EXILED Defenders of Ar

by Jack Lovejoy

  Resolving accusations, calming old hostilities, encouraging the withdrawal of challenges and the free return of hostages, she at last achieved what no other peacemaker in all the history of the mrem had ever been able to achieve. Even those who most resented the aggrandizement of Ar over their own kingdoms recognized its importance to their survival. All supplies and materiel must now be concentrated here, and the land scorched before the advancing enemy, denying him sustenance. That much was obvious. Many decisions still had to be resolved; many concessions yielded, with varying degrees of reluctance; many sacrifices made. But the mighty walls of Ar were the one obstacle that could yet discourage such cruel and barbarous hordes—so long as they were vigorously defended. The city was a rich temptation to plunder, but such hordes were unlikely to endure the hardships of a prolonged siege. Once they began to straggle homeward with such booty as they had ravished elsewhere from the land, they would be vulnerable to counterattacks. Meanwhile Ar must be preserved, and that meant a sacred unity.

  The All-Mother was the sole diety worshipped universally among the welter of cults, temples, priesthoods, and local gods and goddesses of the mrem. Her invocation in tonight’s oath, consecrating the League of Ar, was thus symbolic of the vows of universal cooperation among the kings of the land. But Sruss knew that her work had only begun, for not a single king had mentioned The Three in regard to the invasion. A portentous omission, for nothing remained so urgently needed as the unity of The Three, both among themselves and with the warrior kings of the new League of Ar.

  The evil that now looked down from Cragsclaw would seek by any means to shatter such unity, which it feared above all things. And its evil reached beyond this world, into dimensions that were themselves evil, whence sprang its ultimate source of power.

  The refugee tents left little room for dancing in the gardens, but the White Dancers found space enough in which to celebrate tonight’s consecration. Sruss herself joined in the complex figures with a grace and dignity that no king or princeling who witnessed it ever forgot.

  These dances alone were visible to surrounding tenements, and hence all that could be reported to anyone keenly interested in everything that happened here.

  •

  “The throne is yours, my darling,” Rhenowla whispered in her son’s ear, as she groomed him with sensual, comforting hands. “Yours by maternal right, and by law. Never forget that. You know she’s jealous of your power, and would take the throne back if she could.”

  “I know you’ve often told me that, Mother,” said young Tristwyn, soothed by the grooming that was more than maternal. He was in early adulthood, although small and immature for his years. His face would have been childishly innocent, except for a telltale slackness about the mouth and fevered eyes, which gave him at times, and particularly after one of the orgies that had lately become so notorious throughout the city, the look of a depraved kit. “Does anyone else know about this?”

  “How could they? The H’sotie came straight to me with the news, and I naturally came straight to you. Within the hour.”

  In fact two whole days had passed since the meeting of kings, while Rhenowla brooded over the information. It could certainly be turned to account, but how she would use it and when—timing was everything with a mrem of her son’s temperament—needed close calculation. She had been the great beauty of her generation, and was still sensually attractive; her high amber coloring was variegated in such a way that it accented the curves of her voluptuous figure, and her dark piercing eyes were bewitchingly slanted. Her beauty alone ravished beholders; enhanced by a magical attractiveness, she became irresistible.

  “I couldn’t very well have refused her, Mother,” pleaded Tristwyn. “I mean, with so many kings, and everything. They’re all coming here tomorrow: After all, it’s a public audience day, so I could, well, hardly turn them away. You know how the people feel about Sruss.” He felt his mother tense, and knew he had again said the wrong thing, “Besides, you have no idea how big and fierce-looking the retainers were who came to the palace, requesting the audience. I meant to follow your advice, Mother, really I did. But I just kind of blurted out yes, and now I can’t very well go back on my word, can I?”

  “A king can do anything he chooses, my darling.” Rhenowla continued to groom him. Despite the feebleness of his protests, she sensed in him signs of independence. Had he granted the audience for reasons other than those he claimed? And what did Sruss really intend? Was it possible that she in fact wanted the throne? Everyone took as much power as he could, and the time might just be ripe for a popular uprising. “Since you’ve disregarded my advice about granting an audience, at least have the audience chamber well guarded tomorrow:”

  “Yes, I certainly shall, Mother.” He felt himself to be in a false position, as he always did with her; guilty about acting behind her back, uncomfortable about the very decor of his private quarters.

  The drapes and furnishings of the secluded apartment were silkily voluptuous; the paintings and statuary crudely erotic. Incense burned in a copper thurible, perfuming the air with an aphrodisiac musk. His special friends would probably return here with him after tonight’s orgy. He also felt guilty about his mother’s exclusion from all such fun and indulgence, and listened obediently to her advice about how best to cope with Sruss and her entourage of kings tomorrow.

