Yistar continued to grumble as Danaer and the woman entered. At the first break in his superior's tirade, Danaer said, "Your pardon, Captain. I have only just returned . . ."
"Of no moment, no moment. Here we are. General; my scout, as I promised you."
General Nurdanth was of noble birth, and his quarters reflected his station. Expensive tapers burned in a brazen fixture suspended from ceiling rafters. The golden illumination fell over several artfully carved chairs and a cluttering of documents on shelves and tables lining the walls. A curtain in a far corner shielded the General's bed from rude stares. A table was placed in the center of the room, surrounded by
cushions in the fashion of the plains people. Two men sat there, poring over some dispatches. Neither of them seemed to take notice of the new arrivals.
Yistar shook back his shaggy red forelock, disgruntled at being ignored. Then General Nurdanth glanced up and came to his feet. He nodded most courteously and bade them welcome.
Reflexively, Danaer's arm snapped back stiffly at his side in salute. "Maen Gra Siirn," he began, then caught himself before he lapsed further into the Azsed tongue. The woman cocked her head and looked at him thoughtfully, adding to his embarrassment.
Nurdanth was unoffended, nodding understandingly. He was a man of middle years and common height, with iron-gray hair. His features were sharp and intelligent, and his eyes were those of a healer. In a -gentle tone he said, "Come, Troop Leader, take wine with us. And you also. Lira, my child."
Danaer glanced uncertainly at Yistar, but the Captain was already seated and was pouring a cup brim full. The Sarli woman demurely took her place beside her mentor, the gaunt wizard who had so far made no acknowledgment of her presence. Feeling awkward and out of his element, Danaer accepted a cup of wine from the General's own hand.
"To Krantin," Nurdanth said solemnly, lifting his goblet as a priest might at a holy ceremony. "To all Krantin, to our beautiful land. May her peoples be as one."
Danaer nearly spilled his wine. A different voice, the cultured language of the lords of The Interior, not the Destre tongue of old Osyta—but the meaning was the same. The commandant of Siank garrison echoed the prophecy of the herb-healer!
Across the table, the arrow-thin old sorkra whispered to himself, an eerie sound Hke the stirring of a cold wind among dead leaves. Lira leaned toward him and asked, "What is it. Master Ulodovol?" She twisted at the sash of her gown, kneading the cloth between her delicate fingers. A sorkra woman— afraid?
Yistar had grunted approval of the General's toast
and quaffed his drink. Danaer joined him, thinking on the words of Nurdanth, and of Osyta. Krantin—her peoples as one. What could unite the hate-torn factions which set clan against clan and Destre-Y against the lords of The Interior and their king?
The wine was warming Danaer's throat and belly almost too quickly. He paused to gulp and clear his head; when he received a gesture from Yistar, he took off his helmet and mantle.
"May I examine your colors, Scout?" Nurdanth inquired. Surprised, Danaer handed the narrow cloak to him, wishing the thing were not so shabby. The General traced the bright stripes. "Mm, Nyald Zsed, of course. And let me see, is this not the clan of Aejzad's consort?"
Danaer's mouth gaped. He had heard much barracks gossip to suggest General Nurdanth was no ordinary officer. Here was proof of the tales. Never had Danaer imagined that an lit of such noble breeding would be able to read the mantle colors which spelled out the intricate relationships within a Destre clan.
"Indeed, my lord, it is so. She was the most honored of my kindred."
"You have had a long ride from Nyald Zsed." Nurdanth stroked the folded mantle and looked intently at Danaer. "But here at Siank you are still among the Destre-Y, among your own."
"I have been among my own when I ride with my troopmen, my lord. I took oath to the Krantin army ..."
"To Krantin," Nurdanth corrected him politely. "And that designation includes the plains people. I would that the Destre-Y but realized they are a part of Krantin."
"Some of them do," Yistar said. "Here is a Destre, General, and one most devoted to his goddess, I promise you. But my scout is devoted to our service as well as to Argan's. Ai! I would trust him far more than I would many a worshipper of Desin or Peluva— especially some of these green recruits we get fresh from Kirvii."
