Darksong Rising

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Yells and screams rose from the camps, and some of those screams were not from men, but from their mounts. Anna winced.

  From the south, farther from the sorceress, Anna could hear orders being shouted. Before long, the Mansuurans would be ready to counterattack.

  Waves of pressure, like sounds that had taken on the force of a slow-moving wind, began to press at her. Her ears felt as though she were far, far underwater, slowly being crushed. She could feel something like static electricity crawling along her arms.

  You've got to come up with another spell-quickly. But what? Rabyn's triple-toned Darksong was blocking her flame arrows, and the darkness was creeping away from the tent toward her, with the increasingly stronger rhythm and volume of the Darksong drums.

  Think! You've got to do something.

  Anna shook her head against the pressure that enfolded her, that slowed her thoughts. She had a plan. She had spells. What are they? Where are they?

  Her head throbbed, and her eyes blurred.

  88

  NORTH OF FUSSEN, DEFALK

  A single unheard note wakes Rabyn, and he stumbles from his silk coverlet onto the smooth wool of the carpet that covers the ground. It is not dawn, and the cookfires should still be low coals for glasses yet, but he can sense an unseen chord nearing the tent, like a slow arrow frozen within the scope of a fraction of a glass.

  He stiffens, then yanks on trousers alone and hastens to the front of the tent. Outside, the night remains dark. Rabyn shakes his head and steps out and around a lone Prophet's Guard.

  "Sire?"

  "Shut up!" His eyes traverse the darkness. A torch? Something? "Nubara! Get the drummers!" Rabyn runs barefooted toward the drums behind the tent. "Fools! You're all fools." He reaches the first of the man-high massive drums and pulls off the oiled cloth protecting it. "'She won't attack so soon, honored Prophet'... fools!"

  Nubara appears with his cloak wrapped over his bare chest as Rabyn yanks the oiled cloths off the second drum, and then the third. "Rabyn! What are you doing? Why-" A racking cough chokes off the remainder of his hoarse-shouted question.

  "The bitch sorceress! You fools! You're all fools!" The young Prophet turns to the bare-chested and black-haired youth barely older than the Prophet himself and thrusts the carved wooden mallets into the drummer's hands. "The first rhythm! Now!"

  Rabyn takes the second set of mallets in his own hand and climbs onto the high stool by the second drum. "Follow me!"

  The first uneven rumbling rhythm rolls slowly into the darkness, creating an initial cacophony that quickly smooths into a more even flow, just as a pattering or hissing that calls up rain rains down from above the tent, but the air is cool and dry, not damp.

  Rabyn does not look up from where he mans the second drum as flashes of fire flicker against the alternating blue and cream silk panels of the tent.

  Nubara is frozen in place beside the tent and looks skyward, incredulous at what he sees in what should have been darkness overhead. Hissing lines of fire drop out of the sky, all across the camp of the Prophet. Like a sleepwalker moving to the beat of the drums, Nubara edges along the side of the tent.

  The area around the drums seems like dawn or dusk, lit by fires falling from the sky, but veering away from the tent area. Beyond the tent, screams have begun to fill the camp area, its expanse a mixture of light and shadow created by the arrowlike flames that descend from the dark heavens.

  Amid the flashes of light, darkness has begun to flare as well as fire, dark bolts of sound, not quite dissonance nor yet harmony, rising from the drums with each blow of the mallets. For several moments, the drumbeats merely create a low thunder, but that mounts to a rumbling greater than the volume of the drums themselves and continues to build into a deafening roar. Overhead, the flame arrows flicker, seem to dim, and there are fewer that flare across the night sky.

  "How... did... she get so close?" gasps Nubara.

  Rabyn ignores the question, handing the mallets he has wielded to the last drummer to appear. "Keep it up! Rhythm the first!"

  Then the slender Prophet stands before the drums, facing eastward, and begins to hum, trying to find a note or pitch suited to employing the triple-toned drums whose rumbling beat has begun to shake the ground and vibrate the skulls of all within hearing distance. His clear if thin tenor rises over the shivering beats of the massive drums.