  There was a spicing of old voluptuaries among the hundred or so wanton young mrem who crowded the banquet hall just after dark. The lighting was garish, the music wild and sensual, the dancing girls skilled and abandoned, their lasciviousness increasing with each garment they stripped away. But though the food and· drink were lavish, the service was plain crockery, at least for the most dissolute of all the courtiers. That they were so served had become a mark of distinction among them. They were the courtiers who from time to time had been caught red-handed trying to steal jeweled goblets or service of precious metal. Their punishment was to dine at subsequent banquets from plain crockery. The “Crockercups,” as they were sportingly called, were young Tristwyn’s most influential courtiers, and the most active in enriching themselves at the auctions, or in buying priceless heirlooms from refugees for a fraction of their true value.

  It was their common boast that if the war lasted just a few months longer they would all be rich for life.

  They pressed the king tonight for a strict law against dueling within the city, with heavy fines levied against violators. It would not be difficult to foment duels among the refugee noblemrem, who carried old feuds and enmities to Ar with their few salvaged heirlooms. The fines would be a new source of revenue for the court—and the courtiers.

  The king was unusually thoughtful as he suffered their blandishments, but for once did not succumb, merely putting them off with vague promises to consider the matter. To their wonder, he remained thoughtful for the rest of the night, sipping his wine with unusual temperance, scarcely nibbling the lavish fare set before him, course after course. His moodiness disappointed both his special friends and his favorite dancing she-mrem, for he left the banquet alone.

  His balcony overlooked the New City, crowded as never before with thousands upon thousands of refugees. Two of the three moons shone in the night sky. His mother assured him that the danger would soon pass; his friends all told him to enjoy himself and not to worry. All had warned him against ever letting The Three become too powerful, and now he was also warned against plots to seize the throne. The possibility that this was true was as disturbing as the suspicion that it was not.

  He had always trusted his mother in all things, but what if she now proved untrustworthy? That his own grandmother, the legendary Sruss, could ever mean him harm was inconceivable.

  These thoughts, more than the prospect of facing angry kings tomorrow, caused him a sleepless night. Even more daunting was the likelihood of making his mother still angrier with him than she already was. But, really, how could he possibly have r
efused an audience to his grandmother? A senior White Dancer? Sruss? Dawn found him dull and headachy—with nothing resolved.

  He felt still less than prepared, hours later, in the audience chamber. The Crockercups also looked dull and headachy, although for other reasons. They stood at a discreet distance from the throne, brilliant as always in their court regalia, useless as always regarding counselor advice—except where it tended toward their personal profit or aggrandizement. Behind the throne and to its right hung a curtain, behind which stood his mother. She was never officially present at public audiences; although in fact she was always there, and until today—the decisions were always hers.

  He wished for once that she were even more prominent.

  After all, he was the one who had to face this terrifying assembly, with every king standing before the throne glaring at him like a dragon. They were unarmed, and outnumbered twenty to one by his personal bodyguard, but still he felt uncomfortable. They looked so fierce! His mother often nagged him about sitting up straight on the throne, but it was now an effort to keep his shoulders from slumping, and himself from sliding forward.

  “Your Majesty.” Sruss seemed to understand his plight, and spoke with maternal kindness, as if to a beloved child, something his real mother never did. “We are here today, by your leave, to petition you to accept the leadership of a great league to be formed for the defense of Ar.” She outlined the same arguments that had been so persuasive in the meeting at her gardens, a few nights before. “All the resources that can still be salvaged from the kingdoms of the land, and all the mrempower, shall be concentrated here at Ar. All under

  Your Majesty’s leadership.”

  There was a narrowing of eyes among the assembled kings, and more than one caught himself reaching unconsciously to his side for a weapon he did not bear today, but such was the influence of Sruss that even the most irascible held his peace.

  The king braced himself, and sat up on the throne straighter than he ever had in his life. “I accept!” he cried.

  There was a strangled cry from behind the curtain to his right, and again he felt himself sliding forward. But the maternal kindness with which Sruss continued to address him again stiffened his backbone. The wizards of The Three had only bored or amused him in the past; he had issued the mandate proscribing their free association within the walls and territories of Ar to please his mother—the reason he issued most mandates. Now he withdrew the mandate to please his grandmother.

  Then he immediately regretted it, for there was anger in the second strangled cry behind the curtain. These public audiences bored him more than Wizards, but he decided to string this one out as long as there was anybody in the kingdom with a petition. If a stormy interview with his mother was now unavoidable, he wanted to avoid it until she was cooler.

  How she could argue against a league of kings for the defense of Ar, he did not know, or against a few old Wizards meeting at times. Except that it was not her idea....

  In his nervousness and indecision his fevered eyes swept into every corner of the crowded audience chamber: armed soldiers at attention along the brightly painted walls; courtiers straggling deferentially before them in brilliant regalia (some of Crockercups were so shaky from last night’s orgy that they looked ready to keel over); flags, statuary, armorial pennons, and glittering mosaics. And directly before him the fierce warrior kings. At last, as if drawn by magic, he found himself gazing hypnotically into the eyes of Sruss herself.

  “Be the king you were born to be, Your Majesty,” she said.

  “Be true to yourself, and to the people who look to you for protection and guidance. Nothing more is expected of you—and nothing less.”