"Well understood." Nurdanth sighed tiredly. He
again fastened his gaze on Danaer. "Have you been to Siank Zsed since your arrival here?"
A trifle uneasy at the question, Danaer said, "No, my lord, not to the Zsed. That. . . ah . . . would not be wise, not while I wear this uniform. ^And regulations . . ."
"Yes, I understand that, too. Siank begrudges us the land this fort is built upon, though we guard the caravans which feed their city's coffers. Our sovereignty ends at Siank's walls; Siank is the jewel of Destre-Y in every wise. Yet ... you have been to Siank, have you not?"
"Ai, my lord. Her citizens will take the army's coin in exchange for food and drink."
"And what is the nature of that acceptance currently? I mean, how fares a common soldier such as yourself who seeks the diversions of Siank's markets and inns?"
"Best called knife-edge, my lord." Danaer glanced at Yistar and then said, "In fact, I barely escaped being drawn into a brawl involving three other soldiers at one of the old sector's inns."
"Soldiers? Who were they?"
"I do not know their names, my lord. Their insignia marked them as part of the new units from Kirvii, the ones which arrived today."
Captain Yistar slammed his hand down hard on the table, rattling the cups. Nurdanth drank the remainder of his wine and shook his head. "And they were strongly adjured to keep clear of the old town. Only such troopmen as have a clear pass, such as yourself . . . We shall be fortunate at this pace if we have any troops left to do battle!"
Cautiously, Danaer felt out the General's final remark. "We go to battle then, my lord?"
"Perhaps. No, I take that again. You deserve an honest answer. We will do battle, and the outcome is much in doubt."
Slowly the General regained his composure. "Let me make known certain things to you. Scout. In addition to my couriers, I employ the services of the sorkra—such as Wizard Ulodovol and Lady Lira
Nalu. They in turn contact other sorkra of their . . . their web. Even so distant as Clarique of the Eastern Islands. You may have heard tales of an invasion of Clarique by some strange, white-clad people. By using the skills of the sorkra, we are better informed of all the news of that distant conflict—"
"We had contact, Lord General," the white-bearded wizard interrupted him. It was the first time Ulodovol had spoken in Danaer's hearing. Lira Nalu was shivering, and tears ghstened in her large dark eyes. At this moment, she seemed very much a young and frightened woman, in need of protection.
Sorkra, Wizards, Dealers in magic — the prophecy, again!
Ulodovol must have been snowy-haired even in his youth, for he had the extreme height and paleness of the nortliern people, the Irico. Age had made him gaunt and whitened the more his flesh and beard until he had taken on a living cadaver's form, shrouded in his rough brown robe. He was a man who touched matters no mortal should, daring death and the divine ones' jealousy.
"Jlandla Hill has fallen, my Lord General." Ulodovol brought with his words the frigid winds of his homeland. "He of our Web who dwelt in Clarique —Wizard Orlait—is dead. With him have gone tens upon tens upon tens of Clarique soldiers and seamen, broken and slain by the weapons of the invader, they who call themselves Markuand."
Danaer had felt the touch of the goddess, and he did not shrink from such holy prophecies, for that was what must be. There was no piety in Ulodovol, however. He spoke not out of sacred visions but with the arts of magic.
"When? When has this happened?" Yistar demanded, the first among the others to find his voice.
"Orlait died but moments ago. Captain. But the battle has gone ill for the Clariqu
e for many candle-marks. All hope has now vanished for the beaten Clarique. Sorkra Orlait did not die quickly, I fear. There is wizardry among these Markuand, a most potent wizardry. It sought to draw all the knowledge of
our Web from Orlait. He resisted them courageously to the very end. A most vaHant sorkra. I regret his loss to the Web."
Nothing in Ulodovol's lean face confirmed that he felt that loss or grieved for his dead comrade in sorcery. He spoke of the defeat of arms and the hideous death of a fellow wizard with no more inflection than a merchant might use to assess broken pots. Danaer's respect for the man's calling was becoming mingled with profound distaste.
