He slashed at the nearest of the fog apparitions, dividing the ugly form in halves, sending the vapor spinning to either side. Another rose to take its place and Danaer struck with desperation, severing slavering muzzle from the head, cutting off the clawed feet.
Other melting and re-forming demons appeared, closing in behind and around and above Danaer while he continued to fight. There could be no parrying and a shield would not avail him much, even had he brought one.
A new presence came upon this unreal battle, an invisible but very palpable force. Had Danaer wished for a shield? A shield was in his hand, not a thing he could touch but as potent as this unseen ally who had joined his cause, setting itself between Danaer and the abominations in the fog.
"Argan hurl you to Bogotana's Realm!" Danaer roared, taking heart and wielding the sword savagely. This time the demon he slashed dissolved away completely. The roan's antics were lessened, as if the brute also sensed that help was with them.
Leaves rustled, though there were no trees close by, and a warm wind swept across the scene, overwhelming the cold fog. Yet more demons broke, bursting into air. Did Danaer imagine a faint howling, a disappointed gibbering boiling from the departing mist? He could not be certain, but knew the creatures were being bested—were gone!
"Kant, prodra Argan," he said with gratitude, giving the goddess her due. As he gulped for breath, that sound of leaves came once more and with it a tantalizing jingle, like jewels and coins brushing one against another. With that, the last of the evil fog disappeared. He was in familiar darkness.
Danaer gazed around, quieting the roan, listening intently. The rustling leaves and the jewel-music were stilled. But he had not dreamed them. He had been well supported in the struggle, and those sweet sounds had been some manifestation of his unseen ally.
Wizardry! More wizardry to counter the magical evil that had barred his way to the Zsed!
Ulodovol had said the Markuand wizard was mighty, and Danaer had felt the proof.
He had dealt with it, through no choice of his own. No, not alone. He was a warrior, but no fit adversary for creatures made of mist. Danaer did not enjoy owing a debt to magic, but he acknowledged what had happened. "The goddess I thank—and I thank you, my mysterious companion."
For a heartbeat, he captured a sensation of sparkling, large, dark eyes and triumphant, feminine laughter. There was no reply from the darkness, nor had he expected one.
Danaer chirruped to the stallion and coaxed it to take up the trail again. With each minute the awful fight with demons lessened its hold upon him. Soon he was on the fringes of the Zsed, and a more straightforward menace claimed his attention. Rolling grass-
land brushed against his stirrups as the roan trotted down a knoll, then splashed through one of the many streams which fed Siank's springs and wells.
Others were traveling this same path, the inhabitants of the Zsed returning from Siank or journeying on the Vrastre. These could be a danger, but one Danaer knew well and could accept. When the roan nickered to other horses in the Zsed's herds, he leaned on its neck and pinched its nostrils to shut off the exchange. Once he entered the heart of the Zsed, he must be the undisguised representative of Krantin's King. Until then he would act as a scout, penetrating the encampment with stealth.
There would have been Destre spies, watching the fort. But they were guarding against a large body of troops, moving to attack the Zsed. They would take little note of a single rider. The Zsed's outriders had not challenged him, either, thinking that one who wore a tribal mantle was a member of the camp.
The guard line was tenuous, and he slipped cautiously between each outpost. Now and then a challenge was called, but Danaer knew the tongue and gave proper answer, arousing no alarm. As he rode ever deeper into the Zsed, he began to wonder if Nurdanth was correct: a single unescorted courier was the only hope of success in this mission.
Close ahead now were clan fires, casting shadows on gaily striped tent walls and canopies. The women had taken down their looms for the night, and children slept or drowsed on their mothers' laps while the elders regaled any who would hear with Destre legends. Warrior men and women talked of weapons and roans and the movements of the Vrastre game, and they boasted of the raids they would make against the summer's caravans out of Siank.
It was a rich Zsed, well fed and well sheltered, and the contrast with Danaer's home encampment was great. Even the camp dogs were fat. Plainly the Zsed had not suffered in the season just ending. Clans fed on roast haunch of motge or woolback and dipped from steaming pots of simo grain. These were no beg-
gars, and their spirits had never been chastened by defeat.
