“I have to,” Al’An whispered, apologized, in desperation tearing the second skin of stockings from her own.
Al’An’s hand brushed against her hip, his fingers trailing along her thigh, down to her knee.
Swan’s breath left her so rapidly that she almost screamed. Al’An’s fingers moved slowly up the inside of her thigh, then touched where she knew that he would touch her, had wanted and feared that he would touch her. A shiver pulled her into herself, all of the breath gone from her and, in an eyeblink, her lungs filling with the chill air. Swan tossed her head back and Al’An kissed her throat, his fingers knotting in her hair. Her hands, without conscious will, tugged at the belt girding Al’An’s waist, discovered how to open it. There were these things Al’An called buttons, coin shaped and of metal, and her fingers struggled with them.
At last, she had them open.
Al’An laughed softly as she struggled to lower the garment which restricted her from touching the flesh below his waist.
Al’An let go of her, leaned back. Swan knelt at his feet and pulled first one, then the other of his boots from his feet. His stockings made her laugh because they were so short, not even to his knee.
“Pull on the pants legs,” Al’An advised her.
She did that and Al’An sprawled back, laughing. And Swan flung the garment aside, but there was still more covering him. Al’An smiled, started taking off the little pants, but Swan would not let him, put her hands on the waist of the garment and pulled it down.
Swan gasped.
“What’s wrong?” Al’An asked her.
“I had never imagined that it looked like that!”
“It doesn’t always, only on special occasions.”
“Is this a special occasion, Al’An?”
“The most special,” Al’An informed her, then pulled her body down over his.
Al’An rolled her over onto his clothes. “Ouch!”
“Sword got in the way,” he smiled, shoving his baldric aside.
“And your other sword? What will you do to me with it, Al’An?”
“Many things,” Al’An told her, looking her square in the eye.
“Then, prithee, run me through and through again, my lover,” Swan begged.
Al’An’s left hand came to her back, arched her upward as his hips slipped between her thighs. Swan screamed.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Al’An whispered, the fingers of his right hand caressing her breast.
Swan exhaled into his ear and Al’An shook his head and her teeth found the shell of his ear and her fingertips and then her nails gripped his flesh.
Swan screamed again.
Al’An was inside her.
A flash of thought, of a flower-dotted grove where Ka’B’Oo trees grew and beautiful white horses awaited to bear her and Al’An to some happy place. And Swan opened her eyes and the flowers and the trees and the horses were real and there. On the ground beside them lay a dress of magnificent white lace, and her arms were no longer entangled in the blouse she’d worn with her mannish jerkin and stockings, but in a gown of pale linen trimmed with fine lace and ribbons blue as the sky.
“Al’An,” Swan murmured.
The air around them was warm and full of magical energy and, flowing into her, coursing through her blood was the magical energy of the universe.
“I love you, Al’An, and I am yours throughout life and beyond death for all eternity,” Swan whispered, Swan vowed.
Chapter Fifteen
Snow, borne from the icy sea Woroc’Il’Lod, carried inland over the mountains on winds of unrelenting force, showered round Moc’Dar’s force, spicules of ice assailing whatever bare flesh might be unwisely exposed.
Even Moc’Dar’s black leather mask of the Sword of Koth afforded him little protection, and he found himself squinting his eyes against the unremitting, bone-chilling onslaught. The heavy, wet snow flakes and needlelike shards of ice, driven diagonally, worked mercilessly against them, infiltrating to the innermost reaches of their clothes; and when the wind gusted and howled in higher register than the steady shriek Moc’Dar’s numbing ears were becoming used to, the weary horses visibly shuddered and stumbled, riders huddled deeper in their snow-splotched black cloaks, swayed wearily in their saddles.
Some magic had been used, either that of the old man Erg’Ran or the warrior woman’s, covering the tracks of the Enchantress and her comrades before the snow had begun to fall. Where there had been snow, there was only virgin white, and the rock surfaces, now totally obscured, had shown no scuffing or scratching from steel-shod hooves. Because time was of the essence—the Queen Sorceress was not noted for infinite patience and each eyeblinks delay might allow the Enchantress to renew or enhance her magic—Moc’Dar had improvised a plan.
