The Fall of Neskaya

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Coryn’s stomach growled, reminding him that he had been working all night. He’d have to replenish the energy he used, and soon. He bade good morning to Mac and went downstairs, where everyone on a regular schedule was enjoying breakfast. The tables were laden with the kind of food Tower workers most needed, dried fruits and honey for a quick lift, nuts and hearty wholemeal porridge, eggs and soft creamy cheeses for sustaining protein. There was no meat for this meal and he wondered if that were because the cooks were once again experimenting or the disorder of the region had made cattle harder to come by. He stirred thick cream into his porridge and poured himself a mug of jaco. Across the table, Amalie was spreading her third slice of nut bread with cheese. She ate with a child’s appetite, although she was actually a few years older than he.

  “I’ll be glad when this war is over,” she said in between tiny bites. “I can’t remember when I’ve been so tired.”

  “You never fought on the fire-lines,” Coryn said.

  She shook her head, tossing back her frothy halo of straw-pale hair. “No. Have you?”

  He grinned. “I grew up in Verdanta. Of course I did. Now, that’s really tired.”

  “Well . . .” She stretched, her spine popping audibly. “It always seems that whatever crisis of the moment is the worst. That is, until the next one comes along.”

  Coryn shivered in the sudden thought that the time of war would never end, that the Ages of Chaos would return again and again, no matter what any man did. The only hope was to hold the worst at bay, even as the Hasturs tried to do. An image sprang unbidden to his mind, the flash of Tani’s mind in the garden. Whoever she had been, the spirited young girl with all her life before her, would never be again. Even if peace could be hammered out, it might be too late for her—for them both.

  His fingers closed around the copper hair pin which he carried in the inner pocket of his robe, in place of his mother’s handkerchief.

  I had never hoped to see her again, he told himself, echoing her words. That time was a gift, something to remember. Nothing more.

  34

  Taniquel bent over her desk, with the morning sun slanting through the mullioned windows of her sitting room in Hastur Castle, and ran one hand through her hair in exasperation. Two hair pins went flying and a tightly-wound curl dangled free. She’d spent the better part of an hour trying to make sense of her uncle’s battered copy of Roald McInery’s Military Tactics, and her eyes burned with the effort. Unlike most gently-reared young women, she’d been taught to read, although with difficulty. Whoever had written this copy, though, must have had yardfowl scratchings for a model. In a moment of temper, she’d ordered all her ladies to be about their tasks, except one, a demure soul who sat stitching pillow cases with the silver tree emblem of the Hasturs.

  With some gratitude, Taniquel looked up at the sound of footsteps in the outer chamber. It was Bruno Reyes, one of the laranzu’in from Hali Tower, a kindly-eyed older man with a reserved manner. She knew him slightly from social functions, and suspected he might be Caitlin’s special friend.

  Taniquel jumped to her feet and greeted him, remembering hastily that Tower folk did not like to be touched casually. She caught the flare of emotion beneath Bruno’s serene surface, although she could not name it. “Why, what has happened?”

  “News has come from Hali. Caitlin Elhalyn, who serves with the King’s army, was able to send a message to them. The Ambervale army is routed—”

  Taniquel felt a rush of elation, quickly suppressed.

  “—but at great cost.”

  Now she heard the quiver in his voice. “Please,” she said, gesturing to the chairs drawn up around the unlit fireplace. “Sit and tell me the story.”

  He told it, with a calm dispassion which amazed her. Bonewater dust! And Coryn—her heart tripped over itself—Coryn had been there, in danger! She forced herself to listen. The Hastur casualties were relatively light, though many would require care for years to come. Of the laran workers, none had taken harm. Now that she could breathe more easily, the rest of the story fell into place.

  Clearly, the war continued. Neither her uncle nor that demon Deslucido would be content with one border battle, no matter how dire. She fumed at the prospect of more months sitting here in Thendara, while the fate of her kingdom, her son’s inheritance, was decided by others.

