Enchanter

by Sara Douglass

  While it sometimes seemed to the Icarii they made little appreciable difference—for every Skraeling shot another three crawled into view—it only took a few days for the men on the ground to realise how much they owed the Strike Force. After ten days of the Icarii presence, not even Borneheld could deny that the Icarii were making a difference. The Skraeling pressure on the defence lines eased and then noticeably weakened. The number of IceWorms reaching the canals was halved, and then halved again and, unbelievably by the third week, halved once more. Soon only a handful per day were creeping across the canals. They dropped from being a certain disaster to being a worrisome nuisance.

  Unit commanders along the lines were finally able to relieve their men, sending them back to the town for a day or two of rest. Those left on the lines still had to fight, for the Icarii could not stop thousands of Skraelings whispering their way to meet the swords and pikes of the defenders, but they did not have to fight so hard or so long.

  And, in the longer and more frequent rest breaks, men continued to talk—although all were wary of talking about the birdmen before unit commanders.

  Over several weeks the Acharites not only learned of the Icarii, they had the time to observe them as well. Some of the Acharites began to wonder if the Forbidden were quite as forbidding as the Seneschal had always claimed. Could Artor match anything that the Star Dance had to offer? And what of the Wars of the Axe, that had so cruelly driven the Icarii from these lands? Why should the Icarii help Jervois Landing when the Acharites had treated them so poorly in the past?

  As the year stretched into Raven-month, men dared to believe that Jervois Landing would hold. Slowly, achingly slowly, the tide of the Skraelings was lessening as their numbers were decimated by Icarii arrows. Most Acharites who were prepared to be honest with themselves knew that they owed their lives to the Icarii.

  After a thousand years, and despite the lingering hatreds of the Wars of the Axe, Icarii and Acharite again shared common purpose.

  During the weeks the Strike Force spent fighting above Jervois Landing, life in Sigholt was almost entirely geared about supporting them. A significant number of the people who had fled Skarabost to Sigholt put themselves at the disposal of the Icarii, cleaning their gear and weapons, refletching worn arrows and fletching new ones, cooking and carrying for the Strike Force so that the Icarii could simply rest while they were in Sigholt.

  The Icarii were grateful, and they showed it. Many among the Strike Force spent hours each day playing with the young children of the Acharites, letting them finger and exclaim over their Icarii wings and telling them stories of old Tencendor and of Icarii legends. On several occasions when a parent, heart in mouth, permitted it, one of the Icarii would take a small child for a short flight over Sigholt and the Lake of Life.

  Soon children prattled to their parents at night about such remarkable places as the Star Gate or even the lost Island of Mist and Memory. The singing of the Icarii generally, and of the Enchanters especially, fascinated all, and at least once or twice a week an Icarii Enchanter would be invited to eat with a group of the Acharites in return for an hour of Song about the fire in the evening. At that Axis had to smile. He had never thought the Icarii would enjoy eating and sharing their evenings with Acharite peasants, but apparently the Icarii were finding that many of their age-old beliefs about the Acharites were as false as the Acharites’ beliefs about them. It gave Axis hope for the Tencendor he wanted to create. The music of the Star Dance filtered through and about all at Sigholt and sometimes when Axis lay half asleep in his bed he could hear in the Star Dance the faint echoes of the thousands of heartbeats of those in and about Sigholt.

  The Urqhart Hills were relatively safe now. No more Skraelings had appeared in the WildDog Plains, and none ventured near the western extremities of the hills. The mounted force at Sigholt still trained, as well as continuing its patrols. Azhure began to take a more active role in the force, leading several two- and three-day patrols through the Hills. She simply secured Caelum in a sling on her back next to her quiver of arrows, and rode Venator out of Sigholt. Belial had opened his mouth to remonstrate with her the first morning he’d seen her, but she just stared at him with cold, flat eyes, and he’d subsided.

