The web of wizardry

by Coulson, Juanita

  "A Destre warrior can cross the Vrastre in a five-day, easily," Gordyan said with a loud snort.

  "He does not transport with him a wagon tram of supplies to relieve the siege of Deki."

  Irrepressible, Gordyan grinned and said, "I know that, but still it is a good jest—to see Straedanfi being escort to a line of creaking wagons." He slapped his big thigh and guffawed. "Straedanfi, the terror of Kakyein's tribes—nursemaid to a bunch of carts!"

  Yistar's red mustache bristled. "I do not think Lorzosh-Fila will begrudge the wagons' heaviness, though. And he may appreciate that we brought the caravan through nearly intact. Further, I intend to show him this is a fighting group of warriors, not a gaggle of drivers and plowboys."

  Gordyan noticed Danaer and his conscripts going by and winked at him merrily. "Ai! Now to your true

  work. You on the walls and my warriors on the northern bluffs to guard your flank. And I will match you —if my men do not please Siirn Lorzosh-Fila, I will set them to mucking the army's stables instead of fighting with me. Eh?"

  "As may be," Yistar said gruffly, only partially mollified. He glanced at Danaer. "And what are you grinning at, you Nyald lizard-chaser?"

  With some effort, Danaer swallowed his laughter. "I think a welcoming committee is approaching us, Captain."

  "Mm? Very good! Lieutenant..."

  "We will be ready." Branra's helmet dangled from his saddle, and as yet he made no move to don it. But the rest of his uniform was quite correct. As Yistar fretted among the other aides, Branra nodded to Danaer and said, "Notify Troop Leader Shaartre I will be wanting your units to lead off. You may ride with them now, for your task is well done." The warmth of Branra's tone was that of one soldier to another, a campaigner complimenting a comrade. Danaer gave him a sharp salute, then chased his conscripts where they belonged.

  "There you are," Shaartre said when he reached their units. "Enough time gone, I must say." He swung around to bellow last-minute insults at the lines. "You have saddled those blacks Hke some fop's carriage team! Straighten up, there. And you, put that helmet on right!"

  His apprentices had taken their places and Danaer had assumed his ordinary duties, seconding Shaartre in getting the men set at their best. Then he heard admiring whispers, the sounds soldiers made when looking at an attractive woman. Envying looks flicked toward him, and Danaer turned around quickly, sensing what he would see. Lira was riding along the column toward him. She had discarded the youth's uniform; her bright yellow gown was belted with a kirtle Danaer had not seen before, a narrow little band of leather adorned with chips of obsidian and copper. Her apprentice sorkra cloak, a dun color, not

  Ulodovors dark brown, was flung loosely about her shoulders, stirring a bit in the breeze.

  Danaer stepped away from the hnes to meet her, wishing they had more privacy. She leaned forward a bit and said softly, "I ... I wanted to see you before we enter the city." She seemed unusually hesitant, uncertain. Danaer noticed she had tried to disguise the pallor caused by her fatigue with touches of woman's paint. Her lips and cheeks were rosy, a false bit of color. Danaer wanted to say she needed no such shams to enhance her beauty.

  "I must ride with Captain Yistar," she said. "See? He even brought along a noblewoman's sidesaddle for me to ride, and my little mare, so I can make a grand impression on the chieftains of Deki. He wishes me to represent all my Web." Her gaiety was as false as the paint, and Danaer felt the terrible fear that filled her being. Her voice lowered, barely audible, as she asked, "Do ... do you still wear the amulet of Rasven?"

  He touched his breast and nodded, wishing he could forget the onlookers and speak freely. She was terrified! Of what? More magic?

  "Perhaps it would be better if—^but no! You must keep it close with you—always." Lira sucked in her breath sharply. "Oh, Danaer, they are so powerful. He is so powerful. There is one wizard who rules them all, the Traech Sorkra thinks. He . .. you must promise you will never take the talisman off. Not for a moment."

