The Sword of the South

by David Weber

  Her panic chilled Trayn to the bone, for her fine control vanished as it ripped through her. Precision vanished, balance fled, and in their place there was only the long, terrifying plunge to the mountaintops below them. Gwynna had soared like an eagle; now terror broke her wings and hurled her from the heavens.

  Trayn reached deep inside himself, grasping the discipline which made him what he was. Exquisite pain ripped at him as he made himself move against the grip of their rapport. It was like opposing his flesh to iron, sweat pearled his cheeks as anguish tore his mind, and every instinct screamed for him to jerk out of their rapport and save himself.

  But the mage academies had chosen Trayn Aldarfro for more than just the strength of his talent. They’d chosen him for the strength of his heart. They’d chosen a mage who’d fought all the forces of darkness, who’d driven himself to the brink of extinction, who’d shared the brutal torture of a sacrifice on the altar of Sharnā, throwing himself between that agony and the gates of hell themselves to preserve the soul of a young woman he’d never met from the demon come to claim it. They’d chosen a man, not just a mage—a man who would die where he stood to protect the brilliant, gifted young mind of the child he loved.

  It was that man—that mage—whose thoughts flashed as he fought Gwynna’s headlong dissolution. Self-preservation beckoned him out of the collapsing ruin of her mind, but he forged a pocket within his half of their rapport and centered his awareness in a tiny island of control. He felt the tremors as her mind toppled, but he slammed panic aside, moving with the assurance of a master mage facing disaster. He gathered himself within his island of sanity as Gwynna’s mind thundered to destruction about him in raw terror and did the hardest thing of all…waited.

  Trayn’s empath soul shuddered in anguish as her ruin crested. He rode a storm front of devastation across her public mind, waiting for the fleeting moment when he might save them both.

  It came.

  He anchored his identity in the refuge he’d built, and his thought lashed out. He wasn’t strong enough to breach her perfectly-meshed shields, and he knew it. They stood like a fortress, impenetrable and proud. Yet he also knew panic was destabilizing her control, and he had no choice but to try. He slammed a probe against them like a battering ram…and felt them yield.

  He fought down a surge of hope and slammed them again. Again! Bell-like tones of conflict clangored through their rapport. Again!!

  Her shields shivered, and fresh terror ripsawed through her as she sensed the intrusion. Slivers of her panic lacerated him like flying knives, but he ground his teeth and endured. He hammered once more…and her shields shattered like crystal.

  Vast images battered him as he plunged into the maelstrom, ignoring everything else to arrow towards the gleaming life at her center. His mental grasp locked on it ruthlessly, crushing her frantic resistance, and Gwynna writhed.

  A flattened hand, its edge like iron, crashed into his ribs, and he gasped in anguish as one of them snapped. The heel of her other hand rammed upward under his chin, but he had just enough warning to ride the blow which should have snapped his neck. She twisted in his grip, her hands rising to his throat, and he fought to block them with his upper arms, for he dared not release her shoulders and break contact. But her strength was unbelievable, and he felt uncontrolled madness guttering through her.

  She meant to kill him. In her confusion, she would protect her secrets the only way she could—by destroying the intruder. Her hands tightened about his throat, and he locked his will desperately upon her, slamming her sensory channels shut.

  Gwynna went absolutely rigid, her mental voice a scream of terror as all sight, all sound—all perception—was slashed off. Her horror rose past insanity, battering him, but he controlled her at last. He rode the shockwave of her resistance, weaving his mental grip ever tighter.

  She had time for only one last thrust, and a mental needle lashed at him—one fit to burn out any mind. He screamed as it ripped through him, but he refused to yield, and the attack shattered as he hurled her into unconsciousness.

  She crumpled like a string-cut puppet, and Trayn went to the floor with her, too spent to stand. He hovered in his little island, hanging on the lip of burning out forever, and gathered the last fragments of his will. He reached out weakly for Lentos, thought he felt a faint response, and then there was only blackness.