  Azhure was delighted with her new horse. Venator was smaller than Belaguez, and more finely boned, but faster and more manoeuvrable because of it. He also had intelligence, courage and spirit, and Azhure found it very easy to train him to her specific needs. He responded to voice and knee commands alone, as Azhure needed when she had to fight with the Wolven, and had a graceful and fluid gait that allowed Azhure to shoot without worrying about being jolted.

  On the first day when Azhure took a patrol out, leading a supply train into the south-western Urqhart Hills to the Icarii Strike Force camp there, Axis stood on the roof of Sigholt watching her go and trying to suppress qualms about Caelum’s safety. Azhure kicked Venator into a canter as they left the bridge, Caelum and the Wolven secured to her back and the pack of Alaunt surrounding her dancing red stallion. Despite his lingering worries, a small smile lifted the corners of Axis’ mouth. Azhure was not only a highly competent commander, but an extraordinarily unusual woman. Just a year and some few months ago she had been the outcast peasant daughter of the Plough-Keeper of the village of Smyrton. Now here she was, the mother of his son, a commander within his army, riding patrol with the Wolven and the Alaunt.

  With WolfStar’s bow and with WolfStar’s hounds.

  Axis shook himself. He could almost feel MorningStar by his side. Azhure could not be WolfStar, could not be the traitor within his camp.

  But doubt niggled at him. Was it just a coincidence that the Gryphon had found SpikeFeather’s Wing? Azhure had known about that flight, would have known where they could be found.

  “Dammit!” Axis cursed as he turned away from the parapets. Any one of two dozen people close to the inner command of his force would have known where that Wing was.

  And it could have simply been coincidence. The Gryphon were flying south to attack Jervois Landing. Had, unfortunately for the Icarii, come across SpikeFeather’s Wing flying home into the sun, blinded and unaware.

  As Axis thought on the Gryphon attack a memory crashed through his consciousness. Azhure, smiling, easy and graceful, wandering along the narrow rock ledge of Talon Spike. Surely only one of Icarii blood could have walked that ledge, a thousand pace drop at her feet, with such ease and confidence?

  It could not be her, could not be. Stars! Didn’t she have the perfect opportunity each and every night to slip a knife into his back if she wanted to? No. Axis knew that it could not be Azhure. She had too much compassion and love within her to be WolfStar. And she had been born and had grown to maturity in Smyrton. She had no opportunity to teach either Axis or Gorgrael.

  His good humour gone now, Axis stared at the spreading town about the Lake of Life. Many of the Acharites who had journeyed to his cause had been here almost seven months now. Originally they’d camped in tents about the Lake, but over the past months they had organised gangs to reopen an old quarry half a league into the northern Urqhart Hills, and now well-constructed stone buildings were beginning to appear—with a singular lack of imagination, the inhabitants had named the town Lakesview. Axis, when he realised that the Acharites were building in stone, had insisted upon proper planning, and from his vantage point Axis could see the well-laid-out blocks of buildings, with large gardens for each house, and the straight and wide streets. They were, Axis realised, building a new life here. Most of the refugees he had talked to in recent weeks had shown no interest in returning to Skarabost. Why, they had queried, when these hills are blooming about this warm lake even in the depths of winter and we can grow enough food and raise enough stock to feed ourselves and our children. Axis wondered if, in centuries past, Sigholt had previously had a town about the skirts of the Lake. Many of the builders had dug up old foundations. Perhaps they were simply rebuilding another part of Sigholt which had died
when the Lake was drained.

  Calmed by his contemplation of the growing town, Axis rested his hands on the parapets and turned his mind to the snow eagle, far away, soaring above Jervois Landing. What did Ho’Demi have to report this day?

  When Borneheld finally found out how far knowledge of the Icarii had spread through Jervois Landing, he lost control of himself so badly that Gautier and Roland thought he would strangle the soldier he’d overheard talking about the Icarii.

  “Who told you of these foul creatures!” he roared, shaking the man so badly his helmet fell off.

  “The Coroleans, Sire,” the man stammered.

  Borneheld eventually let him go, and the man scrambled out of reach.

  “How would the Corolean soldiers know of the cursed Forbidden?” Borneheld growled to Gautier and Roland.

