The web of wizardry

by Coulson, Juanita

  For the most part, the targets came easy now, practice and art blending to put the circlets on the spear point. Danaer dipped the lance as he passed each position, by the rules, dropping his trophies one by one, then going on to the next target. At last he was crossing the space before the final and most difficult of the goals. His roan shaved the entrance poles, but none fell.

  Danaer matched his balance to that of the horse as they came at the run. His lance was ready and he called, "Ka-saa!" The responsive roan increased his pace, dipping, bringing his rider into direct line with the target. Done! Danaer quickly lifted the lance and circlet and braced for the jump over the water barriel beyond the last position. The roan sprang across and landed cleanly on the grassy flat.

  A deafening ovation erupted as Danaer delivered up his last precious circlet of bone and turned toward the contest line. For a heartbeat, Gordyan glared at him, his craggy countenance dark and threatening. Then a reluctant smile broke. "Warrior, you won honestly. Where did you learn that trick of setting the roan at the charge just as you hit home?"

  "Spearing sand lizards at Nyald Zsed," Danaer said, only partly joking. "I had a further advantage; my roan is smaller than yours, and more of a level with the targets."

  Gordyan cocked his head, weighing that placating comment. Then he said gruffly, "Get to the judges, or they may still award me the honor by default."

  Danaer's name was announced, and then the judges stepped back to leave him alone, facing the pavilion. Malol and the General and Lira Nalu were gazing down at him with pride. But Gordt te Raa's face was

  unfathomable, as were the expressions of many other Destre chieftains.

  It was the custom for a victor in contest to dedicate his triumph. That simple ritual was now heavy with peril. Danaer knew he must guard every word lest he give offense.

  "All praise to Argan, the praiseworthy, and to Gordt te Raa, Siirn of Siank Zsed . . ."

  That much could be said safely. But more was expected, and the crowd hushed, waiting. Danaer steeled himself and said, "My soul to Argan, my honor to my word, and my victory to Krantin."

  Murmurs, and sighs of reUef, spread among the onlookers. It was obvious they had feared some alien lit dedication which would spoil the vrentru. Even the chieftains under the pavilion seemed easier for Danaer's dedication, one acceptable to any Destre-Y. Most turned to their companions and chatted on the fine points of the contests just concluded.

  One of the dignitaries continued to stare at Danaer. Gordt te Raa studied the soldier until Danaer began to feel a deep uncertainty. The Siirn Rena was inscrutable, unmoving—and he was the final arbiter of what would be the outcome of this fateful council.

  VIII

  The Storm Magic of Markuand

  Other, less important contests were beginning on the field. But Gordt te Raa gave a barely perceptible signal, and all around the canopy servants began working ropes. In minutes the immense sunshade was converted to a tent, enclosing the council. The chieftains and their attendants rearranged themselves into a rough circle, with Commander Malol's party now seated at the Siirn Rena's left. More servants hurried

  in and out, bringing roasted meat and larded grain cakes and leathern bottles of wine for each dignitary and attendant.

  Malol and Lira were disturbed by the unseemly haste of Destre eating habits. General Nurdanth, with his deep knowledge of the plains people, was not surprised. Nor, of course, was Danaer. lU at ease, the Royal Commander and the sorkra tried to copy the manners of their neighbors, refraining from conversation and gobbling their food. Destre-Y ate as if they knew not when they might eat again. The last crumbs were licked from jBngers, then servants bore away the remnants.

  Warrior chieftains picked at their teeth yvith knives and wiped greasy hands on forearms and their richly stained vests. All around the circle intent and none too friendly stares were shifting toward the four strangers. When all the amenities of belchings and compliments had been done, Gordt te Raa ceremoniously removed his mantle, folding it and placing it on the bare earth before his cushion. His hair was still covered by a plain dust cowl, in the manner of Destre-Y on formal occasions. The Siim Rena stood and stepped out into the circle, standing beside his mantle. He raised high his eiphren ring and invoked the goddess. "Argan, guide our wills."

  Tribal mantles were taken ofi and laid before their owners, a massive proclaiming of the assembled clans and callings. Gordt te Raa returned to his position of honor beside his consort. "Speak, Royal Commander."