  * * *

  Trayn’s eyelids fluttered unwillingly.

  His head was an anvil, ringing with pain. His eyes watered to the fierce throbbing, and he moaned as his hand rose limply to the cold compress which covered them. He gasped as an arm slipped under him, raising him, and another hand caught his on the compress.

  “Your eyes are too sensitive yet for that,” Lentos said gently.

  “Semkirk!” Trayn whispered. “What happened?”

  “You tell me,” Lentos said dryly. “I felt your message—barely—and got there to find Gwynna in shock and you little better. I thought we’d lost you both, and we almost had.”

  “Gwynna!” Trayn stiffened. “Is she—“?

  He reached for her mental presence and moaned as fresh pain roared up.

  “Don’t try to use your mind yet, idiot!” Lentos sat beside him. “Gwynna’s all right, although I think it will be some time before she regains her confidence. Something trimmed her back—trimmed both of you, I should say—but she’ll recover. And probably be the stronger for whatever it was.”

  “Thank the gods,” Trayn muttered weakly. “I thought I’d killed her.”

  “Well, you didn’t. But you’d better tell me what you did do.”

  “Well,” Trayn chuckled wanly, “I finally cracked her shields.”

  “Trayn!” Lentos stiffened. “After everything we’ve discussed, you actually forced—?!”

  “No, no!” Trayn cut off his horrified exclamation. “It wasn’t a confrontation, Lentos—or not that sort, anyway. We’d just begun distance reading when something happened in her mind.”

  He shivered as he relived the moment and felt again the vast strength which had filled her.

  “I don’t know what it was. No mind should be able to generate that much power, and it wasn’t normal distance reading, either. One minute we were right here—the next we were Semkirk knows where, and she was panicking. Something scared her to death, and she lost control. She was on the edge of total burnout, and the only way to stop it was to take control. So…”

  “And that really scared her,” Lentos said as his voice died.

  “Oh, it did. It did! But nothing could’ve scared her much worse than she already was. When I said burnout, I meant it, Lentos. We almost lost her.” Trayn pressed the compress with one hand and touched his ribs with the other. “If I’d had time, I would’ve been scared to death myself.”

  “But you took control? Total control?”

  “I had no choice. And you were right about her reactions—she was so busy trying to kill me I couldn’t risk just guiding her out. It was either lock her down or watch her self-destruct…and take me with her.”

  “Did you…see…anything?” Lentos asked hesitantly.

  “Not much, and what I did see is hers. Anyway, it was all too fast, and she was still screening even while she was dying. In fact, she was using strength she needed to stay alive to protect whatever she’s hiding.”

  “I understand. But can you at least tell me what panicked her?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t make much sense. We were over a fortress—in the East Walls, I think—and we found a dragon. I couldn’t see the color against the moon, and I don’t know how we got there, but I think she knew exactly where she was, and maybe even what the dragon was doing there. That’s what terrified her in the first place.”

  “A mountain fortress and a dragon…” Lentos murmured.

  “Yes, an imperial fortress. I caught a flash off its shields. And that’s another thing—she went through those shields like they weren’t even there.”

  “What?!”


  “Oh, yes. And here’s another tidbit—it wasn’t an instant translocation, either.”

  “Explain,” Lentos said, clearly still shocked by the last revelation.

  “I’m not sure I can. Distance reading isn’t one of my primary talents, and it’s just enough of a secondary for me to teach someone else. But whatever she did, she wasn’t distance reading. We didn’t flash to that fortress—we went over everything between here and there.”

  “Over? Like flying?”

  “More like a short-range clairvoyant scan. I think if she’d wanted to, and if she’d known what she was doing, she could have scanned everything we passed over. I think she’s stumbled onto a totally new talent just enough like distance reading for that to key her into it. And her range! We were a hell of a long way out, but with perfect clarity. If not for that dragon, we might still be reaching out! I couldn’t stop her. It was like…like wrestling a whirlwind! All I could do was hang on and hope.”

