Sethra Lavode (Viscount of Adrilankha)

by Steven Brust

  “Well, share these thoughts then.”

  “We ought to have told the Islanders to attack at first light, so the enemy could not see the boats until they were in the very act of landing, and then we could have timed our own attack for the same moment.”

  “That was, indeed, the plan, Habil, and it was a good one until we observed the fortifications, which let us know that we should not, in fact, surprise them. At that moment, I decided it would be best to wait until we had a chance to make a close observation, and so I had the Islanders wait.”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “Moreover, thirty hours ago you agreed with this plan.”

  “Yes, yes. That is true.”

  “Do you have a reason now for regretting this decision?”

  “Well, that is to say, no.”

  “Then you still think it a good one?”

  “I think so. That is to say, I hope so.”

  “We are well matched, my dear cousin. While I become unnerved before the battle has begun, that is when you do your best planning and have the coolest head. Whereas, once the action starts, why, nothing disturbs my coolness. I am an animal.”

  “I do not deny what you say.”

  “Ah, it is a shame, is it not, that—”

  “There, the vanguard is in motion.”

  “So it is. I will ride forward, in a position just to the rear of the vanguard, while you remain here. We have no shortage of errand runners, so be certain I am kept well informed.”

  “I will not fail to do so.”

  “Once the battle is fully engaged, if there is no disaster, I will return here, so that messages may reach me more efficiently.”

  “Yes, that is a good plan.”

  “But, before that, well, I wish to see the opening of the ball.”

  “I understand.”

  “Until later, then, my dear cousin.”

  “I will see you in the city, with the Orb revolving around your head.”

  “Let us hope so,” said Kâna, and put the spurs to his horse.

  Much can be said (and, to be sure, has been said) about the Pretender, the Duke of Kâna, as a military commander, and much of it, we regret to say, has been sheer nonsense; but no one has ever questioned his ability to create a trained and disciplined army, and this skill was nowhere displayed better than in the opening moments of the assault on Adrilankha.

  Consider that at that moment there were two armies, eight brigades, fifty-seven regiments, two hundred and thirty-four battalions, four hundred and seventy-one companies, more than twenty-one thousand troops, all of them marching steadily, guided by capable officers, ready for action.

  The spirit of the army, considering how soundly it had been defeated at Dzur Mountain, was astonishingly good. It may be that, although the troops had been told nothing officially, they had come to understand, in the mysterious way soldiers have of gathering up and interpreting subtle clues, that a means had been found to overcome the artifices that had caused their defeat in the previous battle.

  But for whatever reason, there is no question that their spirits were high, and they were eager for the battle—many of them were only Teckla, it is true, but they were guided by young Dragonlords and in some cases young Dzurlords, and even a few of other Houses, unfamiliar with the Orb, mistrusting the House of the Phoenix, and eager for glory.

  It was fifteen minutes after the second hour after noon when Brawre’s leading units—two platoons of lancers and a company of light cavalry—came around the corner of Lower Kieron Road where lies the abandoned building that was once the posting house of the Running Chicken. Once around this corner, they were, quite suddenly, five hundred meters in a straight line from where three spear phalanxes, part of the division commanded by the Warlord, waited, blocking the road.

  Brawre’s units continued forward as if the road were empty. Two minutes later, there was the clash of arms.

  The Battle of Adrilankha had begun.

  Chapter the Eighty-Seventh

  How Morrolan, Attempting to

  Find a God, Found Instead

  What His Sword Could Do

  The village at which Morrolan arrived that morning was, to be sure, a very small village: only half a dozen diminutive houses and something in the nature of an inn, as well as a sort of general store. Morrolan pulled up and looked around. At first, he thought the place entirely deserted, but on a second look, he saw that in front of this store was an old man (or, rather, Easterner) with a magnificent belly, a scrawny beard, and very little hair. This unknown frowned as Morrolan dismounted and said, “Is there something that you desire?”