  Find, find, find where her sorceries abound. Break, break, break the harmony of sound....

  Blue fire creeps from the ground, from everywhere, and clothes the Prophet of Music as he melds his voice into the driving rhythm of the triple drums. Slender as he is, Rabyn appears taller, more solid, than the massive drum behind him, and darkness wells out from his chanting singing figure.

  Clutching one of the exterior poles supporting the tent, Nubara looks at the shining figure of the young Prophet, cloaked m a shimmering nimbus of flickering blue, then at the three drummers, also shimmering in blue, if less intensely. Slowly, the Mansuuran officer draws the unadorned iron blade from his belt He takes one step toward Rabyn, then pauses, trying to catch his breath. He takes a second step, then a third.

  Nubara stands less than a yard from the Prophet, gasping, slowly raising the cold iron knife. He lurches forward, like a bent old man, but his grip on the knife is firm, even as his steps are not, and he thrusts the blade toward the darksinger.

  Half-turning, as if warned, the shorter Rabyn lashes out with an arm cloaked in blue flame, flame that wraps around Nubara's arm. Nubara falls, toppling forward in those blue flames, a self-consuming pillar of blue fire that flares skyward, then subsides into glittering dust that flames for a time.

  That intrusion is enough for Rabyn to momentarily lose his concentration, for his voice to falter over a mere handful of notes. And though his voice falters and for but an instant falls behind the rhythm of the triple drums, in that instant, the web of darkness that has protected the tent and drums shreds under the assault of golden arrows from the heavens.

  Rabyn's eyes widen as the flames cascade down around him A dull thud announces that one of the drummers has fallen across his drum.

  More arrows flash downward, and these bear heavy iron shafts, iron that glows and sings as it falls from the darkness.

  One slashes through Rabyn's shoulder, and a second through his neck-and yet another pierces his chest.

  "... bitch..." His words gurgle to a halt in the rain of fire. Beneath his twitching body, the ground groans, and shudders, and the clashing chords of Darksong and Clearsong rip even through the ears of those who have never heard the sounds of dissonance and harmony.

  89

  Anna stood in the alternating waves of light and darkness, trying to recall what she was supposed to do next. Unseen dark waves of sound-with the feel of something dank and evil-pawed at her as she stood motionless. Behind her, her players were equally frozen.

  What can you do when his sorcery blocks your flame arrows? The question pounded through her head.

  Her sorcerous arrows were only flame arrows. Perhaps the weight of real iron-headed arrows, boosted by sorcery, would be enough.

  "The arrow song! The arrow song...Hanfor! Now! Have them loose the arrows, all they can!"

  She could direct that sorcery and the arrows at the drums themselves. Then.. . she'd need another spell... but that would have to wait. The drums... she had to destroy them, first. "Liende, the arrow spell!"

  "The arrow song! On my mark... Mark!" called Liende, her voice strong, if slower than usual.

  The players' first notes were shaky, but better than with the first spell, and melded together almost seamlessly within a bar. As before when she had faced the drums, Anna felt beaten down, depressed, and as though she were crawling out of a hole, and each word of the spell was forced: She kept her focus on the spell, just on the spell.

  "Loose shafts! Toward the fires! Loose shafts, now!" ordered Hanfor, his voice carrying now that the element of surprise was gone.

  As she be
gan to sing, Anna concentrated on the image of the heavy arrowheads bursting through whatever barrier Rabyn had laid, and smashing through the drum-skins, the iron glowing with glistening light, searing through the darkness.

  Heads of arrows, shot into the air, strike the drumskins, straight through there, rend the drums and those who play for their spells and Darksong pay!

  Anna held her breath, watching, then coughed, and tried to clear her throat, her eyes still on those lines of glowing red iron as the arrows climbed and then arched over the fires toward the tent of the Prophet and the heavy beating of the Darksong drums.

  Eiiisttt! Like they had become sparklers, each shaft began to sizzle with light as it neared the Prophet's tent. The first shafts, like the earlier flame arrows, winked out, but suddenly more than a handful seemed to accelerate.