  “Catch her when she fell, you mean,” Lentos corrected warmly. “Thank Semkirk you were able to! And maybe it’s as well this happened. At least she may finally see why we warn her against driving too hard. She came close enough to understand, anyway! But back to this vision or whatever it was. Was the fortress in a valley?”

  “No, a pass. The walls cut right across it.”

  “Could it have been South Keep?”

  “South Keep?” Trayn frowned, then nodded slowly. “You know, it might just have been. I’ve never actually seen it from above, and I didn’t get much of a look at it as we passed, either, so I can’t be certain. But if it was…what a range she has!”

  “And the dragon was right there, attacking the fortress?”

  “No. I think it was on the far side, close to the border but right there in the pass. If it really was South Keep, anyway.”

  “Trayn, there’s no way a dragon could be there on its own.”

  “Bahzell and Wencit went south,” Trayn said slowly, in answer to Lentos’ grim tone.

  “Of course! She was drawn to their locus by her concern and found a dragon there. Not only that, it must be connected with their mission. By the Scepter, that must be it! And there’s only one way a dragon could be there.”

  “Sorcery,” Trayn said grimly. He tried to rise, but his balance was uncertain and Lentos pressed him firmly back.

  “No, Trayn. You’ve done your part. Leave this with me.”

  “But is there a Council messenger in Belhadan?”

  “There’s always a messenger in Belhadan. I’ll send word at once, but they’ll have to touch down outside the shields. And you realize, of course, that even a wind walker may not catch them in time.

  “I know, but we’ve got to try!”

  “We will,” Lentos said, his voice like iron. “And if we’re too late, someone is going to pay for it!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  South Keep

  Kenhodan eased himself in the saddle and looked gratefully up at a sky which was no longer dropping snow, sleet, or even rain upon his head.

  It was a pleasant change he hoped might even last for a day or two.

  The snow had cost them four miserable, motionless days, and even after that the weather had been chill, damp, foggy, and thoroughly miserable. The temperature had hovered at or just below freezing during the day (and considerably lower than that at night), and the leaden clouds hadn’t broken until late the day before. The cold and mist had oppressed him, but now a stiff breeze had pushed the last fog aside and the sky was a deep, glorious blue, studded with drifting, high-piled white clouds, while the sun was warm on his shoulders. The air was still brisk and melting snow lay all about, but he could almost believe in spring once more.

  He settled back, his eyes automatically sweeping the slopes above them, and felt a fresh surge of the awe he doubted was going to fade any time soon. He’d thought they were into the East Walls before the snow; now he realized they’d only touched their fringes at the time.

  Steep mountains shouldered into the sky, with snow like ash after a fire still piled on their slopes. He saw more snow blowing in streamers from the highest crags, and the road swept between majestic slopes clothed in dark pines. He’d watched the mountains grow through yesterday’s fog, but he hadn’t truly appreciated the sheer weight of earth and stone until the weather cleared. Now he did, and there was something about their bulk that made him grateful for the forests fringing the valleys, almost as if their trees gave him someplace to hide from the peaks’ frowning disapproval. As the mountains climbed higher, the trees thinned and then ended, replaced by snow-covered grass and bare stone that had no interest in mere mortals’ affairs. Their brooding bleakness was beautiful but oppressive, built to a scale too large for comfort, and he was glad to be this far below those soaring summits, listening to countless rivulets brawl and fume with snowmelt as they raced down the mountains’ flanks. The air was clear and clean and the sound of water was a chill, crystal song in the early morning.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Bahzell’s voice startled him.

  “Yes. I hadn’t realized they were so big—or so beautiful.”

  “Aye, but they’re after being more than that, too. The making of the Empire, they were. South to north, they’re after running four hundred leagues, though folk call them the Ordan Mountains up on the edge of Dwarvenhame. But ‘Kormak’s Battlements’ they were in the first days, and rightly so. They’re after shielding the Axemen’s entire eastern frontier.”