There were only so many directions in which the daughter of the Queen Sorceress and her band of rebels might go. Traveling further inland would gain them nothing, the overland route away from Edge Land the only possible goal and one that would be counterproductive to their ends, at least so far as Moc’Dar understood them.
The rebellious daughter and her co-conspirators would head for Woroc’Il’Lod, where the remainder of their pitiful force vainly attempted to distract the Queen Sorceress with naval maneuvers, threatening a landing of some sort in modest force, an attack which could easily be repelled.
Bearing in mind all of these well-reasoned assumptions, Moc’Dar had split his sizeable force into eight different elements, all of which would converge at the most logical place for a landing. Each element had with it one Ra’U’Ba, in the event that reinforcements would be needed, or field intelligence needed to be shared by way of the Ra’U’Ba.
Despite his Captaincy, Moc’Dar had been given field command over the entire operation, placing him in the oddly satisfying position of having superior officers in the Horde and the Sword of Koth ordered to take his orders.
If he failed in his charge, Moc’Dar had already decided that he would take his own life rather than remain alive to be punished by the Queen Sorceress again.
Leading a unit of four score Horde of Koth and a score of Sword of Koth, Moc’Dar took the route along which his best judgment dictated that the Virgin Enchantress was most likely to travel. It snaked through the foothills which paralleled the mountains forming the most rugged and treacherous portion of the coastline with Woroc’Il’Lod. There were numerous places along the way in which a small band might take shelter, hide from the second-sight.
Although there was still no evidence of any horses crossing through the area, blaming the magic, cursing the cold, fearing his future, Moc’Dar rode on along the bleak far edge of the plain of Barad’Il’Koth…
Although he had not eaten, Alan Garrison’s stomach felt pleasantly full. Although he had not touched a razor to his face, his skin felt the slight tightness which only the closest, cleanest shave imparted. Although he had not bathed, his hair and body were immaculately clean, as were the clothes he had lived in for far too long. His sword was freshly honed and, like his firespitters, lightly oiled. Alan Garrison wondered if, somehow, Swan had counteracted her mother’s spell and his pistols would actually shoot?
There would likely be the chance to find out about that.
All around him there was beauty, but it frightened him. Pleasantly warm sunshine from a robin’s egg blue sky bathed this little valley, but visible in all directions was a sky so darkly overcast in grey as to be nearly black. When he listened very carefully, he could hear the faint howl of vicious winds. Flowers grew in abundance as did grass, upon which their own stolen horses and the two white horses (which had magically appeared) eagerly grazed.
Most disconcerting of all was Erg’Ran’s appearance. The lines of age in his face had somehow grown softer, less noticeable. His eyes seemed brighter, keener. And his peg leg was gone, in its place (although Garrison hadn’t asked Erg’Ran to remove his left boot) presumably a normal, healthy foot. His monkish robe was clean and new looking.
<
br /> Mitan’s leathers gleamed, and her hair shone with the luster of fresh washing and brushing. Her body, always eye-catching, was all the more so.
Gar’Ath’s wild mane of hair was nearly as perfect as that of his lover, Mitan, and the few dueling scars Garrison had only subconsciously taken note of before—one on his neck, two on his right hand—were gone.
Captain Bre’Gaa’s mail glistened as if it were made from the finest silver, painstakingly polished. And the hair which covered the visible portions of his body, his facial hair and mane, all seemed to almost glow with cleanliness and good health. The Gle’Ur’Gya Captain’s great kilt was spotless, without wrinkle, its fabric somehow richer looking.
Alan Garrison watched Swan, his heart compelling him. She knelt in the luxuriant grass, her skirts billowed round her like the petals of some shimmering blossom. She was a bloom more magnificent than the profusion of flowers surrounding her.
Erg’Ran attended her.
Swan wore a long-sleeved, satiny gown of her own making, the texture and color of which mirrored the muted reds of the upthrusting buds all about her, its square neckline at once modest yet revealing.