  A brilliant line of blue fire erupted from the Neserean camp, outlining in detail the alternating blue and cream panels of a large pavilion tent.

  As the blue fire died, the heavy shafts loosed by the bowmen took on a brighter and more golden glow, then a sunlight incandescence as they dropped toward the drums and the tent of the Prophet.

  Got to get Rabyn... can't let him do another spell like the last ones.

  "More arrows! More arrows...the arrow spell again... Anna shouted.

  She swallowed, then timed her entry to the spellsong, and directed her voice westward, toward the again dark tent and the Prophet who had to be there.

  These arrows shot into the air, the head of each must strike Lord Rabyn there-

  The sorceress could hear the thrum of bowstrings and sense the release of the arrows.

  -with force and speed to kill him dead, for all the treachery he's done and led.

  She staggered for a moment at the end of the spell, trying to catch her breath.

  One more set of fire lines arched across the Neserean camp, and the lowest-pitched drum fell silent, then the others. The lower camp-that of the Mansuurans-continued to bustle with mounts and men.

  While the light breeze continued out of the north, Anna could still smell a hint of charred flesh, and her stomach turned

  "Now what, Lady Anna?" asked Hanfor.

  The sorceress swallowed. "We ride back to where the rest of the lancers are, and we get ready, if we have to, to wipe out the Mansuurans, if they decide to attack. That will give the players a little time to rest." She turned in the darkness that had again fallen across the road and the hillside. "Chief Player?"

  "Yes, Regent."

  "Have the players mount up. We'll rejoin the rest of the lancers. Once we get there, though, have everyone ready to play the long flame song. That's just in case." Anna rubbed her fore head, trying to massage away the pain in her eyes, ignoring the throbbing in the back of her skull.

  "We will be ready" After a pause, Liende called out. "You heard the Regent. Pack your instruments and mount up"

  "Green company! To the fore!" Hanfor's voice rode through the darkness.

  After mounting, Anna took the water bottle Kinor extended, swallowing half of what was in it before turning Farineili away from the still-burning Neserean camp.

  "...form a rear guard here until the Regent and the players are well away. Then you follow slowly, and rejoin us and the rest of the force...."

  Anna nodded at the sense of Hanfor's orders. He was always crisp and clear. She felt she muddled through everything.

  "Are you all right, Lady Anna?" asked Kinor.

  "Well as I can be." With her free hand, she massaged the back of her neck for a moment.

  "Will they come after us?"

  "I wouldn't, but who knows?" Anna eased her mount next to Hanfor's as the column rode at a fast walk back eastward along the road. Behind them, the company of lancers Hanfor had left as a rear guard formed darker shadows on the road, barely outlined by the coals and few flames of the Neserean camp.

  "Hanfor... when you came to serve me, you said you would not lead armsmen into Neserea. Would you consider them leading you?"

  "What might you mean?" Anna could hear the frown in the arms commander's voice.

  "I don't want to spend the rest of my life fighting battles between Defalk and its neighbors. Rabyn had no heirs-not that anyone knows. I'm asking you to consider becoming High Counselor and ruler of Neserea."

  The veteran swallowed, loudly even in the darkness, for the first time since Anna had known him. "Lady Anna...I am not a ruler...."

  "You've seen enough to know dishonesty and scheming, and you're honest enough to try to do a good job. And you are from Neserea. If they don't attack us, I'm going to ask the Mansuuran lancers to support you. And it may be that the Nesereans who are besieging Westfort might also be agreeable to that."

  Hanfor langhed. "Those at Westfort are the Prophet's Guards you bespelled in Falcor last year. They can do nothing against you, but whether they would follow me is a different question."

  "Would you consider it?"

  Hanfor bent his head. "I cannot say that it would not be good to return. Yet... will either the Mansuuran lancers or the people accept me?"