  “Certainly,” said Morrolan, and, drawing his sword, he said, “My goddess has as much a taste for blood as your own, therefore you may go to her and give her my warmest regards.” Before the old man had time to consider what these words might mean, or even to understand the sensations that must have flooded through him as the Dragonlord drew his weapon, Morrolan had cut him from right shoulder to left hip and left him in his own blood.

  The old Easterner had no time even to cry out—Morrolan’s sword had taken both his life and his soul even before his body struck the ground. For anyone in the least familiar with the effect of sword-cuts, such a result is, to say the least, unnatural.

  But then, there is nothing natural about Morrolan’s weapon.

  What became of this soul—this insubstantial part of humanity, that provides the life-spark of any being and contains the essence of personality? We cannot answer this question—whether the sword utterly destroyed it, as is the case with those foul weapons called morganti, or whether, as Morrolan had said, this soul, in some way, was taken to be consumed, destroyed, or preserved by Verra, or whether something else entirely became of it, we cannot know. But, whatever our own opinion of the Lord Morrolan, we must face the truth: This crime, the crime of taking the essence of a living being and ripping it from his body, denying it the right of rebirth, is on Morrolan’s head.

  For his part, he gave not a moment’s thought to this circumstance. His heart was filled with what had been done to his own people, and if there was any room left in this organ, it was taken by his mission. Once this old Easterner’s body was stretched out upon the ground, Morrolan gave him no more thought than he’d have given an insect upon whom he happened to tread as we walked. He stood there, his sword dripping blood, and looked around, waiting to see if he would be challenged.

  The only response was a scream, coming from within one of the buildings. Without being exactly certain of what he was doing, or why, Morrolan raised his sword, pointing it at the small wood-frame house. The house did not so much explode as dissolve and collapse into flame.

  “And that,” said Morrolan in a voice of a clarity and power that could be heard over the cracking of timbers, “is for my goddess as well.”

  When his words elicited no response, he methodically repeated this performance with each structure in the small village, mounted his horse, and left the nameless hamlet ruined and burning behind him.

  Now he brought his horse over the pathway to the next village, which was sufficiently close that the smoke from the villiage he had just left in ruins scould clearly be seen. When he came there, which took only a few minutes, he found that it was in appearance very much like the first, the biggest differences being the lack of sycamores, and that here there was something of a crowd gathered, staring up at the smoke, pointing to it, and speaking in low tones. They all looked at Morrolan: men, women, and, it must be confessed, however much we may deplore it, even children.

  Morrolan, for his part, was in no mood for conversation. He dismounted from his horse, drew his sword, took two steps forward, and began to cut, his face drawn into a furious grimace. How many of them he killed, we do not know. He was not resisted—on the contrary, the gathered crowd instantly scattered. Morrolan did not pursue them, but instead, as he had before, made certain that every structure in the village was in flames and burning.

  In ten mi
nutes, he was mounted once more and following the only road worthy of the name; a road that continued through the village, and which he correctly deduced must lead to the next one.

  This third village, at which he arrived in good time, was the one that, in fact, he had been looking for. In size and appearance it was very like the others, but, to Morrolan’s delight—insofar, that is, as he was, at this moment, capable of experiencing such an emotion—the streets were full of armed men, perhaps fifty in all. And, moreover, all of them appeared to be gathered around an icon in the form of a four-foot-tall piece of basalt, carved into a sort of horned head, intended to represent in some symbolic way the god Tri’nagore.

  Exactly why they had gathered—whether they were about to make a raid, or had just returned from one, or were engaged in one of their heathen rituals—we cannot say; but gathered there they were, staring first at the smoke, then, afterwards, at the tall stranger who rode coolly into their midst and said, “I am Morrolan. Some years ago you came to Blackchapel looking for me.”

  He jumped from his horse, smacked its rump to encourage it to get out of the way, drew his sword, and calmly announced, “Well, I am here.”

