by Julian May
‘It is understood,’ the Supreme Warrior rumbled. He took hold of the delicate Gateway sigil and glanced up at the sky. Although the sun was shrouded in cloud, his talent perceived it and knew the hour. ‘And now it is time for Kalawnn and me to go. The main force of our army is in position, and the warriors assigned to perform the Gayle Feint Maneuver are acting out their charade in the waters off Fort Kolm in Tarn even as we speak. The human Sovereign will learn of their presence shortly – to his eventual dismay – and lead the bulk of his army in the wrong direction.’
All four Eminences gave thunderous chuckles at the thought of the foe’s upcoming abasement. Then the First Judge and the Conservator moved away from the other two, bowed their crested heads in salute, and murmured, ‘Travel well, and may good fortune attend you.’
Kalawnn and Ugusawnn showed their glittering teeth in broad smiles. Then the Supreme Warrior intoned Subtle Gateway’s spell, and both Salka vanished in a soundless flash.
The First Judge sighed. ‘If only we had been able to obtain more raw mineral from the second Moon Crag! The future of our race for years to come rests on those two Great Stones – and their wielders.’
‘Take a long view,’ the Wise One urged. ‘We endured defeat for a thousand years, and only now have we begun to reconquer our island. If there should be a setback…remember that winter gives way to spring. And snows, even on lofty mountaintops, can melt again.’
The air was windless and chill in the foothills around Castle Direwold that morning, and the thin skin of ice that had encrusted puddles and water-buckets in the great encampment of the Northern Wing of the Sovereign Army had melted quickly as the sun climbed. But the Brother of Zeth in charge of weather-divination warned the generals that a snowstorm was crossing the Icebear Channel, and a wind-shift might carry it toward Frost Pass.
It was now near noontide of the fifth day since Conrig had suffered his injury, and the first time he had felt well enough to ride out among the troops. The wound had not festered, the doctors claimed that healing was proceeding well, and thus far it seemed as though the true nature of the disability remained secret.
‘I’m well pleased with the look of the warriors,’ the Sovereign said, as he and Sernin Donorvale and their top officers completed their inspection tour of the army units. ‘All seem warmly clad, full of enthusiasm, and with their arms combat-ready. I trust they’re getting plenty of good food.’
‘A surfeit, if anything,’ said the High Sealord, who rode beside Conrig. ‘Supply trains from Tarn arrive daily with shipments of oatmeal, salt cod, smoked salmon and char, goat cheese, and venison. This is, of course, in addition to the wide variety of victuals brought up from the south.’ He hesitated. ‘Of course, neither Frost Pass nor Great Pass has yet to receive any snow.’
Conrig lowered his voice. ‘And what of supplies from Didion?’
‘Precious little, my liege,’ Sernin admitted, ‘now that you’re no longer in a position to coerce Somarus and his merchant-lords in person. What resources Didion has left after the long stalemate are being sent to its warriors at Lake of Shadows, where perforce they are shared with the earl marshal’s men. It was probably to be expected. Be assured that Tarn won’t stint its obligation to its defenders – whatever their nation – so long as wagons or pack trains can breast Frost Pass. But I’d be remiss if I did not admit that severe weather could prove to be as great an enemy to us as the Salka.’
‘I know,’ Conrig murmured. ‘And I hope to be able to do something about that problem very soon.’
Sernin raised one eyebrow. ‘Would you care to elaborate on your remark, my liege?’
The king only laughed. ‘I’ve got a surprise up my sleeve. I’ll explain in good time.’
Sernin looked away and his response was wooden. ‘Perhaps that time is already at hand…My field commanders and I have arranged for a special midday meal in the common mess tent we share with the Cathran general officers. I request that you join us today, my liege. There is an urgent question all of us must put to you.’
‘Question?’ Conrig frowned. ‘What kind of question? Are you in some doubt as to my strategy? It’s a little late for that!’
‘Our concerns involve a wholly different matter. But let us suspend this discussion until after we’ve eaten.’