  It was all the introduction Malol te Eldri was to receive. Kandra glanced at the visitors, her eyes shining with sympathy. For a moment Danaer thought she might plead with her lord and beg more welcome for these people of the army. Danaer was not the only one who noticed Kandra's reaction. Gordyan was hunkering against a tent pole near his master and mistress. Now he rubbed a hand over his chin, looking torn. He would second the desire of the Lasiimte, even if it might run counter to that of his sovereign. Yet the Siim's bodyguard dared not open his mouth. He hulked and seemed miserable to be caught in the

  dilemma. At length Kandra sighed, deciding not to argue or to defend the guests.

  If Malol te Eldri was daunted, he concealed it well. He spoke without apology or preamble, as Nurdanth had advised him. Danaer Ustened with great interest as the Commander told of Markuand's invasion and victories, and what was Hkely to come. That done, he broached the possibihty of an alliance, a thing unheard of between Destre and the army, a united force to hurl back the awesome might of Markuand.

  Nurdanth had tutored his kinsman and fellow oflS-cer well. Malol's manners were nearly impeccable. Though an lit and gently bom and reared, he adapted himself readily to this audience. The Royal Commander wisely did not attempt the difficult Destre dialect, speaking only Krantin, with an occasional reference in a plains tongue common among traders and caravan leaders.

  When he came to the end, there was a long, brooding silence in the tent. At last, it was broken. "You speak of the survival of Krantin, Army." The curt statement came from a tribal chieftain at the far side of the circle. Danaer eyed his mantle, remembering the man as Handri-Shaal of KaUsarik. "All Krantin, then?"

  "All Krantm," Malol te Eldri insisted. "In this defense of our land, we must be as one."

  There was another thoughtful silence until Gordt te Raa urged, "You must reply to this, Siim-Y. The tribes, and the spilled blood, will be yours."

  A woman got to her feet, and Lira plucked at Danaer's sleeve and leaned close, whispering, "Wyaela te Fihar, the second in conmiand of Vidik Zsed?"

  "Most correct." Danaer marveled that she had heard the woman's name but once, in passing, yet had forgotten neither title nor tribe.

  "What of these invaders, these Markuand?" Wyaela demanded. She was not beauteous, nor did she wear the half-skkt of wedlock, as did Kandra. "How great is this threat? What manner of warfare may we anticipate from this new enemy?"

  "The sorkra can tell you." Malol te Eldri gestured to Lira. "The Lady Nalu is part of the Web of Wizards. She will give you what we have learned through that Web of far-seeing ..."

  Lira, even standing, looked small and fragile amid the Krantin-Y on every side. But everyone attended her with awe and respect. Like Danaer, they all feared and honored the sorkra, and Hke him, had been glad to avoid dealings with wizards until now.

  Dramatically, Lira pressed her fingertips against her temples and said, "Know you that for those of my calling the mind may see just as the eyes may. With the Web, a sorkra may see across a journey of a candle-mark, or across a ten-days' distance. My Web has seen terrible slaughter and conquest in the land of the Clarique. These aUen Markuand have overrun the outer islands. The Markuand dress all in white. They are ever silent. They chant no war cries and, like the Destre-Y, never show pain during battle. They do not beg for mercy, nor do they give mercy. No man survives their victories—only women and children they capture as slaves. They butcher their captives and mutilate the bodies savagely. Quick death is the mos
t desired gift of their bested foes. And the women . . ."

  Lira faltered, her tiny figure swaying as if she were about to faint. Danaer got to one knee, his hands out' to break the sorkra's faU. But gradually Lira came to herself and steadied, swallowing, forcing herself to goon.

  The tent seemed cold. Even with Peluva's sacred burden shining brightly and gilding the grass beyond the pavilion, a great grim shadow fell over the council as they listened. Could it be the wings of the beast-bird, Nidil, the omen of terror and death? Men and women chafed limbs to bring back warmth to flesh prickling with chiU.

  "The women," Lira said, her voice trembling, "endure brutality beyond imagining, a using by beasts and demons, not men—a degradation past bearing. Women pray to find a weapon to strike back at then: new masters, or failing that, one to kill themselves

  with. The regions of the Evil God are preferable to their Uves now ..."