In the same emotionless tone, Ulodovol told Nurdanth, "The Markuand have quite overrun the isle of Tor-Nali. On the morrow, they will plan to launch further attacks. The Clarique will not yield easily, of course. But the main portion of their soldiery is shattered. The invaders have captured many Clarique ships, many horses and woolbacks and weapons—and they do not encumber themselves with male prisoners overlong."
General Nurdanth covered his eyes for a heartbeat, badly shaken. "This afternoon, when . . . when you touched your Web, the situation in Clarique was said to be most grave. But this ... !"
"The Clarique might have suffered less loss, or even held the island, if they had not been abandoned by their leader at the height of the battle."
"Thaerl?" Yistar's florid complexion darkened alarmingly. "Are you saying Lord General Thaerl of the Clarique deserted his soldiers? It is unthinkable! Why, the man has been the terror of the island pirates for seasons. And in the civil war against his queen he ... he is no coward!"
"Not cowardice, Captain," Ulodovol said mysteriously. He held out a hand to Lira Nalu, commanding her to join him. She choked back her tears and blended her powers with those of her master, visibly bracing herself for some ordeal. "We will show you," Ulodovol announced.
The tapers dimmed, though no one had snuffed them. The room was swept with an unnatural darkness. Images swam in the air above the table and Danaer beheld a defensive position, thick with sol-
diers, standing upon the slope of an island peak. Stout warships patrolled the harbor below the citadel.
Danaer had never seen such an expanse of water but had listened to minstrels' tales concerning the sea. He knew he was gazing upon a part of the land of Clarique, a thousand king's-measures or more away from Krantin.
It was day, and Peluva's golden burden shone upon a mighty army and fleet. The Clarique were mighty warriors, the seed of ancient Traecheus. Strong-limbed and yellow-haired, they were proud of their heritage and fierce in defense of their island.
Time sped in blinks of an eye, clouds shifting across the sun as fast as birds. The battle came upon the Clarique as Danaer and the others watched. By tradition, a descendant of Ryerdon, he should have scorned those Clarique, sons of his people's old foe. But he gave the Clarique honest due, admiring their courage.
Over the vast Eastern Sea came the ships of the Markuand, their numbers endless. The ships were white, the sails the color of bleached sand or snow, bellied by a wind that should not have blown in that direction during this season. Expecting a favoring breeze, the Clarique had been unprepared and were thrown into disarray. The Markuand reached the island shore and poured from the boats and up the peak, attacking the citadel in force. Their garments were as white as the ships' sails. And there was something more about them to send horror into a soldier's spirit—these Markuand never cried aloud nor gave any sign of pain. Blood turned white clothes to red, yet not one Markuand screamed or uttered any cry. Such desperate silence unnerved the Clarique, as it did Danaer. No Destre-Y would be so craven as to hearten the enemy with howls of pain, even in his death throes. But the Markuand did not even groan or gnash their teeth. It was as if they could feel nothing.
The truth seized Danaer like hurtful bonds— wizardry! This was some magic, and of incredible potency.
Danaer was one with the Clarique, no longer the son of Ryerdon, enemy of those fair-haired islanders. He shared their battle lust and had it turn to disbelief as the Markuand swarms continued to come, a silent wave of white-clad warriors against which no mortal could stand.
Time again sped forward, a sunset as bloody as the scene falling over island and sea. The wizards' images moved into the citadel itself, into the battle post of Thaerl, leader of Clarique's forces. Danaer seemed to be beside him, as an aide might be, and he saw the man defeated by things beyond mortal comprehension.
General Thaerl stumbled back, his courage faltering. He clawed wildly at his body, fending off . . . what? All around him, chaos reigned as his junior officers begged for new orders and received nothing but gibbers from Thaerl. Reinforcements were not sent to critical bastions, defenses were being overrun, utter rout was beginning.
Images within images! And those around Thaerl saw, at last, the fantastic shapes which tormented the doomed general, smoky forms coalescing into demons!
Thaerl and his attendants were assailed by loathsome beings, creatures out of some nameless pit. Their minds were ripped, though no mark appeared upon the men.
In the end, the mighty general of Clarique fled the devils, taking a boat west, leaving his troops leaderless, ripe for slaughter. Then the Markuand overwhelmed citadel and fleet, a white torrent—killing, killing . . .
