The web of wizardry

by Coulson, Juanita

  tribesman? The Zsed's outriders might overlook me the longer, and I should have more chance of success . . ."

  The nobeman was shaking his head. With pain, he said, 'T would most willingly allow you that favor if I could, Troop Leader. But that, too, is forbidden. You have been chosen as our best hope. You are a Destre by birth and know their language and customs as no outsider could. But you must go as the representative of the King's army."

  Nurdanth was still regretting that he must be the instrument of command in this undertaking. "I will give you as much as I can, Troop Leader. Here—• there is nothing in the task of courier that prevents your wearing of tribal mantle, and your faith-ring. Perhaps those will help convince the Destre-Y that you are not their enemy." He gave the striped cloak back with an obvious eagerness.

  Danaer weighed the precious message in his hand. It was very light, a small thing to cost his life. The ways of the gods were ever unfathomable. 'T shall do my best, my lord. If the goddess grants her favor, I vow I will place this in the hands of the Destre Siim himself."

  A stirring entered his spirit, a sensation he had known before, when readying for battle. Ai! He would succeed, if possible. And if not, then he would show Siank Zsed that a warrior of Nyald knew how to die well.

  General Nurdanth nodded. "This message must be given to none save the Sovereign Gordt te Raa. Oh, and you will impress upon him that the words come in all good faith from myself, from Royal Commander Malol, and from King Tobentis." Yistar snorted derisively, his furry eyebrows arching toward his hairline. The nobleman went on with some irritation. "It is true that the responsibility for that last claim is my own. But by Peluva's heavenly orb, if we do not establish communication, and quickly, with Gordt te Raa, Tobentis will not be King at all. His head will decorate the gates of Kirvii while a Markuand warlord sits on the throne!"

  Nurdanth turned to the white-bearded wizard. "Traech Sorkra, perhaps you might give the Troop Leader some sign, to encourage him in this mission, that he will know he acts on behalf of those worthy of such risks?"

  Ulodovol was sunk in brooding. His mouth parted and silently formed the word "Web," Then he waved absently at Lira, delegating this minor feat of magic to his apprentice.

  She sat up straighter, some of her former animation coming back to her pretty face. When images began to form again in the air above the table. Lira Nalu was smiling, no longer tense. A charming little conjurer, she wove pictures out of nothing, now and then looking at Danaer coyly, hoping that he would be pleased by what she created.

  Smoke-that-was-not-smoke swirled and became a mountain highway, and a marker stone proclaimed that this scene was some distance away, westward, not far from Kirvii and the palace. A military party proceeded along the road, heading for Fort Siank. There were royal banners and various smaller flags identifying several lords of The Interior. Danaer leaned forward, and he seemed to hear names spoken within that picture.

  At the forefront rode Royal Commander Malol te Eldri. He was the King's own viceroy of the armies. Malol's red cloak was trimmed in gold, and his helmet was crested with the sacred plumes of the snow eagle. His countenance was patrician and lean, his manner cultured and as proper as his dark and neatly trimmed mustache and beard. Malol te Eldri looked the part of a Royal Commander. But besides the keen intelligence and courtesy he must share with Nurdanth, there was also a sense of a core of that strength necessary in any true battle lord.

  Another name was heard, and Danaer's belly tight-tened at the sound. A young officer rode at the stirrup of Malol te Eldri, and the Royal Commander smiled fondly at his protege, repeating that name which had drawn Danaer's keen interest.

  Branraediir! The Destre clans of the west, the

  Tradyans, had met this soldier in war, to their great sorrow. Minstrels had carried the laments to all the Zseds and warned: Beware of Branra of the Bloody Sword, the favorite of the Royal Commander! Branra, the man who bows to no god and trusts only the blade which has drunk the blood of many a brave Destre-Y!

  The famous sword was there at his side. Its silver hilt caught the sun's rays, and black gems, embedded in the metal, sparkled. Despite that costly adornment, it was a true weapon and one to fear, as Destre-Y had learned to fear the man who wielded it.