  Again he nodded, much disturbed. Lira said no more, but tugged the reins and loped back toward the head of the column. She left Danaer touched by a taint of dark things, a daunting reminder that in these matters he was helpless to protect her.

  Branra approached them, and Shaartre and Danaer sat up straighter, awaiting his orders. The officer's black moved along easily, sure-footed and unlathered, proof of its rider's skill. Shaartre and Danaer jabbed heels in their mounts, edging them apart, leaving a gap into which Branra could ride. He smiled at the veteran's trick, acceptmg the invitation and stopping be-

  tween them, "We move up, directly behind the Captain and the Dekan ofladals. Be grateful. This way we will not be eating wagon dust."

  The Troop Leaders grinned at one another. Branra had adopted their units, and made no secret of it. The Lieutenant went on, "We get the chance to awe the citizens with our splendor. The Captain believes the spectators will grow bored and leave long before our more slovenly troops and rickety wagons pass through the gates. And our mounts will be the only ones stabled within Deki, rather than pastured out in the villages. Should the occasion arise, we will act as mounted couriers or escorts for dignitaries. It is unlikely that will be needed. However, bear well in mmd that having our horses close at hand also means we have a great advantage during a sudden retreat."

  "Are we to expect retreat, my lord?" Shaartre asked with guarded politeness.

  "Expect everything, and receive fewer surprises." Branra brushed patrician fingers over his sleeve, preening like a courtier. But his hands were soiled with honest dirt and scratched and scarred from labor and battle, like any common soldier's. He smiled benignly at the Troop Leaders and their units. "Look sharp, now. We will show Deki their walls will have fighting men to defend them now."

  The caravan wheeled out, Danaer's units first, past infantry and other cavalry lines, forming up at the head of the column. The dignitaries had come out from the walls and Yistar was exchanging courtesies with them. Danaer watched the proceedings sidelong. Lorzosh-Fila looked thinner than he had at the Destre council; his gaudy Clarique-fashioned sleeved cloak all but hung on his gaunt frame. By his side was a younger Destre, a close attendant or some fellow Siirn; that man's hair was a light brown and his eyes were very dark, perhaps black. After studying him surreptitiously a few minutes, Danaer looked at his mantle to identify his tribe: Ve-Nya. Of course; he was Patkin, brother to Lasiirnte Kandra. It was his life she had feared for when first she had heard news of Markuand and the assault of Deki. He was young,

  but he looked capable. Danaer felt sure he would acquit himself with honor in the battle to come.

  The formahties were lengthy. The alliance was very new and must be treated delicately. The proprieties must be observed, on both sides, with much care that no offense was given to customs of Destre or the army.

  At last the flags went up, fluttering colorfully, spelling out this combined force in silk and wool. The red, black, and gold crossed lightnings of The Interior and the green half-moon of Deki stood side by side—the flags, and the warriors they represented. Hard-faced Destre galloped in to join Gordyan's men alongside the wagons. The teamsters eyed them uneasily, preferring their own soldiery as escort. But now the wagons had been delivered to Lorzosh-Fila, and Deki's militia of plainsmen would guard their contents henceforth.

  "Forward at a walk. Troop Leaders," Branra said calmly as the Captain and his staff and the Dekans rode toward the gates.

  It was pleasing to see improved horsemanship and an even pace. Wagons and foot troops and cavalry went smoothly down the gentle incline. No trees obscured the view now, for the wood nearest the walls had been felled generations ago to fuel the cook fires of Deki. The gates had been opened to welcome the caravan. Like some immense gray woman of stone, the walls flung wide their arms to embrace the army of Krantin.

  Danaer sought out Lira's form among those of the dignitaries. Now and then he caught a glimpse of her yellow gown and headband. But she and her mare were
so small that they were often hidden behind an official or a staff officer.

