “That part Melizar accomplished as we had—” Ocanar stopped and looked at Canthor through narrowed eyes. He tugged at his beard, waiting for the bailiff to say more, but Canthor remained silent. “Yes, prematurely,” Ocanar said slowly at last. “I meant to say the rock slide came too soon. Undoubtedly another miscalculation like the rest. It was all Melizar’s fault and none of mine. Now he hides in his canvas contraption and awaits my wrath.
“But none of that matters. One hundred men-at-arms slashed their way through the white linen as if it were not there. My men in leather were unprepared. Nimrod tried to rally them, but they did not stand a chance. Of all who waited this morning, hardly a fifth are left alive.”
Jemidon followed the wave of Ocanar’s arm, as the last of the men came over the crest. He saw his father trudging down the slope, one leg ringed with a dirty rag. He scrambled to his feet and ran to greet the older man with an embrace, relief mixing with guilt that he had forgotten about the perils that Jemilor must have faced.
“Melizar let me ride in his tent,” Jemilor said as they disengaged. “Without his assistance, I doubt I could have kept up the pace. But I had followed his instructions well, just as he taught. There should be no blame for me that the sorceries did not work as planned.”
Jemilor sagged to the ground and motioned Jemidon to follow. “Listen, my son,” he said, pointing at his leg. “The cut is jagged and is slow to close. I am lucky to have gotten this far. An inch to the left, and tomorrow you would be questing on your own once again.”
“Do not speak of such things as this,” Jemidon chided. “If you can walk away from the battlefield, you will live to see the next. You know the saying as well as I.”