  “King Rafael wishes you to know that he now marches on Deslucido’s headquarters at Acosta. He cannot go directly there, not across the Drycreek area. That will be forbidden for a generation or more to come.”

  “He goes to free Acosta?” Without me? She felt as if she’d suddenly been plunged into fire.

  One look at the laranzu’s face told her that he had caught her emotion, even if he could not read her thoughts. Quickly she collected herself. She thanked him with all the graciousness she could muster and dismissed him.

  There was nothing to discuss with anyone, only orders to be given. She was Queen Regent of Acosta, she had given her oath to restore her son and her kingdom, and if her uncle was going to march on Deslucido there in her name, she was going to be at the head of that army.

  Roald McInery had described the uses of symbolic gesture to either hearten or demoralize a fighting force. Her strength lay not in arms but in moral right—and perhaps a touch of legend. She remembered the ballad recounting her escape from Deslucido’s clutches. By the last rousing choruses, it wouldn’t have taken much to drive the listening courtiers into battle for her sake. She would have to speak with the coridom, the Hastur cousin acting in Rafael’s stead, and the captain of the guard. But first, she would have a word with the minstrels. . . .

  “Majesty?”

  Damian’s new general, Ranald Vyandal, paused just inside the door to the presence chamber, now the war room, and bowed a shade more deeply than usual. Damian, who had retreated to his private chambers along with Belisar after the memorial for The Yellow Wolf, beckoned him forward.

  “Majesty, I bring news—A rider from Verdanta. It has fallen.”

  “What do you mean, fallen?” Damian snapped. He heard the stridency in his own voice.

  I’m off my stride. It’s this damnable waiting. I need to be out there, seeing and doing for myself.

  “Exactly that, vai dom.” Vyandal bowed again, still keeping his eyes on Damian. “The castle has been captured and our men there killed or taken prisoner. We think the Leyniers have regained power, but we cannot be sure. The messenger did not stay for the details. He barely escaped as it was. My man is still questioning him.”

  “Verdanta,” Damian murmured, his eyes playing over the maps unrolled on the table and weighted on four corners with the hilts of swords taken in battle. “Why Verdanta?”

  “Desperate men are unpredictable, sire,” Ranald replied. “However, I don’t see them as posing any current threat. They will have their hands full, restoring their own rule.”

  “Verdanta might be retaken,” Belisar suggested. “She is as vulnerable as ever in armed strength, and the man who now leads her, this Eddard, is a blind cripple.”

  “There remains the question of outside forces, how many and what kind,” Ranald said.

  Belisar scowled at him. “What do you mean?”

  “They didn’t free themselves,” Damian pointed out patiently. “If they had the power, they would have done so long ago. And please remember, the goal is to conquer Hastur, not a pack of insignificant mountain kingdoms. They are the means, not the end. If someone’s going about fomenting rebellion in our provinces, we need to know who . . . and why.”

  “From our information, Verdanta did have help,” said the general. “A small, highly skilled team could have done it. Perhaps they found the means to hire mercenaries, even Aldaran assassins.”

  It must have been Hastur’s doing. Damian’s right hand curled into a fist and as quickly released it. Now was not the time to let emotions dictate strategy. He still had scattered outposts throughout Verdanta as well as forces in High Kinnally. He did n
ot think the Leyniers, no matter how foolish, would dare turn their backs on their old enemies.

  Let them go, then. As he had pointed out to Belisar, they were valuable only as a means to Acosta, and Acosta he already had.

  Outside, thunder crackled. The atmosphere shifted from the sullen brooding of the last few weeks to potential danger. Storm weather, this, flash flood weather, a time when anything could sweep away the plans of men.

  Damian went to the windows and threw them open. A fitful breeze carried the metallic tang of lightning. He knew the storm as if it were a fellow creature, a twin. Inhaling great gulps of air, he drew its energy into himself. In his vision, he saw Verdanta and Kinnally, even Hastur itself, as bits of storm-wrack caught up in the looming tempest. His tempest, which he would ride to a victory so complete it would, like its earthly namesake, transform the world beyond recognition.