"Smile, goddess, for all our peoples," Danaer said, sending the words winging to the holy ones.
He must not hesitate from this point forward. At a slow walk, he rode into the clan camp. It would be madness to move quickly. Tribesmen would think it an attack and rope him from the horse at once. He must convince them he was not hostile, and show them no fear.
Danaer drew a few careless glances which soon became hard stares as he passed the first line of tents. A dog barked, then lost interest, though his masters did not. The murmurings began among the people. Before anyone could react, Danaer was beyond them, heading for the next cluster of dwellings. He did not look back, but he knew most, if not all, of the clan he had just left were standing in the path and gawking after him.
He passed two more main camps, using the same method, not hurrying the roan. Word was running before him now, and on either side Danaer sensed the scurryings as people followed his progress. They darted between the tents and picketed animals as they carried the news of Danaer's coming to fellow tribes-folk.
When he rode into the glow of the fourth communal fire, the people were ready for him. A profound silence gripped them, even the youngest babe. If a dog yapped, it was kicked away, its tail between its legs. Rows of eyes watched Danaer. Warriors and dotards, women with sucklings at the breast, big-eyed children, lesser priests and priestesses and herb-healers stared at Danaer in fascination. As he moved by, the stillness broke at last into sharp whispers and angry growling.
At the next fire, a tribe leader waited out ahead of the circle of people. Arms akimbo and feet planted wide, he blocked Danaer's way. Danaer drew rein. The expression on the man's face was one of smothered fury. The cloak he wore proclaimed him a chieftain of a strong clan.
Danaer hoped they would give him a chance to be heard. Careful to use his heaviest Azsed dialect, he said, "Maen gra siray, ae may not ask so great a tribesman to step aside. But ae would beg your people move back that ae can ride through . . ."
"The speech is Destre, but that uniform is much hate to all of the plains." The Siank accent was very thick. "What do you here, Destre? If Destre you be."
"Destre-Y I am, and I bring message to Siirn Gordt te Raa."
"All the way from Nyald, and in that uniform?" Ugly laughter rang through the crowd and children clapped with glee, wanting to witness excitement.
"The message is from Nurdanth, the lit who keeps his vow, te Fael." Danaer gave the General the title the Destre would know. Words could be weapons as much as steel and lance and sling stone, now.
"An lit! As are you! You speak the tongue and wear the eiphren, but. . ."
"I will recite Argan's own sacred law if it will prove me a true Azsed," Danaer said. Too much doubt from too many sides was wearing thin his patience, and warning crept into his voice.
This time there was no laughter, and the chieftain glowered at Danaer's challenging tone. "Get down from there! We will learn if you are a Destre-Y. Put off that lit sword and draw knife!"
Danaer threw his leg over the roan's withers and dropped to the ground. His boot knife was already in his hand, and he kept the chieftain at bay while he unbuckled his sword. Then he took the message from his tunic and put it into the cheek strap of the bridle. "That is to be given to Siirn Gordt te Raa, whether I live or die . . ."
"Let us s
ee if your knife is as bright as your tongue, lit!"
They circled cautiously, blades pointing. Danaer jabbed an elbow into his horse's flank and it shied into the crowd, buying him room to maneuver. This contest must have a quick ending. On every side rose cries of derision, aimed at him. A wave of hatred washed over Danaer.
Abruptly, he swung his mantle hem wide, into the chieftain's face, then put his foot behind the man's knee. It was a gamble on his greater height and weight, a successful one. They tumbled to the dust and struggled furiously for the advantage.
As they fell, the tribesman's knife slashed open Danaer's arm but did not hinder him. In the next minute he gained the position he sought, sitting astride his opponent's chest, his blade against the other's throat. "A second? Or is this besting enough, warrior?"
"Harshaa!" The crowd's hostility changed to a roar of deUght in such fighting skill. "He is no lit, not and handle a knife so!"
"Let him up, soldier." This was a new voice, very deep and masculine and quite close.
Boots straddled the fallen chieftain's head, and Danaer lifted his gaze to look into the craggy face of a man more than a half-arm taller than he. The giant was breathing heavily, swelling the barrel chest beneath Destre shirt and a black and gold vest and mantle.