The Sovereign only picked at his food but consumed a quantity of mulled ale in moody silence, for the tenor of the High Sealord’s earlier remarks had disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. Was it possible that Donorvale had found out the truth about Maude? What a catastrophe that would be! But who knew for certain that she was the would-be assassin aside from himself and Dyfrig? And the prince must know that his life would be forfeit if he opened his mouth…
Sernin Donorvale rose from his stool at the head of the U-shaped table, where he was seated next to Conrig, and prayed silence. After commanding the young armigers who had served the meal to leave the tent and keep everyone outside beyond earshot, the Tarnian leader looked down on the Sovereign and addressed him without diffidence.
‘My liege, we thank you for visiting us here in camp, even though your doctors would have preferred you to remain within Castle Direwold until your injury is better healed. Let me go straight to the point. We of Tarn – and many great lords of your own nation – have recently learned a disturbing fact: that Conjure-King Beynor of Moss was not banished to eastern Didion, as we had been earlier informed. Instead he is here in disguise, sharing quarters in Castle Direwold with your own Corps of Alchymists. We cannot believe you’re unaware of this. And so we request an explanation – with respect, but also with a firm determination to learn the truth.’
Sernin resumed his seat. The others at the table, Tarnians and Cathrans alike, were deathly silent.
Conrig felt a vast relief. Maude’s identity, and the threat she still posed, remained secret. Beynor’s presence, on the other hand, must necessarily have been revealed before long, as well as the uncanny weaponry he owned and had offered to share. So be it. He’d give the explanation that the leaders had demanded.
He rose to his feet with care, since his side was still exquisitely painful, and took a swallow of ale before speaking. ‘High Sealord Sernin, my lords – Beynor is here at my invitation.’
Murmurs of disapproval came from many. The Sovereign ignored them and continued.
‘On the very eve of our departure from Boarsden, he came to me with an astonishing proposal. Most of you are aware that Beynor lives under a curse. He offended the Beaconfolk somehow or other and was forbidden to use sigil sorcery on pain of being cast into the Hell of Ice. Nevertheless, the man is in possession of three so-called Great Stones – the most powerful of all moonstone sigils. He showed them to me. He offered them to me, saying he knew how to activate them. They would serve as very effective weapons against the Salka.’
Sensation! Shouted questions rang out from almost every throat until Sernin Donorvale’s clarion voice restored order.
‘Naturally,’ Conrig resumed, ‘I asked the Conjure-King what recompense he required. His only request was that I use the sigils to defeat the monsters – who had done Beynor a great wrong during the years when he dropped out of sight – and that I restore the devastated Kingdom of Moss and assure his position as its king, and the Sovereignty’s loyal vassal.’
‘You believed him?’ the High Sealord said.
‘I suspected he might want more – or even attempt some foul treachery, such as slaying me through the sigils. But as he explained their operation, my skepticism waned. Friends, you all know that I was once closely allied with Beynor’s sister, the late Queen Ullanoth.’
Covert smirks and smothered chuckles.
‘She helped me establish the Sovereignty, using her moonstone sorcery to control the weather and oversee the actions of my opponents. She told me how the magical amulets work – so I realized that Beynor was also telling me the truth about them. The sigils are inactive and useless until a certain spell conjures them to life. Then they a
re bonded to a single owner. No one else can use them. No one else even dares touch them, for they defend themselves with a fierce uncanny fire. Beynor knows the spell of activation, but he cannot use his three sigils himself. So he has offered them to me, believing I will use them in a right and just manner, as weapons against our common enemy.’
‘What kind of sigils are they?’ The question came from Duke Munlow Ramscrest, one of the most astute veteran battle-leaders of Cathra.
Conrig nodded affably at his old friend. ‘There is a Weathermaker – which might do marvelous good service fending off heavy rain and snow, if these should threaten our success. Weathermaker can also conjure favorable winds for our warships. The second sigil, called Ice-Master, is able to freeze water – even the liquid humors within living bodies.’
‘Can it freeze seawater?’ asked Yons Stormchild.