  It was time to carry the battle home to Hastur himself, to make him pay for what he had done.

  There must be a way to snatch victory from the situation. The army which Belisar had taken was in tatters, with more men ailing every day, draining the resources of the others to care for them. True, there were squadrons of battle-worthy men here at Acosta, and more could be summoned from Ambervale and Linn. But that would take time.

  The instinct in Damian’s guts told him time was a thing he did not have. Events were moving forward with a momentum all of their own. Like his father’s yellow stallion so many years ago, he must either ride this elemental chaos or be trampled by it.

  Where sheer might could not prevail, vision and cunning must. The first step was to know the enemy. Rafael had shown his true cowardice at the Comyn Council, with his endless arguments about not using laran weapons. He was so pompous, telling everyone else how to live, little dreaming his words would come back to him. His lands were vast, he had no need for greater territory, he could afford to prattle about balance and restraint. What chance did anyone else have, except to use whatever weapons the gods had placed within reach?

  Rumail . . . the Deslucido Gift . . . Tramontana Tower . . . and his own army in place when they struck.

  Damian began to pace, thinking hard. He could not cross the disputed lands any more than Hastur could, not until the contamination had subsided. But there was more than one route to attack King Rafael. This time, Belisar would be right where he could keep an eye on him. There would be no surprises. A plan took shape in Damian’s mind, one which went beyond anything he had so far attempted.

  He dismissed the others, saying, “We can retake Verdanta at our leisure, once we have dealt with the greater threat. Strengthen the patrols along those borders. And make sure we leave a sufficient contingent here so that Acosta will still be ours . . . when we return.”

  Then he summoned Rumail to his chamber. As the laranzu listened to his plan, a look of sheer exultation passed over his features.

  Damian rode out to the music of pennants snapping in the breeze and harness rings jingling, shod hooves on dust and stone, the rhythmic tread of marching men. His horse, a lanky, mud-colored gelding with a mouth like leather but the strength of ten ordinary mounts, shook its bony head and pranced beneath him, eager to run. Sun glittered on spear points, for the morning was sweet and mild. He inhaled the freshness of the day, his spirits lifting.

  As the day wore on, the army settled into a traveling pace. Somewhere behind Damian, a chant sprang up. This far ahead, he could not make out the words and it did not matter. They had the heart for the battle to come. No king could ask for more.

  And yet . . . he had ridden from Acosta with a smaller army than he had hoped. As soon as he had formulated his plan, orders had gone out to the minor lords for levies of footmen and remount horses. Far fewer had returned than he had expected, and of those, most had sent only a handful of men, not the number required. He would deal with such disobedience later. He had enough for now, or would soon.

  Damian’s route took him past two of the largest holdings from whom he had no answer. They would make up what their neighbors failed to supply. He would have his full planned strength when he arrived at the Venza Hills.

  The Drycreek border would be closed for a generation or more, due to the residue of the bonewater dust. Even a quick passage across its poisoned length might mean a man’s death for years to come. Damian had chosen it as his first battlefield with Hastur because of its history of disputed ownership. Now he needed no such legal justification. He meant to fight the war on Hastur’s own holdings. Perhaps, should fortune and Rumail’s powers favor him so much, he might even press on to Thendara itself.

  Ah, the glory of conquering Darkover’s greatest city! From there, he could truly bring about a golden era of peace. But to do that he needed an avalanche of victories.

  As his army neared Vairhaven, Damian sent heralds ahead so that a proper welcome could be prepared. He would, he thought with some satisfaction, stay there while the levies were made ready. Supplying his men and their animals with food, drink, and shelter would teach the lord, whatever his name was, his place.

  He signaled for Belisar, who had ridden a respectful distance behind, to draw even with him. In every particular, his son’s behavior since the aborted border invasion had been obedient, if at times sullen. There had not even been the boy’s usual high spirits. He wanted to grab Belisar and shake him, though he sensed that would do no good. Perhaps the boy’s confidence had been troubled by defeat; perhaps he had been given too great a command, had outreached his abilities. Well, he would learn, given smaller responsibilities and closer supervision.