  "We'll know about the lancers shortly. As for the people... most of the time, they haven't been the biggest problem in Defalk." It's only in a democracy where people are the problem... because they have some power, and people with power always get into trouble? What about you? Anna didn't want to deal with that question, not yet, anyway.

  "We shall see, lady, but I do not think that many will see matters as you do," prophesied the arms commander.

  Anna nodded in the darkness and reached for the cheese and stuff in the small food pouch. Perhaps that would help.

  The faintest hint of gray was appearing in the east, and by the time the column rejoined Himar's forces, the predawn light was strong enough that Anna could turn in the saddle and study the players. Several, like Palian and Delvor, were clearly pale, but no one was about to fall out of the saddle.

  Himar rode out to meet the column, his eyes surveying the riders nearing him. "How went it?" asked the overcaptain. "We saw the fires in the sky."

  Hanfor looked at Anna.

  "The Nesereans and those who followed Rabyn are dead. So is Rabyn, and his drums-he used Darksong-got burned up. The Mansuuran lancers...we don't know what they'll do yet."

  Himar frowned.

  "I didn't want to kill them and get the Liedfuhr ready to take over Neserea. Not yet, anyway. I'd like to try something else flrst."

  That got a slow, if reluctant, nod from Himar.

  "Can I borrow one of your grease markers and the sketch board? I need to send a message to the head of those lancers."

  Hanfor said nothing when Anna dismounted and handed Farinelli's reins to Kinor. She walked to the lower side of the road and propped herself against an oak that still held most of its leaves. As the dawn brightened, she used Hanfors grease marker and his sketch board as a desk while she slowly wrote out the message she wanted on the brown drawing paper. Once done, ignoring the looks from Liende and Kinor, and even Hanfor, she read over the text once again.

  ... The Liedfuhr has pledged not to enter Defalk anymore, although he could not countermand orders from the Prophet Rabyn. I have spared you and your lancers-my price for sparing you is this. You will assist Arms Commander Hanfor-who loyally served Neserea until he was betrayed by the Prophet Behlem. Hanfor will be the High Counselor of Neserea, under the support of both the Liedfuhr and the Regent of Defalk.

  The people of Neserea should not have pay...And what if the Mansuuran commander refuses? She took a long deep breath and rolled the scroll, looking at Hanfor, who had not dismounted, but continued to study the road to the west.

  "Are they headed this way?"

  "I think not, and the scouts have reported that they are salvaging what they can and packing their remaining mounts and wagons."

  "I've finished this." Anna held up the scroll. "Will they respect a messenger?"

  "Now that the Prophet is dead, I would say that they would." Hanfor shook his
head. "We can send him under a parley flag."

  "Would you?" She handed the scroll to Hanfor.

  "If it means fewer men who die, the attempt is worth some effort."

  "Thank you" Anna remounted Farinelli and rode the gelding to the tree-lined part of the hillside where the players had dismounted and were resting, instruments near at hand. Liende glanced up inquiringly.

  "So far, it looks as though they aren't coming our way." Anna. cleared her throat "We've made them a proposal."

  Liende waited.

  "I'm proposing a Neserean as regent of Neserea under both the Liedfuhr's and my protection. If they accept... then we work out the details." Anna moistened her lips. "If they don't, we'll have to work out another set of details."

  And she needed to talk to Nelmor and Falar, to let them know about what she was proposing, or they'd feel slighted as well. At least, she suspected Nelmor would.

  The sorceress took a deep breath. All she wanted was a nap... but she wouldn't get that, not for a while. She rubbed her forehead again.

  90

  Sometime before midmorning, a maroon-clad messenger under a pale blue parley flag rode slowly eastward along the road toward the Defalkan lines. His whole body posture bothered the sorceress. His eyes surveyed the purple-clad Defalkan lancers, and his shoulders were slumped. The parley flagstaff was jammed into his lanceholder, and the banner drooped in the clear windless morning air.

  The steps of his mount slowed as he neared the Defalkans.

  Anna mounted Farinelli and rode up onto the road to watch from almost half a dek away, and she found all of her guards mounted and surrounding her, as well as Kinor and Jimbob.