Black and gold, and a man of such a size—this could only be Gordyan, the notorious personal bodyguard of Gordt te Raa.
Slowly Danaer stood up. The newcomer appeared no smaller from that angle, and Danaer noted that the people had become very still. The tribal chieftain leaped up, panting, his knife out for another attack. Before he could strike, Gordyan seized him by the nape and threw him back to the dust. It was as though he had chastened an unruly boy.
"They say you have a message for the Rena?" Gordyan asked coldly. "The Siirn Rena is most interested in this message from Nurdanth. Bring your paper, and that fair roan." With that, the big man turned and waded into the mass of onlookers.
After a bit of open-mouthed wonder, Danaer hastily retrieved his helmet and caught up his reins, running in Gordyan's wake. The man plowed through the mob of people, parting them with his immense bulk and daunting presence. Taking double steps to keep up with the man's long stride, Danaer ripped a tag of cloth
from his mantle and with his teeth and good hand bound the crude bandage around his wound to staunch the blood. Now and then he tripped on rough ground, threading his way through tents and camps and trying to remain within escort distance of Gordyan.
He had known, in theory, the expanse of Siank Zsed. But now he began to comprehend the folly of his mission. It had been only the will of the goddess that had allowed him to get this far. If Gordyan had not come to fetch him, he would not have come out aUve. The Zised was made up not only of clan tents but of tribal councils of awesome size. Household pavilions and fattening pens and makeshift warehouses held the Zsed's vast properties. Danaer was overwhelmed by the extent of it all. Now he saw Siank Zsed in the flower of its strength and himself as a midge thinking to plague this monster. Not courage but rashness had guided him, as desperation had made the General send him on the errand.
The tents increased in grandeur as Gordyan proceeded to the center of the Zsed, the area reserved for the Siim. Here were the best water and grazing for the Siim's people and herds. The ground rose gradually, and Danaer followed Gordyan toward the Mghest point of the encampment. They approached a veritable palace of a tent, with golden hangings marking the many entryways. More warriors guarded the pavilion. Here odors of food and the warm scents of earth and grass and clean water overcame the common stench of human and animal offal and dung-chip smoke Which filled the lower Zsed. Somewhere close by there was music and singing and happy voices.
The guards glanced at Danaer, gauging him, as befit warriors, protecting their Siim. Just as Gordyan reached the curtain at the main tent, he stopped so short that Danaer nearly collided with him. "Now, this message." He grasped for the paper wedged in the roan's bridle. Danaer was faster, holding the General's letter tightly. It had become his safe conduct. "Your pardon and your favor, but I have sworn to deliver it only into the hands of the Siirn."
The big man glared down at him, his jaw thrust out
belligerently. At last Gordyan grunted assent, gestured for Danaer to wait, then ducked out of sight behind the golden hangings.
Gordyan reappeared, to bid him enter the tent. As Danaer brushed past him, the giant growled, "That message should be of much importance, lit."
The pavilion was lit by costly oil lamps and tapers, and the luxury of its furnishings—caravan booty of the best—made Danaer blink. The interior tent walls were tapestries; cushions and tables and chests were of the finest make, fit for a lord's castle. Yet this was but an entranceway, not the quarters of the Siim and his people.
More guards attended curtained doorways. Like those outside the tent, they were heavily armed against any invasion of the Siirn's privacy. And like those of Gordyan, their garments were vivid with the black and gold colors of the Siim Rena, the leader of all Destre-Y.
"Here, soldier." Gordyan pulled aside drapes. Each compartment was more dazzling than the one before, and more brightly lit. At a final portal, curtained in silver threads, Gordyan slowed his pace, pausing, some of his rough manner replaced with subdued respect. He indicated that Danaer should precede him, then thrust back the drape and a raven-hued gauze beyond it.
They had arrived at the Zsed's heart. Rich fabric peaked into a high roof, and red and green joined the black and gold among the furnishings' colors. There were many plump cushions and booty chests and a number of carven tables inlaid with gems. One of these was set with wine and meat, and a darkly handsome man sat at the table, enjoying a late meal.