  They had not gone much farther when one of the heralds spurred his horse back down the road. “Majesty!” He jumped from the saddle and made to kneel in the dust.

  “Oh, get up!” Damian snapped. It was no small thing to halt an entire army and certainly not worth it just to mollify one fainthearted messenger.

  The man scrambled back into the saddle. “Majesty, they would not receive us! When we arrived, we found the gates shut and when we told them who we were, they shot arrows at us! Teale’s horse took one in the shoulder.”

  How dare they shoot at my herald! How dare they refuse!

  “And—and they sent a message.”

  Anger, hot and silvery, pulsed through Damian. He sat very still in the saddle, his fingers tight on the reins. “What did they say?”

  “They said,” the man ducked his head, stammering, “they said—”

  “Out with it, man!” Damian roared. Belisar flinched visibly. The mud-colored gelding reared on its hind legs for an instant.

  The herald’s words came in a rush. “They said they would no longer bow to an unlawful usurper and that even now, their rightful king, Julian Acosta, is on the way to take back the throne which is rightfully his.”

  “Julian Acosta? Who in Zandru’s name is he?”

  The herald flushed darkly and stammered something incoherent. Belisar said tightly, “The son of Taniquel Hastur-Acosta, the one born after her escape.”

  “The bastard infant?”

  “She claims him to be the legitimate son of King Padrik Acosta,” Belisar said.

  “I don’t give a scorpion-ant’s nit what she claims!” Damian snorted. “Where is this boy wonder and his mighty army now? It will be a satisfaction to smear out his paltry existence. Never mind.”

  Damian turned to his son. “Belisar, be my counselor in this. How would you advise me to deal with this insolence?”

  For an instant, some unreadable emotion played across Belisar’s features. “I think—I think such rebellion must be crushed. If we allow this one small holding to defy us, then word will quickly spread that we have gone soft as Dry Towns traders, and we will have a dozen Verdantas to deal with.”

  The senior quartermaster, who had ridden a little to the side, motioned for permission to speak. “In addition, we cannot afford to pass up such a rich resource. The farther into Hastur territory we extend, the more serious the problems of supply lines will become. The lan
ds are rich . . .”

  Belisar’s chin shot up. “The Hasturs would have no scruples about taking whatever they want. Look at how they tricked us at the border! They have no honor on the battlefield—or in the bedroom. Father, we must use every weapon to defeat them. We cannot afford to diminish our strength when we go up against such an enemy.”

  He has the right of it. The dream of uniting Darkover will never come to a man who is weak or irresolute. Yet Damian paused, for he had never before permitted his men to loot from field or holding.

  Perhaps I have been too soft, as Belisar says.

  Nodding in satisfaction, Damian signaled for the trumpeter to call a halt. “We will camp here this night. Tell the captains they may forage from field and village. Seize whatever you need. The best way to handle even the smallest hint of rebellion is to make the price too high. Tomorrow we will take this upstart castle and let the baby king do his worst!”

  Vairhaven, little more than a fortified manor house, fell the same day, despite a heated skirmish at the front door. It sat atop a knoll with a view of the wheat fields and a river sparkling below. Heartleaf ivy covered its walls and ferns crowded the riverbanks, giving the place the air of a green bower, cool and inviting after the dusty road. Within minutes of their arrival, the thirsty horses had waded out into the river, churning mud and trampling the delicate purple water-flowers.

  It was, Damian thought, a perfect location, with forage and water for the horses, space enough to establish a proper encampment. He put Belisar in charge of setting up the latrines and burying the few dead.

  Comfortably ensconced in the one good chair in the central hall, Damian had the Vair lordling brought forth. Vair was a man of middle years, dressed as if he intended to join the fight himself. Now his face was dusky, congested, eyes never still. The loose skin along his jaw and neck quivered. He refused to kneel until Damian’s guards forced him down.