  Gasps of outrage shook her audience. Among the plains people, the will of the goddess was supreme, and the delights of the flesh were worship of Argan. If a man were worthy and took warrior woman in honest battle, she might deem him her true conqueror and accept him. If she resisted, he must relish the challenge of proving his valor until she was persuaded. In time of content, a freebom Destre woman bestowed her favors as she chose, or perhaps pledged herself to that man who won her loyalty. The goddess blessed those who took joy in her, and rape was a crime associated with the lit, not with the easy favors and lusty customs of the Zseds. This story of the Clarique women, and what they had suffered at the hands of the Markuand, shocked the council. Unthinkable!

  Kandra found the courage to ask, "And where are these ... these monsters now?"

  In answer, Malol te Eldri unroUed a map he had brought. "They advance on Laril-Quil, the greatest city of Clarique, that place that once was Traecheus. It is not hoped Laril-Quil can withstand Markuand long."

  Gordt te Raa mentioned the news received in his original message from General Nurdanth. "You say the best soldier of the Clarique was defeated by magic..."

  Lira nodded. Danaer watched her worriedly, alarmed by her pallor. "That is true. General Thaerl was enchanted by evil spells. He ran witless from the field of battle, bested by the sorcery of Markuand."

  "He had somewhere to run," Malol said. "Krantin does not. Beyond the Plains of Barjokt lies the end of the world. If we survive, we must deny Markuand our country— all of Krantin."

  Gordt te Raa glanced at Lira. "Wise little sorkra, what of that woman warrior, that she-devil Ti-Mori?" The Royal Commander stiffened at this insulting reference to the herome, the daughter of a lord of The

  Interior. Danaer shook his head, warning him to contain his anger.

  "Ti-Mori?" Lira blinked several times, seeming disoriented. The folds of her gown stirred, but no breath of breeze had come through the tent. Visibly, she shivered away the phenomenon. "Ti-Mori gathers her scattered forces. South, south of Jlandla, southward of the Markuand advance. She intends to march around them and rejoin the army of Krantin, and her warriors are still many in number. We may count on her aid ..."

  "And the Markuand? What of their numbers?"

  "To our Web they appeared past counting—twenty legions, thirty, or forty. Row upon row of white-clad hordes, and more arriving daily over the Great Sea Beyond the Islands..."

  Gordt te Raa and his Destre-Y winced at this recital. One of the chieftains stood up, and the mutter-ings around the circle hushed. The Siim was of paler complexion than most Destre-Y and his hair was streaked with gold. Plainly there was much of Clarique in his ancestry. "I would add my words to those of the sorkra."

  "Lorzosh-Fila," Danaer prompted Malol as the Royal Commander furtively searched his parchment for the man's name. "He is Siim of Deki on the River."

  "This army leader speaks truth," Lorzosh-Fila said. "The Markuand face us squarely. My spies bring me bad news every candle-mark now. Many of the Clarique are crossing the river to us, seeking sanctuary. We take them in if we can, but our food supplies are dwindling. Deki and her granaries cannot continue this charity for long. The Markuand are beginning to press hard, to north and south, and against the coast of Clarique. Few boats now come down our river, and no ships come up from the Clarique seas. I plead for all your help. I would, on my faith, that I had both an lit army and a band of Destre warriors to guard Deki's walls. Deki is a fortress, but it will fall to Markuand if you do not come to our aid. We will starve, and then we will die."

  Often Destre-Y would hide their innermost thoughts at council. But the faces of the chieftains revealed their dismay, so shocked were they. Questions came at Lira and Malol te Eldri, and at General Nurdanth, who was well known among the Siank clans. The voices were less and less belligerent with each new answer. Many of the chieftains knew only the Azsed tongue, and often Danaer had to translate for Lira and the officers. Some questions were repeated again and again, a probing of details in search for truth, no longer doubting the greater story.

  Danaer detected the altered attitude and exulted. Malol's gamble was winning. Danaer had sat on the fringes of smaller gatherings such as this, when he was a youth in Nyald Zsed. He knew the directions questions would take, and when the shift in the wind would mark growing agreement. Success was surely very near.