  The gates loomed frighteningly large, and Danaer was gripped by a strange illusion that the walls had begun to lean outward. Presently they must topple down on the puny caravan below! It was only a trick of his eyes, but most vivid. He looked away from the towering heights and concentrated on the gates. Determinedly, he pulled his Ups into a firm line, for it

  would not do to ride into Deki with his jaw agape like some rude peasant.

  Pennants and banners waved, then passed under the massive arch. An audience of eager Dekans craned their necks to peer out of the city and see the oncoming parade. They gawked at their Siirn and Captain Yistar and Lira.

  Then Danaer was riding under the arch, through the gates, and into Deki. It was like coming out of blinding sunlight into a windowless cell. The buildings soared above him, sometimes touching above the crooked, narrow street. Everything within Deki was constructed of the same heavy gray stone as the outer walls—like a city made out of a hideous dark fungus which had turned to rock.

  He felt momentary panic, thinking of entombment, that peculiar custom the lit used to honor their dead, burying them in their mountains. What if he should never see the sky again?

  This was no way to fight battle. A man should ride on the plains, over hills and valleys with space for a roan to run and slopes to give impetus to lance charge or hurtling sling stone. How could a warrior fight here inside these walls, in these cramped and tortuous alleyways? There was no room here for even a small unit of soldiers to maneuver.

  Despite his promise to himself, Danaer looked up apprehensively at the looming structures and his mouth opened in dread. The city was dressed in gray, color of death, like some stony corpse. Osyta's prophecy roared in his mind, and Malol's warnings.

  You go into danger, Destre-Y . . .

  / do not believe we can save Deki, but we must try...

  Now that he rode through these impossibly close quarters, Danaer's spirits sank. The only hope for victory lay in keeping Markuand safely outside Deki's walls. If they breached the barricade and entered the city, there would be slaughter to equal the carnage at Jlandla Hill, and worse.

  Truly, how could a man fight in these cold stone streets?

  The answer was obvious, and chilling. A man would not be able to fight long here at all. Surrounded by pitiless gray walls, he could die swiftly, and without any hope of vengeance.

  XV

  Markuand Will Come like A Flood

  "They are taking out the wagons!" one of the infantrymen shouted, and a ripple of dismay ran through the marching lines.

  "Keep moving," Danaer ordered sternly. They obeyed, but continued to watch with anxious eyes as a stream of civilian refugees moved past them toward Deki's western gates.

  "Those . . . those are army wagons," the soldiers protested.

  "Ai, the ones in worst shape." Danaer was unsympathetic with their fear. "The passengers are women and babes, now that the suppUes are all emptied."

  "But they are abandoning us here, with no way to get back across the wasteland!"

  Shaartre rode back along the line, adding his voice to Danaer's. Both Troop Leaders wanted to forestall malingering and panic. "What is this nonsense?" Shaartre yelled at them. "Why did you think we came to Deki, soldier? To turn and run immediately? Move! Move!"

  Mumbling complaints, they trudged on through the darkening streets. These were the last of the troops to be led to makeshift barracks Deki had provided for the army. Danaer was beginning to wish he had left this lot of puhng whiners back at the intersection where he and Shaartre had taken them in hand. The

  infantrymen had been lolling about, tired and confused, their own Troop Leader having wandered oS somewhere. His men were ripe targets for any of the less savory locals who coveted their gear and arms.

  If Deki was menacing by Hght of day, it seemed a maze of stone by night. Blackness filled narrow, winding streets, broken only occasionally by the gleam of smoking torches or lamplight escaping from below-streets doorways. Many Dekans were abroad, towing small carts or toting their meager belonging on heads and backs. A great number seemed to be hurrying to escape the city, willing to risk the dangers of the open lowlands and the Sink beyond.

  "This way! Lively, now! Move, you sluggards!" Shaartre guided the ragged group into what was once a large stable belonging to a Dekan merchant. When the newcomers saw some of their comrades awaiting them here, some of their uneasiness dissipated. Shaartre craned his neck and looked back down the street. *Ts that the last of them?"