  Roland, tired, ill and dispirited, simply shrugged. He hardly cared any more. All he wanted was to die honourably, somewhere far away from Jervois Landing. He did not like it here. And he no longer respected Borneheld. He was not a King who Roland wanted to lay down his life for. He often wondered if he should have left with Magariz, back at Gorkenfort. Surely Magariz had made the right choice.

  “Ho’Demi seemed to know of these, ah, Forbidden,” Gautier said. His own ambitions kept Gautier completely loyal to Borneheld. “Sire, the Ravensbundmen come from a land that borders with the Icescarp Alps. I would lay ten to one they are the source of these rumours and lies which sweep Jervois Landing.”

  Borneheld stared at Gautier. By Artor, the man was right! “Then I rest responsibility for the suppression of these lies in your hands, Gautier. Flush out the traitors within our midst who spread these lies. Then we can deal with them appropriately. Report back to me this afternoon—with results.”

  “Yes, Sire.” Gautier bowed deeply, saluted, and, turning on his heel, stalked off. Both Roland and Borneheld watched him go, but both were thinking very different thoughts.

  Gautier had not reached his present position without a good deal of cunning. Disguising himself in the thick cloak and scarf of a peasant, and moving from camp fire to camp fire on the pretence of looking for a loose horse, it did not take Gautier very long to discover a traitor or two. At the fifth camp fire he visited, Gautier discovered three Ravensbundmen talking animatedly about the Prophecy of the Destroyer and the StarMan to a group of wide-eyed Acharite and Corolean soldiers.

  They were arrested, disarmed and bound before being marched back to the town of Jervois Landing to face the King.

  The three Ravensbundmen stared silently at Borneheld. None of them showed any emotion, nor, for that matter, any discomfort at their tight bonds. They simply stared, hostile black eyes in blue-lined faces, each with the naked circle in the centre of his forehead.

  “Do you speak of my bastard brother as the StarMan?” Borneheld finally asked.

  Arhat, the oldest of the Ravensbund warriors present, nodded curtly. “We do, King Borneheld.”

  Borneheld took a deep breath. These men would die for their insolence and their treachery. “And you spread lies about the flying filth that drives the Skraelings down to slaughter the good people of Achar?”

  “The Icarii have turned the tide of the Skraelings,” Arhat replied. “Jervois Landing would have fallen and the Skraelings flooded through Achar now but for the Icarii Strike Force.”

  “They are filth!” Borneheld shouted, stamping about the room. “How dare you refer to the cursed lizards as though they deserved honour!”

  “They do deserve honour, Borneheld,” said Funado, the youngest Ravensbund warrior present, “for they have saved your kingdom. Once more the Icarii fly to aid the Acharites. Whether they deserve it or not.”

  All three knew they were dead. But they would die serving the Prophecy, and with that knowledge all the pride of their ancient race shone from their faces.

  It was that as much as Funado’s words which pushed Borneheld over the edge of anger into outright fury.

  “Gautier!” he screamed. “Erect three crosses on the edge of town and crucify them! Then fetch me their traitorous leader. We shall see where his loyalty to the Forbidden gets him now!”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Gautier said, “to make an example of these three.”

  Ho’Demi sat his horse before the three crosses, his face masked as if with stone.

  He had been summoned from the forward lines where he was supervising the defence against a particularly nasty Skraeling attack. He had cursed as the soldier gave him Borneheld’s message, “Meet me on the western edge of Jervois Landing. Now.” Did the King think Ho’Demi was simply enjoying a late afternoon stroll out here among the canals?

  But he had gone, and now he saw the fruits of Borneheld’s suspicion. Three of his men hung dead from crosses, and it was evident that they had not died easily or fast.

  “They spread treacheries,” Borneheld seethed atop his horse at Ho’Demi’s side. “Lies! About the Forbidden! I will not have it.”

  “No,” Ho’Demi whispered, not shifting his eyes from the sight in front of him.

  “Their infections spread about Jervois Landing. Soon all will believe the lie that the Forbidden fly to our aid instead of flying to seek our destruction.”