He had laid aside his mantle, baring his black hair. His sleeves were turned back that he might better rub the power-giving fat of his eating on his flesh. The man did not deign to look up when Danaer and Gordyan entered.
A woman sat beside him; not so forbidding as her companion, she smiled and rose to greet the Siirn's
bodyguard and the soldier. "Ah! This is the messenger you promised us, Gordyan?"
"True it is, and I grant him that he fights well, army though he be."
Danaer watched the big man sidelong, intrigued by the change in Gordyan. The deep voice had softened and the brute strength was caged. There was even a slight stammer in his words, more than warranted by uncertainty of phrasing. Gordyan's gaze did not stray from the woman but devoured her as a man might the sight of the goddess's image.
"So, you fight well, soldier?" she asked teasingly. "What else do you do?"
"My lady, I have a paper from the hand of General Nurdanth, for Sovereign Gordt te Raa."
"That is a most charming accent, soldier," the woman said. "Now I have placed it—^Nyald. We have not heard good news of Nyald Zsed these past years, I fear. What is your name?"
"Danaer, of the clan of Tlusai."
He was trying not to stare boldly at her. The woman's dialect was as outland as Danaer's own, though of northern, not southern, extraction. Her silken brown hair was tied back simply from a fine-boned face, and her eyes were cave-dark, as black as a moonless night. A warrior woman, she wore shirt and breeches and vest, but those emphasized her slender body. A half-skirt and bejeweled tola-belt about her hips marked her bound to a man, and of high caste among the Destre. Despite that, she looked over Danaer frankly, from helmet to sword to boots, then shook her head, bewildered by the contradictions in his dress. As she did, the eiphren suspended upon her high brow sparked with green fire in the light of the tapers. This was a woman out of the ancient tales, one who seemed to radiate a sexuality as old as humanity, and she was most adept at using her femaleness as a weapon.
A servant rushed into the tented chamber and set down a tray of confections. The woman gawked ingenuously at Danaer. "Why, he is a soldier! Gordyan did not joke about that, Lasiirnte."
Lasiirnte? Princess of the Azsed?
Danaer's emotions reeled. H
ad he been talking so casually with Lasiirnte Kandra, ruler of the Ve-Nya tribes, consort of the Siirn Rena?
"Bring wine, for later, Esbeti," Kandra said.
With a sigh, the man at the table pushed away the remnants of his meal and at last regarded Danaer. His face was a mask that revealed nothing, but his dark eyes cut holes through Danaer's hard-bought confidence. This was Gordt te Raa, chieftain of the Vrastre from Deki on the River to the Plains-of-No-Ending beyond Barjokt. He could command the death of an army scout—or an army—^by no more than a nod and a word.
"Gordyan tells me that you bring a letter from Nur-danth," Gordt te Raa said. There was little patience in his manner and voice. Reluctantly, Danaer delivered the now somewhat soiled paper, then stepped back to his place and waited apprehensively.
Danaer was impressed to see that Gordt te Raa needed no scribe to translate the scrawling. This was a rare Destre who could read, and he pored over Nur-danth's message thoughtfully. "Your General speaks well, on paper. But dare a Destre trust a lord of The Interior?"
Uncomfortable in this new role of emissary, Danaer said, "Siirn, the General is a worshipper of Peluva, but his honor is that of a tribesman, by all accounts. He is not one who will lie. And I am instructed to assure you that his message comes in good faith as well from Royal Commander Malol te Eldri and from King Tobentis."
A nasty laugh answered him, echoed by a loud guffaw from Gordyan. Only Kandra restrained her bitterness, glancing sympathetically at Danaer. Gordt te Raa lost his momentary amusement. "I can believe in the honor of Nurdanth, for it is fabled. And perhaps we may trust this other lord, this Malol. But King Tobentis? Never! And I see you share our opinion, though your oath to the army makes you hold your tongue."
Danaer squirmed inwardly, fairly struck. Tobentis
was the sovereign who clauned his service, but courtiers and palace politics were poor guides to governing the vast diversity of Krantin.
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