A sob cut the air and the images dissolved. Ulodovol released Lira Nalu's hand, and Danaer realized her weeping had been the element which broke the enchantment. She lacked Ulodovol's cold demeanor, and the visions had worked upon her far more strongly. It must have been the second time she had endured the horrors in those images.
It was several long moments before Danaer and the officers could absorb the reality of what the wizards had built in the air. After a few false starts, Nurdanth managed to ask, "Those . . . those creatures General
Thaerl saw . . . were they some madness that took him? Or ..."
"Came they from the regions below?" Ulodovol's serenity was maddening. "They were real, my lord, for him. I am uncertain if their power to harm was genuine or illusion. Orlait coped with the Markuand wizard's spells to the limit of his talent. But this alien is ... evil. Beyond Orlait's ability to repel."
Did Danaer but imagine he heard a tinge of condescension in that comment? Was it possible Ulodovol scorned the dead wizard? If that were so, what of the Sarli woman? Would she be as ruthlessly cast out of Ulodovol's wizard web, should her magic prove too weak? Lira stared devotedly at her master, his obedient apprentice.
He did not understand such an attitude. But he was not a sorkra, and these were not affairs he should meddle with. Danaer held his tongue, against instinct.
Yistar and Nurdanth were silent in shock. These alien invaders had conquered Clarique, and everyone knew the great numbers of the Clarique army and fleet. The army of Krantin was smaller, and if Markuand had so easily bested Clarique ...
Markuand mght strike against Irico, Ulodovol's native province, the cold lands rich in timbers and wool-backs. But there would be no hurry, for Irico was never a country of warriors. Sarlos? It was a fertile place and green even in the winters. But Lira Nalu's home lay beyond a part of the Vrastre, a most inhospitable rocky wasteland in that region, and on the seaward side was guarded by river and thick marshes that had foiled even Traecheus's dreams of empire, long ago.
The Markuand would surely do what anyone of wit would—strike at Krantin. Krantin was the sole remaining power of any consequence and had the only military force left which could offer Markuand a battle. Once Krantin had been crushed, the invaders might take their leisure in subduing Irico and Sarlos.
Danaer needed no visions to see what must happen. They would come. Markuand would gobble the remainder of Clarique's islands, and then they would
strike across the river, following the timewom route of the Ryerdon pilgrimage. If they could, they would sweep Destre-Y before them with weapons and wizardry, stabbing at the heart of Krantin.
Suddenly Danaer's gloomy
speculations were thrust aside. General Nurdanth was turning to him once more. "Troop Leader, what the sorkra have shown us makes this evening's undertaking far more vital than I had supposed possible. We require something of you."
"My life is yours to command. Lord General."
It was a mere formal response, but Nurdanth treated it with all seriousness. "Matters may well come to that—though I beg the gods it will not be so." The officer drew a sealed paper from a map case and handed it to Danaer. "You must deliver this."
Some years earlier Captain Yistar had taught Danaer the rudiments of letters, a necessary tool used in deciphering the army's maps. Thus he was able to puzzle out the few words written on the message, repeating them aloud with amazement: "To Gordt te Raa, Sovereign of all the Destre Tribes."
Sovereign—the style a lord of The Interior would employ to describe the ruler of the plains people. Among the Destre-Y, Gordt te Raa was called Siirn Rena, the Azsed Rena, leader of the strongest clans inhabiting the Vrastre, chieftain of chieftains.
And to deliver such a message to such a man, Danaer would be forced to enter Siank Zsed.
General Nurdanth avoided Danaer's stare. "I realize what I ask. Worse, I must command that you act as a courier and travel unaccompanied. It is the king's desire, and it may not be changed, I regret to say."
Yistar could not restrain his anger and growled a blunt obscenity. Then he blushed as Lira Nalu smiled, apparently understanding the raw soldier's term despite her gentle bearing and youthfulness.
Danaer had taken oath, and he was a warrior. He would not dishonor his word, though this be a most grim destiny. Yet the goddess would never scorn a man for using whatever cunning he might to survive. He asked carefully, "Lord General, may I dress as a
The web of wizardry Page 4
