Sorcerer's Moon

by Julian May

  ‘Yes,’ she said as his lips tasted her tears, and let him go.

  He slipped out of the tent and made his way toward the outer perimeter of the elongate encampment, which was bisected by the Wold Road. The only fires were at scattered watchposts, but he rendered himself invisible with the minor sigil Concealer so none of the prowling sentries would delay him. This part of the heath was open and mostly devoid of trees, cut here and there by brushy streambeds carrying small torrents. He descended into one of these so that his uncanny departure would be unnoticed, then voided the spell of invisibility.

  Reaching into his jerkin with an ungloved hand, he took hold of the Great Stone Subtle Gateway and closed his eyes. He intoned the command ‘EMCHAY MO’ and instructed the sigil to transport him to the pavilion of Prince Heritor Corodon and Vra-Bramlow, on the trail leading up to Frost Pass.

  He felt no pain, only a sudden great chill. Soft inhuman voices whispered inside his mind: WHAT DO YOU WANT?

  Stricken with dread – for this same thing had happened to him once before, when he first attempted to use Gateway

  – he opened his eyes. He was surrounded by starless black space. Limned against it were innumerable glowing faces depicted in colored Light. They spoke to him in unison, repeating the same question, and he realized to his astonishment that they addressed him in his own language, not that of the Salka.

  So he replied in kind. ‘I want you to transport me where I asked to go.’

  WHO ARE YOU?

  They almost caught him off-guard. But he recovered in time and said: ‘Snudge. I’m Snudge.’

  THAT IS YOUR NAME AND IT IS NOT YOUR NAME. TELL US YOUR TRUE NAME SO WE MAY KNOW YOU COMPLETELY. THIS IS NECESSARY FOR THE ULTIMATE FORGING OF THE LINKAGE AND OUR VICTORY IN THE NEW CONFLICT.

  ‘My name is Snudge, Great Lights.’

  At that, a commotion broke out amongst the spectral visages. The Beacons began whirling around him. Some of them kept their composure while others roared or howled in a swelling crescendo of fury until a shattering hiss silenced them. Then, as before, Snudge heard the Beaconfolk arguing

  – although it seemed they were unaware that he was able to listen.

  Snudge is not his name it is his JOB again he plays with us defies us. He insults us he should be cast into the Hell of Ice. Into hell! Into hell with this trickster! No. We need him. We must cajole him. Coerce and bribe him as we bend him to our will. He is the perfect ally for the World Conqueror.

  No no no no kill him punish him drink his pain to the end! Kill the rule-twister.

  Yes!

  Conrig needs him and we need Conrig. The Conflict rages! The Sky is aflame! CONRIG AND SNUDGE ARE THE KEYS TO VICTORY.

  Ohhhhh…Human keys not Salka? The irony the strangeness! Show Snudge the bribe. Let that decide the matter. The bribe yes the STUPID bribe for a STUPID human! It is done.

  Deveron Austrey heard spectral laughter and experienced a flash of chaotic brilliance. So it was the Beaconfolk who had instilled the sense of foreboding in him, compelling him to use the Great Stone that would place him in their power! This thing about his true name…why had they still been unable to discover it?

  Because you did not tell them, another voice said.

  ‘Source? Is it you? Speak to me! I have so many questions –’

  But there was no response. Then he felt himself falling, landed on solid ground with a bone-jarring thud, and opened his eyes to almost impenetrable conifer-scented darkness and a deluge of rain. It took a moment for him to exert his talent and focus his mind’s eye to render the night scene visible.

  He was in a woodland clearing. At his feet were the drowned remains of a campfire and on either hand lay the motionless bodies of two men. Their saddlebags were nearby, unbuckled but otherwise undisturbed, along with the homely implements for tea-making.

  One of the men, a strapping fellow well but plainly dressed, lay on his back. He had died hard, for his face was frozen in a terrible grimace of agony and his lifeless eyes were wide open and weeping raindrops.

  Deveron had never seen him before.

  The other victim, who had fallen on his face, wore more expensive garb – including an ornate belt with a splendid scabbard and sword. Deveron felt his breath catch. He knelt and turned the body over, whispering an oath. The features were smeared with mud, but this man was undoubtedly Beynor of Moss, the one who had invaded Deveron’s dreams. His eyes were closed and his expression tranquil. One of his hands held the sword pommel in a grip of iron. His body showed no obvious marks of violence.

