by Bill Fawcett
“Even though Sruss still lives?” Mithmid exclaimed.
“Nobody knows that,” Jremm answered. “And once Gerianan is established, who knows what will happen to the succession? In all likelihood, Gerianan will be able to name his own heir, or at least his own line. Nor would Sruss be allowed to survive. An accident, or bandits. It’s happened before.”
“What is happening now?” the older mrem asked.
“Andelemarian has prepared his army for a sortie. Tomorrow night, by all accounts. Their goal, it seems, is to capture Gerianan. What they will do then isn’t clear, but Berrilund seems to think that the loss of the king’s brother will demoralize the nobles.”
“He’s probably right.”
“Maybe. But something new has entered the fray. According to Gaelor, who seems to know most about these things, the army of the nobles now includes a magical presence, something that she says has come out of the east. She won’t say what it is. Perhaps she doesn’t know. But she and Berrilund have met privately to talk about it, and Berrilund’s face has grown paler with each meeting. I’m being kept in the dark, but it’s clear that something is terribly wrong.”
“When will the Council meet next?” Mithmid asked.
“Tonight,” Jremm replied. “After the sortie. If we get the brother, we’ll have to figure out what to do. If we don’t, we’ll need a new plan. Either way, the nobles will surely attack.”
“Tell the Council this,” insisted the older wizard. “Tell them Cragsclaw needs help desperately. Tell them that Arklier and Crethok have joined forces, and that the area around the fortress lies solidly under their grip. Tell them that the defense now numbers less than six hundred. And tell them that the liskash are coming from the east. They are nearly upon us, and when they arrive the fortress cannot last. Tell them we need an army, and we need magic as well.
“And tell them, for me, that Felior is lost.”
•
Now Jremm stood atop the tower, looking down inside the city and out over the road that came out of the east toward Ar. Strung across the road, Gerianan’s nobles exacted their justice against Andelemarian, keeping the caravans out and the people in, paralyzing the winter traffic the city so desperately needed. Food would soon be short; with no enemy nearby no one had prepared Ar for a siege. Their timing was convenient, but it might well have been calculated. The midwinter Festival of Renewal was near, and if it died the city’s morale would die along with it.
Thus the sortie. Many mrem, Jremm among them, thought it an ill-conceived venture, one destined to fail, but Andelemarian’s mind was made up. He claimed to know the need, and none could argue against him. There is no hate like that one can have for a brother. Even Berrilund, opposed to an extreme, could not begin to budge him.
Reswen, now a general in the army of Ar, had approached him. The warrior had spoken of the vital need for troops in Cragsclaw, but the king’s ear would scarcely even hear him. For a long time Reswen had argued, risking even his new stature in Andelemarian’s hierarchy, but finally he had given up. Once he did so, he threw himself completely into the task of preparing the sortie, even though it seemed his heart was not wholly in it.
They were ready now, these mrem: ready to race through the gates and, they hoped, sweep down on the unsuspecting nobles. Once there, Reswen and another would seek the king’s brother. When they found him, a signal would bring them all back. That, at least, was the plan.
The nearby nobles, though, were eight hundred strong, and Ar could spare but a third of that total for a sortie that might not succeed. Yet the nobles expected more retainers from the outlying estates. If it failed, and all the warriors did not return, Andelemarian’s army would soon total less than that of the nobles. Because of this, Jremm wondered if the nobles weren’t springing a great trap. They already commanded many of the best fighters; with numbers on their side they would be practically unstoppable.
Suddenly, Jremm saw a flash of light. Out in the direction of the nobles’ camp, a swirling flame danced low in the night sky. It was the kind of fire that meant magic, not heat, and it was visible only to those sensitive to the power. Crouching out of any possible sight from the road below, he stared intently, trying to determine the magical fire’s source and purpose. When he found he could do neither, he climbed down from the tower and looked for Berrilund.
He found him near the gate. With the sortie no longer preventable, Berrilund too had offered his full support, and he stood here now casting spells of protection over the army, the battlefield, and the gate itself. Jremm read in his eyes a sign of futility, but still the Council co-leader worked quickly on.
“There is a light,” Jremm told him. “A flame, somewhere in the noble’s camp.”
Berrilund turned to him. “They have a fire going,” he said. “That is hardly surprising. It is winter.” Turning back to his task, he made Jremm feel cold.
“It’s not that kind of flame,” the young mrem said quietly. “Magic.”
At that last word, Berrilund turned once more. “Are you certain?” he asked. “If you are not....”
“I am,” Jremm cut in. “I have yet to show great magic, but I seem to know it when I sense it. Remember, I am the one who talks to Mithmid.” He bit his tongue at his tone, wishing he had not sounded so arrogant.
Berrilund nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Mithmid contacts only you.” He looked at the gate and said, “I suppose it will hold until this is finished. Bad for the warriors to see me hurry off half-finished. Only She knows if this will do any other good.” Then he turned his back to the young magician and completed a complicated series of invocations. Finally Berrilund bowed to the assembled warriors and followed the younger mrem up the tower stairs.