‘I presume so,’ Conrig said with a shrug, ‘but I have no notion of how broadly or deeply its scope might extend. In the past, neither Beynor nor Ullanoth owned such a sigil. I suspect the Conjure-King might not know just how it works – only that it will.’
‘And the third sigil?’ The new Lord Constable, Wanstantil Cloudfell, posed the query with deceptive insouciance.
‘It’s called Destroyer,’ Conrig said, ‘alleged to be the most powerful weapon ever fashioned by the ancient Salka. The human rulers of Moss had a Destroyer in their magical arsenal, but all of them except the first Conjure-King, Rothbannon, were afraid to activate it because the stone had such a terrible reputation. Finally the mother of Ullanoth and Beynor dared to bring the sigil to life. But Queen Taspiroth’s command to it somehow enraged the touchy Beaconfolk. They killed her in an unspeakable fashion and damned her soul to the deepest of the Ten Hells.’
Sernin said, ‘Our Grand Shaman Zolanfel has told me that sigil sorcery exacts an awful price upon the one who uses it.’
‘Yes.’ Conrig spoke in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘Each time any sigil is used, the wielder suffers pain. The more powerful the stone, the greater the suffering. I’m willing to undertake whatever penalty the Beaconfolk demand in order to defeat the Salka. And if I should perish before victory is won, Prince Heritor Corodon will take up the sigils in my place.’
The prince’s eyes widened for an instant as he realized the full import of his father’s words. The pain-price was news to him! But he lowered his gaze at once and nodded in solemn agreement.
‘This transfer of the sigils to another person is possible?’ said Sealord Hobrino Kyle.
‘If Beynor is present, and able to pronounce the new bonding spell.’ Conrig let the meaning of that sink in. Then he swept his glance across the assembly. ‘Well, my lords, now you know the truth. Certain home-grown opponents of mine’ – he stared at Duke Feribor Blackhorse and his cronies – ‘have castigated me in the past for daring to make use of sorcery in military tactics. Other warriors, more pragmatic, have seen the magic for what it is: a weapon no more reprehensible than tarnblaze. The Salka possess quantities of minor sigils and will certainly use them against us. Their moonstones are more numerous than those Beynor offers us, but infinitely weaker in potential. Shall we refrain from fighting the foe with their own kind of weapons because of some traditionalist superstition?’
No one spoke.
Conrig’s dark eyes narrowed and his mouth went hard. After a pause, he said in a low voice, ‘I’ll be straightforward with you. I am not requesting your consensus in this matter. There is only one Sovereign of Blenholme! I have already decided to accept the sigils that Beynor offers. I also intend to have my alchymists and the most powerful Tarnian shamans guard the Conjure-King like hawks – even restraining him with Bazekoy’s blue pearl if he threatens mischief. But I don’t believe Beynor is a danger to us. He has too much to lose by betraying the Sovereignty. He’s a human being, for all his talent, and he wants to live in a human world, not one ruled by Salka monsters. So do I. So should you.’
The leaders were whispering amongst themselves, and Conrig left them to it for some minutes, taking needed rest on his field-stool and quaffing more ale. But finally he stood up again and lifted his hand to gain their attention.
‘And so, my lords, I’ll know your minds right now, before you leave this tent. Those who oppose my use of sigil sorcery must depart the encampment at once, taking their followers with them. Their action will be judged not by me but by the people of High Blenholme, when the war is over…So indicate how you are disposed. Let those who support me rise to their feet.’
At first, nothing happened. Then Prince Heritor Corodon stood without saying a word. He was followed a moment later by Sernin Donorvale, his mature sons the Sealords Simok and Orfons, and the rest of the Tarnian commanders.
Munlow Ramscrest jumped up and shouted, ‘By God, I’ll follow Ironcrown to hell and back! Cathrans – are you with me?’
‘Yes!’ roared most of his compatriots, surging to their feet with upraised fists. Duke Feribor and the other recalcitrant Lords of the South who were present glanced sidelong at one another, then slowly rose.