  “Are they this…formidable everywhere?”

  “That they are, and passes are few. There’s no more than a handful as might be suited to trade or invasion. Oh, there’s more places than anyone’s ever likely to know as smugglers can be slipping through, but South Wall, Traitor’s Walk, Cragwall, the Pass of Heroes—those are the only true roads through. There’s North Pass up in the Ordans, but that’s after leading into Dwarvenhame, and it’s a foolish, foolish man takes on dwarves in the mountains. Which leaves aside the wee problem of slipping past the Sothōii and my own folk, first.”

  Kenhodan nodded, but his attention was elsewhere as the road thrust abruptly out to sweep around the flank of a mountain. The roadbed’s northwest side fell away in a sheer precipice and he caught his breath as he gazed down through a thousand crystalline feet of air into the heart of a hidden river valley. Shadows cloaked it, but a silver thread ran through snowy forest far below, glittering, and he drew up and stared down, his heart aching.

  “You see?” Bahzell waved at the sight. “It’s beautiful enough the East Walls are to choke your heart, but it’s not beauty as brings us here. The East Walls are after being worth half a million men when the King Emperor goes to war. I’m thinking that’s why Kormak pushed east and north from Man Home instead of south.”

  “It was,” Wencit said softly, pausing beside them. His less-than-new poncho was smudged with slush and rough travel and his hair and beard were uncombed. He might have been an age-worn peasant staring at a spring he’d never hoped to see, but his eyes burned bright under the red ball of the sun, and his face was ancient beyond belief. The aura of years clung to him, potent with age and power enough to match even the East Walls.

  “It was,” he repeated, just as softly. “Even then we knew the day would come when the Carnadosans brought their filth and war to Norfressa, and when that day comes, no fortress weaker than these mountains will stand against them.”

  “When it comes?” Kenhodan’s voice was soft as he dared to voice the suspicions which had arisen in Sindor. “Is it coming soon, Wencit?”

  He felt Bahzell stiffen beside him as he asked the question, and Wencit looked at both of them for a long, still moment.

  “It is,” the wizard said, his voice oddly formal, “but not yet. There’s still a pause before the storm, but when that storm breaks, it will be like nothing any Norfressan can imagine. Only those who have seen it could understand, and only I remain of those who’ve seen.” He shook his head slowly. “Even
the East Walls may not be strong enough to brave that storm,” he said softly, and touched Byrchalka with a light, courteous heel. The courser tossed his head, turned away from the valley, and trotted steadily up the high road’s steep slope once again.

  Kenhodan, Bahzell, and Walsharno stared after him as Byrchalka trotted away from them, the packhorses following. He didn’t look like much, especially in the saddle of something as magnificent as a courser. Just a dirty old man with eyes of fire, his face drawn and old in the slanting, early light, whose words had stolen the warmth from the morning.

  * * *

  The road grew even steeper as it wound higher, and the air seemed thinner, cold in the shadows and chill even when the sun was brightest. They passed through deep cuttings, their sides covered with tool marks and glistening icicles, some as thick as Kenhodan’s body, where wind blew icily through the shadows. The trees ended, and there was no sound but their passing and the wind.

  They slowed. Not even royal and imperial engineers could conquer the East Walls, and their way wound through tortuous switchbacks and curves. Spots had been provided where travelers might bivouac beside the high road, and they used them when they must, but an urgency lay upon them, and they pushed hard whenever they had light. Some places they were forced to dismount and lead their mounts up icy grades with the coursers following and watching the lesser cousins alertly, and each downslope led to a climb twice as steep. Twice they heard the rumble of distant avalanches as the sun weakened the packed snow.

  They were twelve days out of Sindor when they topped out over a steep slope and an east wind swept up it to lash their faces, flap the skirts of their ponchos, and roar softly about their ears like the roll of surf. The day had grown grim and dim once more, the skies like wind-burnished slate, and Kenhodan shivered as the cold dug at him and that same wind seared his lungs.