  Deveron climbed to his feet again and set about scrying the entire scene. Hoofprints, partially washed away by the rain, marked the ground. A pile of manure and the torn branches of adjacent juniper bushes suggested that horses had been tethered there but had later broken free. More extensive windsearching revealed that the small grove of pine trees stood atop a hill adjacent to a principal highway traversing a desolate moorland. It had to be the Wold Road.

  There was no trace of the Sovereign’s army anywhere in the surrounding countryside. In fact, Deveron could discern no living soul anywhere within five leagues.

  ‘Why the devil did Gateway bring me here?’ he asked himself.

  SHOW HIM THE BRIBE…THE BRIBE.

  He felt ice at the base of his spine and a terrible surmise stole into his mind. Withdrawing from the windsearch, he bent over the saddlebags of the victims and examined them. The first pair held the usual spare clothes and equipment of a common traveler, plus two leathern pouches of medium size, affixed with padlocks which Deveron’s talent opened easily. One pouch was full of gold coins, while the other held precious gems in small cloth sacks, along with a little wooden box.

  Inside the box were five inactive minor sigils.

  ‘Codders! Well, now it’s plain that no brigand attacked Beynor and his companion…Let’s see what the Conjure-King carried.’

  In addition to travel gear and a sack of food, the handsomely tooled bags yielded peculiar metal-mesh containers secured with enchanted locks. Rather than spend time deciphering their spells, Deveron simply scried the contents. He was not surprised to find a much greater quantity of gold and a large collection of gemstones. In fact, the diamonds alone were probably worth enough to purchase a sizable castle.

  ‘This then is the bribe,’ he murmured, ‘intended to convince the “stupid human” to throw in his lot with Conrig…and the Beaconfolk.’

  The response came softly into his mind: THIS AND MUCH MORE.

  Shite! They were watching him.

  And what would they do if he scorned the dead men’s treasure?

  He felt a strange sensation at his chest and opened his jerkin and shirt, heedless of the persistent downpour. Both Concealer and Gateway were brightly aglow – but their light was throbbing in a manner he had never seen before. Paralyzed by fear, he wondered if the sigils were somehow being commanded to annihilate him. Every instinct urged that he cry out to the Great Lights on the wind, beg mercy, and accept their dark bargain…but he held back.

  Was it possible that he could outwit them? Convince them that he had taken the bribe, while yet repudiating it within the sanctuary of his own conscience?

  He let out a long exhalation, willing his body to cast off terror. With steady hands he pulled together his shirt, hiding the disquieting pulsation of the sigils. He emptied the mundane contents of Beynor’s saddlebags onto the ground and transferred into them the riches that had belonged to the other man – save for the five extinct sigils, which he put inside his owl-case. Then he went to the Conjure-King’s body, unbuckled the Sword of State, and girded it about his own waist. After lifting the heavy bags to his shoulders and rearranging his clothes to fend off the rain, he took hold of the Gateway sigil, closed his eyes, and repeated his request to be transported to the tent of Prince Corodon and his brother Bramlow.

  Again, no pain accompanied the translation. When he opened his eyes an instant later, he found himself standing beneath the front cano
py of a smallish pavilion with a royal blazon stitched on the closed flap. It was pitched amongst rocks in an alpine meadow, surrounded by others of its kind and a multitude of more ordinary military shelters. Watchfires burned nearby and a few flakes of snow were falling.

  An astounded knight standing guard with three men-at-arms uttered a curse and drew his sword. ‘You there! Stand fast or die! Don’t move! Who the hell are you and how did you get here without a challenge?’

  ‘I am the expected guest of these princes,’ Deveron replied. He lifted one hand, smiling, and the four Cathran warriors halted in their tracks as though turned to statues. ‘I mean no harm.’ He called out the names of the princes and announced himself.

  The tent flap opened and Vra-Bramlow poked his sleep-disheveled head outside, saying, ‘Sir Deveron Austrey? A bit premature, aren’t you? Well, I’m glad you got here safely. Come inside and I’ll stoke the brazier and wake Coro. I suppose you want to see our father right away.’