  At that moment, alarm spread over Lira's round face. Her garments were stirring again, but now the cold wind that assaulted her could be felt by everyone in the tent. Winter's ice, stinging the skin, shcing into marrow, came without warning, carried on a howling wind.

  Buffeted cruelly by the worst of the sleet. Lira raised her arms. Her voice was shrill as she chanted a magical phrase. In sudden horror, Danaer understood. Wizardry! Attacking the sorkra—and the council!

  Even as that comprehension rushed upon him, the wind strengthened to a fierce roaring, ripping at the canopy and shredding it, exposing the council to the open sky and fields. And a new astonishment fell upon the gathering.

  The storm existed only in this spot! On the field of contest and among the dwellings of the Zsed there was calm. The chieftains and Malol's party were cut off from the rest of the world, caged in by witchcraft!

  Warriors cowered and some left their places, trying to flee this magical storm—only to be knocked to the earth by that merciless, ahen wind. The priests among them mouthed prayers, invoking Argan's protection. Their words were torn from their lips, lost in

  the roaring sleet. Hair and beards thickened with icy coatings, fingers turned blue with cold, and men and women choked on fear.

  A blinding sheet of lightning broke overhead. Every face was lit brilliantly, and when vision cleared, all saw that they were bathed in blue-white radiance. They braced for the deafening thunderclap which must follow—but it did not. Lightnings walked the tent poles, those which had stood against the wind. The eerie glow danced through the rags of the pa-vihon, and never a crack of thunder. Warriors who could confront the most murderous human foe had no stomach for this terrible wizardry.

  Amid the chaos. Lira fought to keep her position, her arms still lifted in some countersorcery. It seemed the little Sarli must be picked up and devoured by the storm wind. Danaer gulped down his dread, concentrating on Lira, realizing the sorkra was their one hope against this thing. Her lips moved, forming the name "Ulodovol." She was summoning her Web to help her! Indeed, one tiny woman should not wage such a battle alone.

  Till her fellow wizards came to her aid, Danaer must champion Lira. Crawling against the sleet, he groped toward her. Another figure approached from the opposite direction with the same intent. Danaer and Lasiimte Kandra reached the sorkra simultaneously. Resisting the furious wind, they rose to their knees, locking their hands about Lira Nalu. Army scout and Destre princess supported the pretty Sarli wizard. When her strength failed, they helped her lift her hands skyward once more—for only her spell-casting held off the evil storm from slaying them all. "Power . . . you of the Web ... to me!" Lira was screaming, very close to Danaer's ear, or he would not have heard
her. Kandra's exquisite face was contorted by the wind and her honest fear. But she maintained her grip on the sorkra, as did Danaer. If Lira did not win, this Markuand magic might strike them all, destroying the council!

  Their alliance bolstered Lna as she continued to chant. Ulodovol must be at Siank garrison, some dis-

  tance away. And the other wizards of this Web? If they could reach out to far Clarique, surely they could rally to Lira's aid ...

  But they had not been able to save their fellow wizard in Clarique.

  Kandra bent her sleek head, bracing Lira's with her own, steadying the smaller woman. Danaer felt a man's hands upon his, adding to the ring of bodies protecting Lira. It was Gordt te Raa, side by side with his consort, fathoming her purpose and Danaer's. They sheltered the wizard woman all around, giving Lira space to breathe—and to weave magic—amid the raging storm.

  All at once, as suddenly as it had fallen upon them, the wind died. A cloud beast might have sucked up the darkness and silent lightning into itself, then melted away as mist in the sunlight.

  And there was sunlight. Peluva's golden burden poured warmth and comfort down on the shattered ruins. Men and women picked themselves out of the rubble. They had braved death in clan wars and caravan raids, but now many edged away, as if to flee the knoll where wizardry had seized them.

  "Destre! Do you forget? We are a council." Gordt te Raa proved his right to be Siirn Rena, his courage, and that of his woman, an example to his chieftains. "Resume your places. We are not done."

  Gordyan was wide-eyed, but unlike many others, he had made no attempt to escape the knoll. He came to Lasiirnte Kandra, anxiously asking after her welfare, then, belatedly, after the sorkra's. Encouraged by their rephes, he looked at Danaer and said fervently, "The goddess will honor you for your courage, warrior."