  Branra was stocky and broad-shouldered, and he was swarthy from seasons spent out on the western Vrastre, not locked away in his castle like so many lords of The Interior. He was younger than Danaer had supposed—of an age with the Troop Leader himself. His features were sharp and broken now and then by a reckless grin which bespoke a courage his reputation confirmed.

  The smoke melted and twisted, and for an instant Danaer saw Lira Nalu's face instead of Branraediir's. Then he looked upon an island of Clarique. Not Jlandla Hill—another place not far off, where a motley army had gathered in dismay and rage. The ragged forces had come to help Clarique, but the battle was done, and now they milled about uncertainly and tasted frustration. Some were Clarique peasants and some little curly-headed Sarli brigands. A large number were warrior women who had followed a virago leader here to Clarique, in quest of bloody triumph over Markuand.

  That virago now struggled to draw an army out of chaos and rally them to fight the white-clad enemy elsewhere. Jlandla was lost, but the war had only begun. She was now called Ti-Mori, though born to an honored lineage in The Interior of Krantin. Moved by some personal fury, she had burst the bonds of her class and become a warrior, leading a horde of battle priestesses, each intent on slaking her blood lust with the deaths of the Markuand. These wild females had become an army—an army which was still intact and able to wage war, though Jlandla Hill had been over-

  run and the Markuand seized more and more of the Clarique domain.

  The visions evaporated. Malol te Eldri, Branraediir and his bloody sword, Ti-Mori and her women warriors—all were gone. Lira Nalu spoke and shattered her own creations. "You see that we will not face the invader alone. There are still many gallant comrades and those who will champion us, men and women who do not frighten easily, whether the threat be weapon or magic."

  Yistar's hand fell on Danaer's shoulder with a hearty slap. "You have your orders. We will need an answer to this message quickly, in order to carry forward the Royal Commander's battle plans." He spoke with bluff confidence, to cheer himself and his subordinate, a tactic Danaer knew of old and appreciated.

  The General was getting to his feet, and all the others save Ulodovol copied him. The old sorkra remained seated, staring into nothing, and none dared disturb him, not even his apprentice. Lira Nalu pointedly did not look at her mentor, continuing to force an encouraging smile as Danaer said, "My lord, at least in the Zsed I will not lack someone of Azsed to chant a prayer to the goddess, should I be slain."

  It was not what she had expected him to say, and her face mirrored her shock, though she kept silence.

  Nurdanth was disturbed also. "You must not be slain! If you do not deliver the message safely to Gordt te Raa, all the prayers and sacrifices to all of Krantin's gods may not spare our land from ruin!"

  Danaer was shaken by the force of Nurdanth's words. He did not trust himself to respond, saluting the commandant, then following Yistar and the sorkra woman out to the entry hall. Captain Yistar paused and caught at Danaer's sleeve, then brushed away a heavy layer of dust, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

  "Put on a clean uniform before you leave," he instructed. "And guard yourself well in this. Keep out of trouble if you can, of course, but do not falter if it finds you, eh? I know you will not shame Nyald troop."

  "I will go as if I rode for the honor of my clans," Danaer said.

  "Mm! Yes, that will serve. And there will be a special mount for you, by order of the General. Maybe I can find you a Destre saddle as well, one padded with motge hide, such as you have wheedled at me for these years." With that, Yistar hurried out, barely taking time to give back Danaer's parting salute.

  Danaer gazed after the ofl&cer a while, then said with bitter a
musement, "Now he will agree to give me the saddle. Wrath ve dortu!"

  "A SarU oath?" Lira Nalu asked.

  "It is a phrase I learned from a trader from your country, my lady." Danaer drank in the sight of the woman, suddenly aware that he might soon go to Keth's portals and know no more of the pleasures of the world. If time were not so short, he might presume to . . .

  But she was a sorkra, one of the wizard kind.

  "Troop Leader, your eyes are embarrassing me," she said with a becoming blush.

  "Your pardon, my lady." Yet Danaer did not turn away. Tiny things were now worth notice—a coppery chain clasped about her small waist, the curve of her boots along dainty ankles, the folds of yellow flowing over breast and hip. He saw as if for the first time that she knotted her Sarli headband on the left side, which meant she was an initiate of the minstrels. "Lady Lira Nalu, if I die, will you sing my memory in your next telling of the tales? There are none left of my clan to repeat my name. My last kinswoman is dead. If you forget me, I shall be lost in the winds."