  “No,” Ho’Demi said again, but Borneheld did not hear him. At the foot of the crosses Gautier strolled, a pike in his hands, prodding the naked bodies to see if any spark of life remained within them. Frustrated, Gautier used the iron tip of the pike to slice open the last warrior’s gut.

  “No,” Ho’Demi said yet again, very, very softly.

  “Dead,” Gautier announced, “and not before time.” He tossed the pike to one side and remounted his horse.

  By the great Icebear herself, Ho’Demi swore silently, I will have your life for this treachery against the Prophecy and against the lives of three true men.

  “I suspect treachery in this, Ho’Demi!” Borneheld suddenly hissed by his side. “I suspect you of treason, Ho’Demi.”

  Ho’Demi dragged his stare away from the three dead and looked at Borneheld. “I have committed no treachery, Borneheld.”

  Borneheld’s lips thinned and the heavy features of his face reddened. “You promised me, Ravensbund savage, that you would be true. You swore that you would not prove traitorous!”

  “And I have remained true, Borneheld. I have not proved a traitor to my oath. And my oath and my loyalty was always to the Prophecy, Borneheld, and only to you so long as you acted to serve the Prophecy. With this action, you have shown yourself the traitor.”

  Borneheld could not believe what he was hearing. Would this barbarian continue to lie? “Order your men back from the lines of defence, Ho’Demi. Order them back to your camp. I no longer need your ‘help’ in defending Achar!”

  And that at least is true, thought Ho’Demi cynically, now that the Icarii have stemmed the flood of the wraiths for you. You can hold this line with your own men and your mercenaries. You no longer need us.

  But he inclined his head politely. “As you wish, Borneheld. The Ravensbundmen will return to our camp.”

  He glanced once more at the bodies hanging from their crosses, then turned his horse and nudged it into a canter.

  Roland, sitting his horse behind Borneheld and Gautier, swung after Ho’Demi. “I will make sure he does it, Sire,” he called as he spurred his horse after the Ravensbund chief.

  Gautier looked at Borneheld anxiously. “Sire, what can we do about the Ravensbundmen? Even though many have died fighting the Skraelings, they are still too many for us to either guard or otherwise dispose of.”

  “This evening, late, eight river transports of Corolean soldiers land, Gautier. Their first duty? To surround and attack the Ravensbund camp at dawn tomorrow. The Ravensbundmen will not move against us before then, for they be hampered by the number of women and children in their camp. Soon we will be rid once and for all of these savages.”

  Borneheld woke before dawn the next morning, intending to lead the raid and sl
aughter of the Ravensbund people himself. As he rolled out of his bed and struggled into his armour in the dark, cursing when he caught his thick fingers in the buckles, Borneheld suddenly realised that there was something strange about the morning. Something missing.

  He paused, half dressed, and angrily shushed the young girl in his bed as she muttered sleepily. He stood for a long moment, then, suddenly, horrifyingly, realised what was wrong.

  The morning was completely silent. There were no bells, no chimes.

  When he reached the Ravensbund camp site a half-hour later it was to discover that the newly arrived Corolean mermercenaries had the site completely ringed. Completely, uselessly ringed, for the site was utterly bare. Everything had gone. The tents and their chimes. The horses and their chimes. Every last one of the Ravensbund people and their Artor-forsaken chimes! Even, as Borneheld would shortly discover, the three bodies from the crosses had gone.

  “What?” he spluttered, turning to an equally wan-faced Gautier. “How?”

  Gautier simply stood and shook his head slowly, unable to speak for several minutes. “The Coroleans ringed the camp late last night, Sire. It—and the Ravensbund people—was there then. But this morning, when we moved in…gone…” He shook his head again. How could they have disappeared so silently, so completely?

  Back in Jervois Landing Jorge, as he did every morning, checked his friend’s bed to make sure he was still alive.

  Roland had disappeared.

  43

  THE SKRAELING NEST

  “It will work! I know it can!” Azhure’s eyes were bright with conviction. “You have heard the Icarii flight reports!”