  As for what happened next, we can only say that any Dzurlord who had been able to witness the events would have been filled with envy not unmixed, we should imagine, with a certain grudging respect. How much of what followed was Morrolan, and how much was his weapon? This is a question that, we must say, Morrolan asked himself afterwards on more than one occasion.

  At the very least, a good measure of it was the sword, and it was doing far, far more than Morrolan had ever suspected it could. It seemed to leap in his hand, and, moreover, each time it struck, it seemed to Morrolan that its next blow came faster. From this, it may sound as if the sword was making its own decisions; yet it was not, from Morrolan’s perspective, so clear and straightforward. While many swordsmen have spoken of the feeling that the sword was merely an extension of the arm, to Morrolan, it seemed as if the weapon was an extension of his mind. That is to say, he might observe someone making a head-cut at him, think that it would be best to remove this individual’s head from his shoulders before the blow could land—and this was done. Then he might observe that, from the position and angle of the sword, a sorcerous blast from it might strike another in the chest, and thought was no sooner formed than acted upon. How much was Morrolan and how much the weapon? He did not, then or ever, truly answer this question.

  For our purpose, however, it does not signify. Morrolan felt not even the beginings of exhaustion; it felt as if he could continue forever—again, whether by some property of his “black wand” or because of help of the goddess to whom he was dedicating each kill, or because of some aspect of himself, cannot be known.

  In some ways, it was like his first taste of battle, but this time, instead of the fierce heat of joy, his heart was filled with a cold rage. In the first few seconds he made his way through the enemy as one might walk through a crowd on a narrow street during a parade, never touched himself, but leaving seven or eight of the enemy stretched out upon the ground.

  “Your god likes blood, does he?” said Morrolan, speaking in a low, controlled voice which, nevertheless, could be clearly heard in the stillness of the moment. “Let him have his fill, then.”

  When they made a move as if to attack him in a mass, he held out his left hand, all of his fingers stretched out, and, just barely aware of what he was doing, cast a spell which sent from each finger a furious red light, faster than a yendi’s strike, and far more deadly; there was a loud cry, and six or seven more of the enemy dropped, each straight down where he stood, not falling backward or to the side, to lie utterly still, with not so much as a quiver coming from them, as if they had already been dead for some minutes when they fell.

  Whether this would have been sufficient to cause these barbarians (for we must, in our admitted ignorance of this people, use Morrolan’s description) to have run we do not know, but they did not have the chance: Morrolan took his sword in both hands and swept into the largest group, spinning as he did so, his weapon striking high, striking low, thrusting, cutting; stopping only when he had run out of enemies—for the survivors, indeed, were now running in all directions as quickly as they could.

  Instead of chasing them, Morrolan cried, “For my Demon Goddess!,” and, as he had done earlier, with no apparent effort caused every building in this hamlet to collapse in on itself, burning—screams coming from within them to prove that at least some of them had been inhabited.

  All of which left Morrolan apparently alone in the middle of the village—alone, that is, except for the icon of Tri’nagore. He turned his attention to it and advanced slowly and deliberately, his sword held comfortably in his hand, still dripping blood upon the dirt street.

  Chapter the Eighty-Eighth

  How Lord Brimford Attempted

  To Enter the Battle

  While the Warlord Received

  Disturbing Intelligence

  The opening of the Battle of Adrilankha went very much according to plan—that is to say, Kâna’s plan. The Warlord was very accommodating: she permitted her spear phalanxes to be driven back, and very nearly permitted her forward units to be outflanked before ordering a fighting retreat toward the fortifications—this same thing occurring, be it understood, on both the Hartre Pike and on Lower Kieron Road. She instructed her sorcerers to hold back—performing a minor spell now and then, but nothing devastating. Her reason for this strange order was twofold: For one, she hoped to achieve a sufficient concentration of enemy forces so that, with luck, an entire regiment, or more, could be devastated by sorcerous attacks. For another, she was convinced (and, as it turned out, she was right) that Kâna had something “under his cloak,” and she did not wish to have her sorcerers mentally exhausted before learning what this was, in the event that it could be countered with sorcery (although, as it turned out, it could not).