  Her hands crept to her throat. "I ... I shall do as you ask. But it shall not be necessary. You shall return to us unharmed."

  The words troubled him more than a promise to seek favor of the gods might have. Danaer had learned long ago that when women spoke only of success, they often feared danger was most near.

  Danaer sighed and went to his barracks, a long, smoke-filled chamber cut in the rock of the mountain. In his absence, Yistar's orderly had delivered a new

  uniform to his pallet. Shaartre watched as Dairaer dressed, looking ever more worried. They had shared many hard campaigns and knew the dangers of patrol. Danaer put on the stiff new shirt and tunic and breeches, then frowned at the polished footwear he had been provided. Making a sudden decision, he put those aside and kept his well-worn Destre boots, using his blade to cut a necessary slash in the crisp hem of the breeches, the better to afford easy access to his old knife, sheathed snugly against his calf.

  "Will not the commandant balk at that?" Shaartre asked.

  Danaer settled his Destre sling and belt blade against the heavy leather of the new belt and shrugged. "I do not think so. Not for what I have to do."

  "Some risk in it, eh? I thought as much."

  With a grunt, Danaer picked up the boots he had scorned. "These should not be wasted. You take them."

  "No. Keep the things. They were given to you and look too small for me, anyway. You will need them for muster tomorrow, besides."

  "Perhaps they will fit one of the new men. That peasant boy with the sunny nature—Xashe?—he is my size, and a good rider. Give them to him."

  The veteran snatched the proffered boots and flung them onto his pallet. "The accursed things will be here when you get back. I will hear no more of it." Without another word, he turned away, walking the length of the room and squatting down amid a circle of gamblers.

  Danaer let him go, knowing the rules of this, a ritual he had played with Shaartre in times past, when they both knew what fate might bring. He draped his mantle about his head and shoulders and put on his helmet and sword, then ducked through the low door. A stable groom awaited him outside. The man was holding the reins of a magnificent roan stallion. General Nurdanth was said to be a fancier of the Destre horses and an ardent experimenter in crossbreeding roans with the army's own black stock. This beast was a prize of his efforts. On its back was the saddle Yistar

  had promised, one of the best Danaer had ever seen. The staUion pawed the dirt and jangled its bits, disliking inaction.

  Taking the reins, Danaer swung up, pleased to find the roan did not try to fight him. Though roans were restive and spirited, the blending of the stolid black horses' temperament had cooled the roans' natural wildness. Without conscious thought, Danaer flipped wide his mantle, and the cloak settled gracefully behind the cantle, spreading over the mottled rump. The stalUon answered to a faint touch of rein and knee and the shift of Danaer's weight.

  Danaer rode out into the compound. As he had expected, the StaUion was perfectly gaited in Destre fashion. He felt a true warrior, on a steed a Siirn would envy. Sentries and idlers gawked as Danaer nudged the roan, making it curvet and frisk, scattering a few troopmen who had strayed into its path.

  Yistar and the General were standing at the gates, and Danaer hastily quieted the horse, approaching them sedately. As he endured their inspection, both looked him over carefully, staring for a long moment at his boots. Yistar swallowed a smile, saying nothing, and Danaer's attention shifted anxiously to the commandant.

  "It is well," Nurdanth said. "Most well. A fine appearance. Excellent! Do not grow too fond of this animal, however. It is to be a gift ... to our noble adversary, with my compliments."

  "I understand, my Lord General."

  "Then away with you, and the goddess guard you this night." Yistar bellowed to the gatekeepers, and the men cursed and sweated at the bars. There was a final exchange of salutes and Danaer leaned forward. Alert and responsive, the roan trotted out briskly, leaving the firelit courtyard and moving into the blackness beyond.

  SlIRN GORDT TE RaA

  The night engulfed Danaer. Though most men would have been lost in such blackness, he found starlight and the dim glow of fort and city sufficient to show the way. Now and then he touched the reins and avoided barricade or pitfall, finally rounding the last of the stoneworks of the garrison's outer defenses. Siank spread out below him, a vista of painted walls and myriad lamps and lofty towers.