  ‘First, I need to confer with both you and the Prince Heritor.’

  ‘Very well.’ The novice blinked as he noticed Moss’s Sword of State for the first time. ‘How the bloody hell did you get that?’

  Deveron sighed. ‘It’s a long story. Just let me disenchant these poor warriors, and I’ll tell you about it.’

  Many leagues to the south, atop a storm-lashed wooded hill, a man lying on the wet ground stirred and lifted his head. It was a long time before he came fully conscious, and even longer before he was capable of cogent thought. His first feeling was one of elation.

  ‘I’m alive! So the antidote spell was effective after all…Was ever a man so blessed by fortune as I?’

  When his talent recovered to the point that he was able to scry his surroundings and understand his situation, he uttered a deep groan. ‘Was ever a man so accurst?’

  There was no answer to that, so he used his talent to dry his soggy garments and weave a rough dissembling spell that would cause any uncanny observer to believe that he still lay dead in the mud. Then he commanded the missing horses to return to him, even though he had no notion at all of where he might go.

  Orrion Wincantor sat by the window of his ‘guest’ chamber in Karum Castle and watched the riding lights of the seven pirate ships moored below in Terminal Bay. Sleep refused to come to him that night, and he had spent many hours vainly attempting to bespeak someone – anyone – who might pass on a warning about the presence of the Salka.

  He had called out on the wind to both Coro and Bram without success, tried those Zeth Brethren of the Royal Corps of Alchymists whose names and faces he could recall, even attempted to communicate with Grand Shaman Zolanfel of Tarn, who was said to be the most sensitive windspeaker in all of High Blenholme.

  No one had responded.

  So he gave it up, and tried to think how best to take care of Nyla and her mother when the monsters attacked the castle. It was probable that there were batteries of tarnblaze cannons to defend the place, but what good would such things be if the Salka used the awesome weapon that had blasted Rogue’s Picket to pieces and obliterated the brig Gannet?

  Earlier at supper, an extravagant feast apparently intended to impress the captives, Rork Karum had announced that his house-wizard had heard from shamans at Tarnholme that the Salka were invading the Firth of Gayle. All of the Tarnian frigates from the southern port were speeding to join the Joint Fleet’s attack on the monsters. The wizard also found no evidence that the bay’s exit channel was blocked by fallen rock from Rogue’s Picket. Of course, the magicker’s mediocre talent was unable to scry underwater, so Rork had dispatched a fast cutter to take soundings. With only light breezes prevailing, the boat was unlikely to arrive at the channel before dawn.

  In the face of these discouraging tidings, Orrion could only implore the pirate-lord to be on guard. Laughing, Rork had said he’d command his cannoneers to stockpile extra tarnblaze shells in the bayside batteries that night, just to calm his royal guest’s faint-hearted fears…

  Now, thinking about this, Orrion realized that it was precisely the wrong defensive tactic to employ. If the flesh-devouring brutes came ashore, only a different, paradoxical course of action might save the inhabitants of the castle and numbers of villagers from a ghastly death.

  But how could he convince Rork Karum to accept his plan?

  Vra-Bramlow slipped out of the Sovereign’s pavilion into the blustery night, where Deveron had waited for at least a quarter of an hour, attended by a squad of the Royal Guard. ‘I suppose you were scrying Father and me and reading our lips.’

  The former intelligencer only smiled. ‘See that you don’t attempt the same thing whilst I’m with the king, Brother Bram. I’ll know if you do, and it’ll go ill with you.’

  The novice pretended haughty disdain. But he was in awe of this strange man who had questioned him and Coro so incisively about the mental health of their royal father and the manner in which Conrig had acquired his sigils. It was plain that Deveron Austrey knew every ramification of the dangers posed by Beaconfolk sorcery – especially if it was conjured by the Sovereign of Blenholme.

  ‘I didn’t mean to threaten you, Brother,’ Deveron added. ‘But the situation is delicate enough without inadvertent interference on your part. All of us will suffer if the king refuses to listen to my advice.’