  The joining of the battle on Lower Kieron Road occurred perhaps a quarter of a mile west of the newly constructed fortresses; on the Old West Road it was closer to half a mile. In both cases, the Imperial forces were forced into a slow, grudging retreat by the ferocity of Kâna’s onslaught, as well as the skillful deployment which it cannot be argued his generals, Izak and Brawre, made of their forces.

  Sethra Lavode did not herself view either of the battles, rather staying in touch with all of her forces by using her corps of adepts, from whom came a constant stream of information. In this way, she monitored the unfolding of the battle, considered, reflected, and waited.

  This continued for some twenty or twenty-five minutes, which, while it may sound like a short space of time, is, in fact, a very, very long time to be engaged in a pitched battle, with its furious activity, its strange sights sometimes so clear as to be more than real, other times so confusing as to be merely blurs. And, above all, with its sounds. A reader who has never been in the vicinity of a battle (and, in the opinion of this author, there is a great deal to be said for avoiding the vicinity of a battle!) cannot imagine the volume produced. Between the clash of steel on steel, and the cries from mouths of those either inspiriting themselves with war-fury or screaming in agony from wounds, the din can be heard from a far, far greater distance than one might imagine.

  The peculiar and interesting Easterner whom we have come to know as Lord Brimford was alerted to the commencement of the battle first by these sounds—clearly discernible more than a mile behind the front lines and then almost at once by his dog, Awtlá, who, from lying down, rose to an alert sitting position, perked up his droopy ears as much as he could, and gave the Warlock a look of inquiry, as if to say, “Master, is this something that concerns you?”

  Brimford rose to his feet and stepped out of the pavilion tent where he had been taking his ease.

  “My dear Awtlá,” he said, “I think it nearly does. I should imagine we shall be officially informed in an instant, and then we shall be asked to do our part, and then we sh
all have the honor of informing the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain that her request is impossible, and then, why, we shall return here to sit uselessly and await the outcome of a battle upon which rests the future of my belovèd, my own happiness, and certain less important matters, such as the existence of this Empire on which the elfs place so much value.”

  The dog twitched his ears in a manner quite nearly intelligent; the cat, Sireng, merely yawned.

  As the Warlock stepped out of his pavilion, a messenger wearing a badge which claimed him as belonging to the Warlord’s suite approached, bowed, and said, “My lord—” these words appeared to come from the messenger only with a certain amount of effort, “the battle has begun, and you may initiate your enchantment at any time.”

  “Very well. Where is Sethra Lavode?”

  The messenger hesitated. He was, we should say, uncertain as to whether it was proper for him to answer this question. After all, he had been told only to run errands, not provide intelligence. For another thing, this was an Easterner. For yet another, the Easterner was not even in uniform (the uniform of the Imperial forces involved a badge with the Phoenix emblem worn over the left breast, and a gold beret worn on the head—even Sethra Lavode herself affected this costume for the engagement).

  Brimford waited patiently, and at length the messenger decided that, as her headquarters was clearly marked with a flag that could be seen for half a league in any direction, it would not be a terrible breach of security if he were to part with this information, he therefore pointed out this flag and explained that the general was to be found near it, surrounded by messengers and adepts, and could be identified, first, by her pale skin, and, second, by the three swords, indicating her rank, that were embroidered on her beret.

  Brimford saluted the errand runner and followed these unnecessary directions (that is, had the messenger simply replied, “she is at her headquarters pavilion,” it would have served admirably) and so quickly found the Enchantress, who was sitting calmly and, evidently, quite at her ease on a low, light chair, her legs stretched out in front of her. Awtlá at once put his nose into her hand; Sireng, for her part, jumped onto Sethra’s lap.