  Danaer let the roan canter downhill, lured by Siank, the sacred city of the goddess. At sundown, on a much poorer mount, he had ridden this same road. Then his mood had been far different, as he intended to seek the temple and a good inn. That was before he had encountered those hard reminders of his status here. Since leaving Nyald, he had become more than ever suspended between the two peoples, a target for their distrust.

  He tried to imagine Siank's walls broken and her Destre pride shattered, and though she had not welcomed him, the prospect brought him deep pain.

  The torchlit towers slid past on his right as the stallion followed a beaten trail. Danaer looked again and again at Siank. Like many a youth of the tribes, he once had yearned to make this pilgrimage. Siank—of the green trees and brush nourished by numerous sweet water springs, the life source of the city's security and wealth. Siank shimmered in the night, the legends painted on her white daubed walls softened by wavering lamp light. Limbs of trees tossed above those walls, and Danaer could see clearly the delicate spire of Argan's holy temple and the dome of the Guild of the Caravan Routes .. .

  The city of the Destre-Y, and he was shut away from it by his oath. A chasm yawned between him

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  and Siank—a chasm a thousand king's-lengths wide and eight years deep.

  He goaded the roan and it sprang forward Hke a steed from the hero myths, plunging into the darkness, leaving Siank farther and farther to the rear. Within a few long strides distance blurred torchlight into mist-dimmed rainbows, pale candles against the night.

  Danaer had scouted the area thoroughly when he had arrived at the garrison^ and now he bore unerringly for the Zsed. It was not entombed in the foothills, like the fort, nor yet behind walls, like the Destre brothers who dwelt in Siank. With the turn of the seasons, Siank Zsed would follow the numberless herds of the Vrastre and stalk those caravans which had not paid for enough escort. But now, in the spring, hard on the heels of the goddess's festival, the Zsed was tented near the wells and streams northeast of the city. There was little pressure for the Destre encampment to move elsewhere. For three moons. General Nurdanth had let the Zsed remain quiet, as he might a sleeping den of ravenous prey-seekers.

  Danaer twisted in the saddle again, focusing on a particular star. From his vantage, the Eye of Sarlos hung directly over Siank's mountain gate. Given that guidance, he knew he must begin to turn and head out onto the open Vrastre Plains.

  The night thickened perceptibly, and then an eerie fog, seemingl
y lit from within, rose out of nowhere. Danaer had never encountered its like. The horse felt his uneasiness and snorted and shook its mane. Danaer gentled the animal and rode on, though at a slower gait.

  He told himself he was no child, to be frightened of fog and dark. Yet he murmured a prayer to the walkers-of-the-night and damp-breathers, those things of legends. Now Danaer sensed a presence—no; many presences, all around him. If he turned and glanced over his shoulder, would he catch a glimpse of some nameless demon hovering there?

  The roan stumbled and Danaer tightened the reins, using all his skill to control the nervous animal. Before him, the fog swirled and climbed, filling his sight.

  Vapor became grotesque faces and gaping, fanged jaws, and sharp talons raked at Danaer and the horse.

  Instinctively, Danaer jerked the roan back violently as one of the fog paws grazed his leg. Icy fire seemed to lance through his bones and sinew, and the roan danced aside in terror.

  Danaer's heart thundered as he fought the brute, at war with both these supernatural vapors and the horse's panic.

  Wizardry! It could be nothing else!

  This was no fog of the plains, nor was it his mind playing tricks. The well-trained horse lunged and grew wild-eyed, as it never would be confronting mortal predators, no matter how fearsome.

  Now Danaer knew the same horror that must have seized the hapless general of the Clarique. Magic— again working to the Markuand will!

  Danaer set his jaw, vowing not to succumb to sorcery. He had sworn to deliver the General's message, and he would not be bested by creatures of the mist. With a snarled warning, he drew sword, though wondering if the army's steel would pierce his foes. Knotting the reins in his right fist, he held the roan against its urge to bolt. "Steady, Sure-Foot, and show them no weakness, lest they take strength from it! Steady! Argan banish you, demons!"