Alan Garrison followed Swan’s gaze as she stared into the distance. Was she thinking about the storms which raged around them, one literally, the other figuratively? Or did she consider the scope of her magical powers? Swan could, it seemed, bring into reality that which she desired merely by imagining its existence. Was this, he wondered, the true essence of magic?
Garrison shuddered, dismissing the thought as quickly as it came that he, too, might only be a thought in her mind, existing only at Swan’s will.
If a tear should fall from Swan’s perfect eye, would it be as equally capable of magically transforming into a diamond of dew dotting the petal of a rose as a white-flecked torrent raging over the bodies of drowned enemies? If such a tear ran down her velvet cheek, would it be one of sadness for the terrible deeds still to come or of happiness for the bliss they had shared together and might share again?
At this moment, true happiness still eluded her, he knew, as it might forever elude them both. Garrison desperately wanted to picture Swan running into his arms, embracing him with all her might, every day for the rest of their lives, never letting him go. Had he magic, he would make it so. But, he wondered, had destiny intertwined their fates only briefly, deceived them with the promise of a fate they would forever be denied?
Alan Garrison could not take his eyes from Swan...
“You cannot do this, Enchantress,” Erg’Ran informed her. “It was I alone who made the decision to lop off my foot—it had to be done—and I did not ask you to give me a new foot.”
The Enchantress smiled gently. “It was not my intention to be arrogant, uncle, but merely to do something, well—nice! If you do not wish to have a left foot, I will change it back for you.”
“No, no,” Erg’Ran explained, shaking his head. “This, all of this, is a waste of magical energy! I did not need a new robe; the old one was perfectly fine. Your heart is in the right place, but do you truly realize how much magical energy you are using in order to maintain the conditions you brought about in this valley, while all around us a storm rages? You may need every last iota of that energy to combat your mother, Enchantress.”
“I have more power than she ever had,” the Enchantress answered matter-of-factly. “I just know, somehow, that I do.”
“And you have the resource with which to renew that power, whereas Eran—at the moment—does not. I know that, Enchantress.”
“What do you mean when you say ‘at the moment,’ Erg’Ran?”
“Your mother, my sister, has two options, dear one. The third option—to surrender—she would never consider. If I understand her thinking, as I feel that I do, this is her strategy. She will conserve her magical energy at all costs, as she did at the keep, while causing you to expend as much magical energy as possible, in the hopes that when a confrontation comes you will find yourself lacking. Unless, of course, her minions, by some fluke, are able to kill or capture you. You see, even if she wins against you, the source of the greatly magnified power to which Eran has become accustomed is now denied to her. Hence, her two options.”
“Which are?”
Erg’Ran fumbled his pipe, Swan packing and lighting it for him in an eyeblink. “That is exactly the sort of wasteful use of magical ability to which I refer, Enchantress. Thank you, at any event. The two options are, I’m afraid, rather obvious. Would you care to suggest them?”
Swan’s eyes widened, and Erg’Ran knew that she’d realized at least one of the options. “Al’An?”
“Oh, yes! Definitely, the Champion! If Eran can somehow overpower or destroy you, that is. As discussed before, he would have to take his own life. Eran’s magic would be such that she could convince him that she was, in fact, you, and he would happily be her lover.”
“Erg’Ran! No!”
“Understand,” Erg’Ran told her, “that your Al’An would think, all the while, that he was in your arms, not hers, never realizing until she’d finished with him that she had taken advantage of him, created a fantasy in which he was merely her toy.”
“And the other alternative? My mother’s second option?” Swan asked.
“Failing that she could possess the Champion for her purposes, she would have to transport herself to the other realm and bring back another other realm male. While she was gone, of course, if you lived, you would be able to seize control of Creath. If the Champion lived, although, indeed, your powers would be greater than hers because you are half K’Ur’Mir and half of the other realm, there would be sufficient parity that the warfare could go on indefinitely.” Erg’Ran glanced skyward. It was not yet dark, but he made the allusion at any event. “You would be like the sorceresses of the two moons. All of Creath would suffer.”