When the cheers subsided, Conrig inclined his head and spoke a brief word of thanks. His face was noticeably drawn and haggard. ‘It would be best if we kept knowledge of the sigil weapons secret from the rank and file for the time being. I leave it to all of you to decide which of your officers should be told. This meeting is now over.’
He beckoned to Prince Corodon and asked for help in mounting his horse. ‘I want to ride out before the Brother Healer finds me and gets a notion I ought to return in a litter.’
‘But, sire,’ the prince said, ‘if you’re in pain –’
‘To horse, damn you! No arguing!’ He limped away, cursing.
The battle-leaders began to stream out of the mess tent after the Sovereign, conversing in subdued tones, while the crowd of armigers and Tarnian squires re-entered to begin clearing up.
Sernin Donorvale was one of the last to leave, after giving instructions to Stormchild and a few other high-ranking Sealords. As he lifted the tent-flap he felt a tentative touch on his elbow and turned to find two very young squires clad in tunics bearing the insignia of the House of Kyle.
‘Please, my lord,’ the older boy said. ‘If we might be so bold, we bear greetings to you from a certain high-born lady.’
‘Do you indeed!’ The head of Tarn’s Company of Equals smiled down from his great height. ‘And who might you be?’
‘My name is Tormo Kyle, and this is my younger brother Durin. We only joined the force of our cousin Sealord Hobrino back at Elderwold. Before that, we served as escort to a Tarnian lady on orders from another cousin of ours, Countess Morilye Kyle of Beorbrook.’
‘Our lady’s name is Mayda,’ Durin piped up eagerly. ‘She is a great noblewoman, fleeing from villains who sought to kill her. So she disguised herself as a knight! She’s very beautiful, with red hair, but tall enough to pass for a man if the light is bad.’
High Sealord Sernin felt his heart contract, as though a spectral hand were squeezing the life’s blood from it. ‘Boys…did this lady give you any other message for me, besides sending greetings?’
‘My lord,’ Tormo said, ‘she told us to tell you she was your long-lost niece.’
‘Oh, God of the Vasty Firmament!’ Sernin groaned. ‘Grant that it was not she – not Maude!’
‘Her name is Mayda,’ Durin said again. ‘She said her son is Prince Dyfrig, who lived in Beorbrook Hold as we did – although we hardly ever saw him except from a distance, at feasts in the great hall. The lady wanted to find her son. Do you know if she did?’
‘Come with me,’ the High Sealord said. ‘You are excused from your duties here. I have many questions to ask you.’ He beckoned for the squires to follow him and they left the tent.
The other noble youths who were left behind pulled envious faces, then carried on with the tedious scut-work of clearing the dirty dishes from the table.
‘That was most interesting,’ Beynor said to Garon Curtling.
Both of them were imperceptible to the denizens of the camp, concealed beneath a strong spell of couverture. They had eavesdropped on the Sovereign’s speech and also on Donorvale’s conversation with the squires.
‘It seems that King Conrig is well-disposed to trust you, master,’ Garon said.
‘Don’t talk like a blockhead,’ Beynor said sharply. ‘He’ll never trust me. But he realizes that I’m indispensable – which is just as good.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Garon said. ‘And what was all that about a disguised lady and Prince Dyfrig?’
‘I’ll try to explain as we ride back to the castle,’ Beynor said. ‘Let’s get out of here. I’m anxious to resume windsearching for the Salka. If I could only find them, it would enhance my prestige tremendously. I might then be able to sit openly on the Sovereign’s general staff, rather than lurking hole-and-corner like an outcast.’
Garon was surprised that such a thing would bother the sorcerer, but wisely kept his own counsel as they returned to their horses.
Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook was sitting alone on a driftwood log on the shore of the Lake of Shadows, toasting a sausage over a small open fire and thinking troubled thoughts, when the Tarnian apprentice shaman approached stealthily through the underbrush, avoiding the regular trail between the lake and the encampments of Cathra and Didion.
‘My lord, I have important news for you. My husb – Master Haydon Sympath has just received a windspoken message from Grand Shaman Zolanfel Kobee, who speaks for the High Sealord.’