When they reached the top, Jremm pointed toward the nobles’ camp. The flame still hovered, but now occasionally it shot to the east, then back to the west, almost like a star that shoots across the sky. “There,” he pointed, but Berrilund had already seen.
“You were correct,” he whispered. “It is magic. But none of the nobles knows magic at all.”
“You spoke of the danger from the east,” Jremm said quietly. “Is this that danger?”
For a full minute, Berrilund was silent. Then he breathed deeply and whispered, “I fear it is. But I do not know. All I know is this, Jremm. If the east has arrived, this sortie cannot succeed. It has little enough chance as it is.”
He turned to the young wizard and pointed to the palace. “Find the king,” he said, “and bring him directly here. Tell him I need him, in the name of Bralittar.”
Jremm raised his eyebrows. “He has said he will see no one,” he argued. “How will that...?”
The other interrupted. “He will see me,” was all he said.
In less than five minutes, the king walked at Jremm’s side. He had said nothing at Jremm’s request, had merely sighed and grimaced and risen to his feet. Throwing a robe over his soldier’s harness, he had stepped into the night air, ordering Jremm with his eyes to lead the way to Berrilund.
“There is the danger,” said Berrilund, pointing and working an enchantment that would allow the king to see the magical fire.
The king snorted. “It is a mere flame,” he said. “What danger is that?”
“Watch,” the other commanded.
The king watched. The flame rose higher now, illuminating the tents and glinting off the nobles’ spears. Jremm wondered at the reason for this light, wondered why the nobles would wish to show themselves, but neither Berrilund nor Andelemarian offered an explanation. They simply stared, intently and without cease. It was a level of concentration Jremm could scarcely believe.
“There is power there,” the king said at last. “Power we cannot fight.” He turned to the wizard and said, “You have won, old friend. I will call off the attack.”
Berrilund shook his head. He was glad to see the king had retained hi
s ancestor’s proclivity toward magic, even if the king’s power was unchanged. Should Andelemarian and he survive, he might risk teaching the king how to use his abilities. “I did not bring you here to prove I was right,” the wizard answered sharply. “I wanted you to see the power for yourself. That was all.”
Andelemarian smiled. “I know,” he whispered. “You let me choose my own path. It has always been so, and it is appreciated.” Then he turned from the wizards and descended the stairs, and Jremm looked to the flame with a new sense of fear. Berrilund was staring after the king.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I suspect sometimes even wizards underestimate kings,” Berrilund explained cryptically.
“And that burning?” Jremm questioned further.
Berrilund sighed. “It is as you said, Jremm,” he said wearily. “It is a magic flame.”
“But the east is not the only power that controls flame.”
“No,” said the co-leader. “But only the Eastern Lords use it with such total lack of fear. Remember, Jremm, that mrem dislike fire, and this kind burns more than your fur. The Three use it when we have to. Few ever use it willingly. And they certainly never color it, nor swirl it, nor spin it above their heads.
“According to the songs, the flame-rulers come from the east. There, it is said, there are no mrem. There, Jremm, only liskash live. And liskash do not fear flame.”
Jremm knitted his brow. “But why would the nobles accept the presence of a liskash?” he asked, and he felt his voice tremble as he spoke that foul word.
“They do not,” came Berrilund’s answer. “Nor would they ever. Unless I am wrong, no liskash is among them. But somehow, somehow, a liskash controls them. One of them, at least, is under a liskash’s spell.”
“Berrilund!” came a voice. At the top of the stairs, Sorilia motioned him to her. “Reswen wants you,” she insisted. “You must come now.”
Turning from Jremm, the co-leader started down the steps. Sorilia looked at the young wizard and smiled. Jremm saw very clearly the terror in her eyes.
When she disappeared, he stood alone on the tower. Far out on the road, the flame was going out. But the sight of it still brought a chill to his bones, and with a long, sustained shudder he started down the stairs. There, down below, maybe the flame could not find him.
“I will do it myself,” he heard Reswen say.
The king was angry. “What can you do,” he asked, “that an army of warriors could not do?”
“I can steal inside the camp,” came Reswen’s hurried reply. “An army can’t go undetected, but one mrem can. Once inside, I can find Gerianan and return him here.”
Berrilund spoke now. “Gerianan will fight,” he said. “He will have help. How will you prevent that from happening?”
Reswen sighed. “I don’t know yet,” he answered. “If it doesn’t work, I will die. But the same holds true for an attacking army. We had no reassurances the attack would succeed. Yet you were willing to send it out.”
“So what you are proposing,” the king’s voice tone was cold, “is to go alone into the enemy camp, find my brother, and single-handedly bring him back alive.”
“Yes.”
“If I did not know you better, Reswen,” he continued, “I would swear you have fled your senses. What you are saying is impossible. Magic from the east burns over that camp. Did you not hear Berrilund just now?”
“The east awaits an army,” Reswen protested. “They have been warned by those faithful to them within the city. I am one mrem, alone. That power will not expect one mrem.”
Berrilund raised his head. “Your majesty,” he said. “Reswen’s point is well taken. What the flame showed us, more than anything else, was that the nobles were ready for an attack. But power often makes that mistake. It prepares for the worst, never expecting the smallest. Reswen’s plan might not succeed, but if it failed it would be far less disastrous. We would lose our finest warrior, but we would not lose hundreds.”