Swan seemed to consider his words for some time. “Could she not,” Swan inquired at last, “have left already for the other realm, Erg’Ran?”
Despite the balmy air and warm sunshine, Erg’Ran was suddenly chilled to the marrow...
Time was now their worst enemy, Swan realized. And Erg’Ran had been right. She must use her magical energy more wisely than ever because of its enhancement. Otherwise, all of that for which the Company of Mir had fought would be forever lost.
Surrounded by Gar’Ath, Mitan, Erg’Ran and Captain Bre’Gaa, Al’An at her side, Swan stood at the center of the meadow she had formed within the magically protected valley.
“We must, I fear, act quickly, my friends. All may already be lost. Each eyeblink’s delay could precipitate a disaster from which Creath might never recover. I could use considerable magical energy to transport to Barad’Il’Koth the companies of our ships, but we would still be hopelessly outnumbered by the Horde of Koth and those other foemen whom my mother can send against us.
“For that reason,” Swan went on, “I have decided on a course of action, in counsel with Erg’Ran, which my mother, the Queen Sorceress, would never consider.”
Erg’Ran spoke. “The problem, simply put, is that, even as we speak, Eran might already have transported herself to the other realm, have found an other realm male, mated with him and be fully prepared to continue warfare on Creath of infinite scale and duration. In all of my planning for the events which I had hoped would bring victory for the Enchantress and freedom for Creath, I failed miserably to consider that one possibility. It might prove our undoing, and the fault will be mine alone should such circumstances come to pass.”
“Enough of that,” Swan told him, meaning it. “We began as friends and shall end as friends, and the responsibility for whatever transpires, for good or ill, is mine alone, and I am the most fortunate of womankind that we endure whatever it is that we must endure together.”
“What is your plan, Enchantress?” Gar’Ath asked.
Swan looked at the young swordsman and smiled. “We need an army, and there is only one army in the history of Creath which s
tood strong enough to combat the forces which my mother will assemble against us, and which can resist the force of my mother’s magic.”
Al’An just looked at her, understanding not at all, while Mitan and Gar’Ath were visibly shaken.
Captain Bre’Gaa said, “There is only one army of which I know which was ever that numerous, that strong. It is the army which was raised and led by Mir against the sorceresses, ending the dark times.”
“It is that army of which I speak,” Swan answered softly. Mitan sucked in her breath in what could have been a gasp...
The storm through which they’d interminably ridden was dissipating almost as quickly as it had fallen upon them. Moc’Dar’s horse, nearly spent, heaved with each breath. He raised his right hand and signaled that his column should halt.
With great weariness, Moc’Dar dismounted, the fallen snow rising half the height of his knee boots.
“Dismount!” Moc’Dar ordered, his command echoed and re-echoed along the column’s length.
The Ra’U’Ba near him asked, “Why do you order this? We can go on. The sky is clearing, Captain. See!”
“I know that the storm passes, as any fool knows.” Shaking his head, he humored the Ra’U’Ba and glanced skyward. “Look!” Moc’Dar shouted. “Look there!” Gathering the folds of his cloak close about him, Moc’Dar began to clamber up the ridgeline. The clouds were breaking, what sky was visible a dully gleaming grey. But, in the distance, there was incredibly bright blue. “Send the Yeoman Spellbreaker!”
Halfway up to the ridgeline, Moc’Dar looked back. Trundling gracelessly through the snow and into the drifts at the ridge’s base came his Yeoman Spellbreaker. Moc’Dar called back. “Ra’U’Ba! You will join us at once!” The blue had to be magic, had to be the work of the Virgin Enchantress.
Moc’Dar dropped to his knees, then to a prone position at the very height of the ridgeline, the snow wet and cold and working its way through his cloak and the leathers beneath. After what seemed an eternity had passed, but only a few eyeblinks really, the Yeoman Spellbreaker knelt beside him. “They may have guards second-sighting. Down flat, boy!”
The Golden Shield of IBF Page 40