  ‘I believe Father’s really willing to give you the benefit of the doubt,’ Bram said. ‘Your news of Beynor’s death was a great boost to his spirits. He’s taken his sigils from their hiding place and laid them out for you to see, along with those two raw lumps of Demon Seat mineral I told you about. He says that earlier this evening he tried to use the rocks to ask the good Lights why his sigils were blinking so weirdly. They gave no answer and it worries him. Tomorrow he wants me to try contacting the Lights myself – but only while he supervises. ’

  Deveron wagged his head in frustration. ‘I wish there was some way you could get those pieces of moonstone away from the king. The Likeminded wanted you to safeguard them. They must have had a good reason.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep His Grace waiting any longer. One last thing: if this visit goes badly and I am slain, I ask that you bespeak the tidings to my wife Induna, who travels with the army of the earl marshal.’

  The novice gasped in horror, as if such a thing had not occurred to him. ‘I’m sure – I trust that –’

  ‘Never mind,’ Deveron said, and pushed past Bramlow into Conrig’s tent.

  It was not much larger than the one shared by the two royal brothers, with the only warmth provided by a charcoal brazier perched on a base of tiles. The Sovereign, swathed in a heavy robe of sheared beaver trimmed with black fox, sat on a field-stool at a portable table. A single oil lamp hung from the pavilion’s peak. Its flame was pale compared to the throbbing greenish glow of the moonstones that rested on the table before the king, giving his features a spectral cast.

  ‘Come and take a seat,’ Conrig said in a neutral tone.

  Deveron inclined his head in respect. ‘Your Grace.’ He unbuckled the Sword of State and leaned it against a coffer, then drew up a second stool. ‘I’ll leave Moss’s royal weapon in your charge, if I may.’

  The king stared at him without speaking for some time before saying, ‘We meet again under ominous circumstances, sir. So that you may be reassured, know that I’ve just signed and sealed a royal writ rescinding your condemnation for treason and the decree of outlawry.’ He nodded at a folded sheet of parchment on the table. ‘Examine it if you care to. Also, I would once again welcome you into my service, restore your knightly honors, and be glad of your good counsel.’

  ‘Sire, I offer you my counsel wholeheartedly and herewith pledge my loyal service to the Sovereignty of High Blenholme.’

  ‘To the office, but not the man?’ Conrig gave a wry chuckle. ‘So be it. In a moment you must tell me why you insisted that we two confer in the wee hours of the night, rather than at a more civilized time. But first –’ He pointed to
the pulsating moonstones: three major sigils, the disk that had empowered them, and two irregular chunks of mineral. ‘What in hell’s the matter with these bloody things? Have my sigils lost their power?’

  Deveron reached inside his jerkin and drew out the chain with Concealer and Subtle Gateway. They blinked in unison with the king’s stones. ‘It’s my belief that all of these tools of sorcery are somehow being affected by a great war now being fought in the Sky Realm. The beings that we call Beaconfolk are but one faction of a supernatural race. They are opposed by others of their kind.’

  ‘Do you meant the so-called good Lights? But I thought they were relatively powerless.’ The king scowled. ‘Except for wreaking well-meant mayhem on my luckless son Orrion! I admit they’ve also been of some help in our war against the Salka. They gave Bram news of the monsters’ entry into the Firth of Gayle. But now they refuse to talk to me when I invoke them.’

  Patiently, Deveron explained almost everything he knew about the Old and New Conflicts, holding back only the manipulation of human beings by the Source and Conrig’s own involuntary conscription into that entity’s service.

  ‘Particularly worrisome, sire, is a certain recent discovery of mine. The Source of the Conflict has made known to me that the Beaconfolk are actively seeking to ensnare all of talented humanity in the sorcerous game which has long enslaved the Salka. In ancient times, the evil Lights reveled in a feast of pain willingly vouchsafed by the foolish monsters in exchange for magical power. Bazekoy’s conquest, and his destruction of so many sigils, deprived the Beacons of much of the unholy pleasure to which they had become addicted. They then attempted without much success to entice human beings into their game. A century ago, Conjure-King Rothbannon outwitted both the Salka and the Beacons and contrived to employ sigil sorcery in a way that was fairly harmless to himself and his realm. More recently the Lights transferred their hopes to Beynor. When he disappointed them, the Lights turned to you.’