“You are suggesting a sacrifice,” the king said quietly.
“No,” Reswen broke in. “I am not a sacrifice. I do not feel sacrificial and have no intention of failing.”
For a long time the king thought. He stood silently, his eyes staring at the wall, his mouth moving slightly as he weighed what options he had. At last he spoke, and his words seemed to Jremm the pronouncement of a fatal doom.
“Reswen will go,” he said. “But I do not believe he will return.”
Berrilund stepped beside the warrior. “Jremm will go with you,” he said softly. “He knows how to give protection, at least until you reach the camp. I will instruct him now in ways to divert the power of the East.”
“I will be ready in an hour,” Reswen decided, his mind filled with details of what to take and how to steal out of the city unobserved.
“So will Jremm,” agreed the wizard without looking at the former brickmaker.
“I AM GLAD you are alive,” Talwe said, hovering near the bed where Sruss lay. “For a time, I was not sure.” They were inside a room near the Western Gate. It smelled of newly cured bunda hide. Outside she could hear other mrem talking and sharpening weapons. The sides of their tents slapped in a strong wind. Light seeped in through cracks in the door and hide-covered window.
Sruss rolled her head from side to side. “I felt in no danger,” she almost whispered. “I was watching, and suddenly I collapsed. I had no strength, that was all.”
“One of my warriors carried you to this room,” the darkfur explained.
“I am grateful.”
Talwe smiled. “You need not be,” he said. “I am sure he felt it a great honor. Saving the Dancer of the Wilds is truly a rare opportunity.”
Sruss dropped her head to her pillow. “Please, Talwe. No more about the Dancer of the Wilds. I am Sruss, nothing else. I was never meant to be Dancer, and I have done nothing to enhance that name. It’s something I would like to forget.”
“And I would like to forget about the warriors I lead,” Talwe countered. “Just as, now, I would like to forget Cragsclaw and return to my home in the grasslands. But neither of us has that choice.” His voice grew bitter.
“But you made your destiny,” the whitefur said. “You pursued it, and it led you here. I merely fell into mine.”
Talwe shook his head. “If you think for a moment, you will know that is not true,” he said. “You accepted the Dancer’s role when you went with me into my village. You did so again when you sat with Morian. Then you traveled to Ar and gathered an army, and at first opportunity you took over its command.” He looked at her. “You have fallen into nothing, Sruss,” he said gently. “You are here because you have willed it.”
She stared at him now, her eyes searching his. “You’ve changed,” she said aloud. “Somehow, you’re different. You even speak differently.”
Smiling, the warrior said, “Yes, I speak differently. I have seen the minds of two great magicians, and I have spoken with mrem who know much more than I do. Not much remains of the mrem from the grasslands.”
“Is that good?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Who can say?” came the reply.
He held her now, and she let her head fall against his shoulder. Softly he began to lick at her forehead, his hands stroking the fur on her arms and her back. She purred as she lay there, suddenly warm and content, as the fears of the world seemed to fly far into the distance.
His tongue explored down her body. From her forehead it moved slowly over her mouth, then down past her neck to the white fur on her breasts. It lingered there, licking and tasting her flesh, then it began the slow journey over the whiteness of her belly. She was tender here, her skin far more pronounced, and she luxuriated in the workings of the darkfur’s tongue.
Then, suddenly, she rolled away.
Talwe looked at her questioningly.<
br />
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I still have my duty.”
“You have never explained it to me,” he said.
“I can’t,” she explained. “It must always be a secret. But it has to do with my life, and the life of my home. If I mate with you now, my world will change.”
Talwe grimaced. “In some ways, my lady, you have not changed at all.” Then he rose from his bed and Sruss felt a tear in the corner of her eye.
“Tomorrow they will attack. We must be ready.” The bandit leader’s voice was without emotion. He looked tired and weak, and his weapon harness was only crudely patched, but he would not allow himself to rest. Dragging himself, he hurried outside and began organizing the mrem for the day’s march.
•
Talwe saw Mithmid high on the east wall. The wizard seemed to be staring into the dusk, and neither the wind nor the cold were able to distract him. His ears lay back almost flat against his uncovered head.
A few moments later, the former bandit stood at his side. “What do you see?” the darkfur asked, but for a time no answer came. At last the wizard turned toward him, his eyes unblinking and lined with red from the strain. Talwe shuddered at the sight.
“We have little time,” Mithmid said. “The liskash approach. They aren’t far away.”
Five days ago, Talwe had come to Cragsclaw leading less than a hundred survivors from his band. Once inside the gate he had collapsed, weak from half a dozen barely-treated wounds. Then he had disappeared and then just as suddenly a strange, wild-eyed female had appeared dragging him. No amount of questioning would persuade her to tell what had happened. When Talwe had awakened, Mithmid had been waiting for him to open his eyes. The wizard cared for him, fed him and warmed him, until slowly the darkfur was able to walk again. As soon as he was recovered, Mithmid begged leave, and told him of the danger that came from the east.