  Nor did he vacillate or go back on his word after she and the kings had departed. There were whispered instructions from behind the curtain, but for the first time in his life he did not heed them. He showed unprecedented patience with the weary parade of shopkeepers, farmers, merchants, and craftsmrem petitioning for the redress of wrongs, real or imaginary. And if his decisions were sometimes callow, they were at least his own decisions.

  There was now only deathly silence behind the curtain.

  Sruss dreamed that night, at first with the usual confused ramblings of images; then suddenly with a vividness she had not experienced in years. She did not recognize the midnight landscape—the foothills of a mountainous terrain, broken into meadows and stands of forest—but she sensed that she was not alone. Only a single moon glistened in the night sky. The wild silvery meadow around her seemed deserted.

  Still she had the feeling that someone was nearby; someone she loved, someone who wanted urgently to speak with her. Turning slowly around she discovered a shadowy figure standing before her, young and beautiful, though dressed in the shabby garments of a servant.

  “Beloved mistress.” Srana spoke to her in a hollow anxious voice. “I have tried again and again to contact you, but each time some strange power has interfered. You must know what happened to Kazerclawm by now. All that The Three have so long feared has come to pass, and the very kingdom of Ar is now in jeopardy. Some of us escaped the destruction of the city, and now are fugitives, hunted relentlessly....” She paused, as if listening for something.

  Then Sruss also became aware of an alien intelligence trying to probe their minds.

  “Beware of Cragsclaw,” she cautioned Srana. “Above all, do not reveal to me your place of refuge.”

  Then she sensed the intruder probing still deeper into her mind, and struggled against it, rousing herself from sleep like a swimmer fighting to reach the surface of the sea. It was in dreams that she was most vulnerable to the Evil One, and she awoke both relieved and disappointed.

  How much she had wanted to tell her beloved pupil. How much she had wanted to learn from her. Still, she had gained the most heartening information she could have hoped for—Srana was still alive.

  The Collection at Cragsclaw

  IT WAS too late for the hapless old charlatan, sprawling on the ground in the midst of an angry mob, to protest that he was no true magician. Charms, philters, love potions, elixirs for whatever ailed you; amulets to protect you from the malice of reptile-demons; predictions of the future. He had always made an easy living, and prudently never stopped long in any one town. He had been in this wretched village less than two days.

  He was badly clawed and beaten; his left arm was numb, and he had trouble seeing out of his right eye. They had broken his legs so he couldn’t run away. The glib patter that was his stock-in-trade now deserted him. It was hard to think with so many angry people screaming curses at him. Parts of his body were so benumbed that he could hardly feel them.

  The riot had erupted so quickly, so unpredictably, that he had had no chance to bolt. That a mrem of his experience in reading the popular mood had been caught so unawares could only mean that he had an enemy here, stirring up the villagers against him, fanning their smoldering distrust of magicians into an explosion of hatred. Who was it? Why should he of all mrem have been singled out for vengeance? Or were magicians again being blamed for the ills of the land?

  He had heard about the sack of Kazerclawm and the atrocities at Cragsclaw; the roads were thronged with refugees fleeing before the invaders. But why should magicians be blamed for the invasion? He wasn’t a true magician, in any case.

  He knew that the afternoon sky was cloudless, and yet was dully aware that a shadow had passed over him, and looked up. Futilely he tried to cry out, to raise his battered arms in defense, to drag his broken body away; but he was helpless, doomed. Four husky mrem held a millstone between him and the sun, then dropped it. The mob shrieked its approval, and the four men hefted the great stone and dropped it again. There was no need to drop it a third time.

  •

  In other villages, throughout the countryside, in the most populous cities, such incidents of harassment and persecution were now being perpe
trated all over the land. Nor were mere charlatans and bush magicians the sole victims.

  The old mrem was a powerful wizard. Like most wizards he had led a solitary life, but as a matter of self-preservation had grown expert in reading the mood of crowds; his powers of concealment were formidable, and he could teleport himself short distances in emergencies. In his long lifetime he had seen other lynch mobs stirred up, even against himself, but never one stirred up so quickly, or to such a pitch of fury.

  He had spotted the two agents who were rousing them, and fled the river city at nightfall. They had penetrated his disguise as a carpenter—a trade at which he was in fact adept—because they themselves were magicians; in whose employ he had no doubt. Everywhere he went these days, in walled cities or the humblest villages, he heard more and more of the common folk—frightened, dispossessed, plundered of all they owned by merciless invaders—blaming The Three for all the calamities that had befallen the land. There was little mystery about why the Evil One should disperse agents to foment hostility against wizards. More mysterious was what had become of the Evil One himself.

  The last news of his whereabouts had come with the reports of the fall of Cragsclaw, amidst gruesome atrocities, but the armies of the Eastern Lords, swollen by renegade highlanders and bandits, had since moved on to ravage other strongholds. If he had meanwhile established himself at Cragsclaw—why? Some kind of command center? If he was in fact in command of the invasion, why hadn’t he concentrated all the invading forces upon Ar? Once that great city fell, all the lesser strongholds of the mrem could be taken at discretion.