  "No stragglers," Danaer assured him.

  "Bah! I heard some of these same wet-ears bragging that they wanted to go into Vidik. They boasted, then, that they would have Destre women and would kill any Destre who opposed them. Look at them now. I am glad we are quartered on another street, not rubbing elbows with this bag of fools." Shaartre sighed. "Well, we have them safely tucked in, at least. I had best report to Yistar. You go get some sleep."

  "I think I will come with you, just to see a bit more of Deki."

  A gap-toothed grin was Danaer's reward for that. "Huh! And to see the wizard woman, eh?"

  "Is the Lady Nalu quartered with the Captain's staff?" Danaer asked innocently, and Shaartre's laughter rang off damp stone walls.

  It was not far to the command post. Siim Lorzosh-Fila had given over for Yistar's use a large inn. Danaer could well imagine the outrage that confiscation had caused in a Destre city long unused to the presence of any large body of army men. But he would cast his wager on the side of Yistar and Deki's Siim against

  any merchant's objections, no matter how wealthy the tradesman might be.

  When Danaer and Shaartre arrived at the inn, they were almost bowled over by a courier. The soldier ran out the open doors and leaped on his horse, then raced off on a near collision course with the two Troop Leaders. They gazed after him a moment, then at the steady traffic of officers, and orderlies going and coming from the inn. Everyone seemed bent on important errands. "I will report," Shaartre said, "but I suspect the Captain will not have much time to waste hearing of petty details like ours."

  There was a babble of conversation in the main room of the commandeered inn. Messages were dispatched and arguments raged between aides and minor oflScials of Deki's hierarchy. There were army uniforms and those of Deki's militia, marked by vests stitched with the green half-moon symbol of the city. A few Siank Destre were there as well, and Gordyan most definitely was present. His strong voice overbore many of the others'. The big man was regaling younger members of Yistar's staff. Danaer had heard some of the tales before and smiled at the awe in the junior officers' faces and the way they flinched when Gordyan buffeted them to punctuate his stories.

  Then Gordyan saw Danaer and greeted him heartily. He left his audience and led his friend aside, speaking low. "Do you remember what occurred that night near Vidik, hyidu?" His mood was quite altered now, very somber.

  Danaer shot a wary look around the room. "Is Hablit here?"

  "There are rumors of it. Lorzosh-Fila has set agents to seek him out with all diligence. If he or his traitorous minions lurk in Deki, they will find him. I must soon ride out to the bluffs north of here, so guard your back well while I am gone, eh? What do you here at Straedanfi's little fort?"

  "My fellow Troop Leader must report..."

  "Ah! Long-Fang's snarling of late. It seems Yistar did not win the race against Ti-Mori after all," Gordyan said.

  Danaer followed Gordyan's nod. Across the room a curtain was being flung back, revealing an alcove where high oflicers had conferred in private. Now they came out into the room and much of the chatter ceased. Leading the group were a strong-faced young woman and a strutting bantam of a Sarli. The man was Qhorda, the brigand who ruled the river marshes south of Deki. A notorious thief, he was also a patriot who had struck an alliance with those who had been his enemies, the better to fight Markuand. The woman at his side was taller than he, for she was a
Krantin of noble blood. Many had called her mad, but none had gainsaid Ti-Mori when she raised an army to go to the aid of beleaguered Clarique. Long ere most in her own land had sensed the danger of Markuand, she had reacted to this holy cause, trading the luxuries of her rank for the skirted knee breeches and close-fitting tunic of Clarique's army—a uniform now frayed and stained with blood and dirt. The clothes did not conceal a woman's body, but she had cropped her hair and put by all else that might mark her for female. Had her father sired a son, he could not have wished for a more valiant one. But because she denied her sex and birthright, her kindred knew shame. The minstrels, though, already proclaimed Ti-Mori a heroine.

  Ofl&cers bowed respectfully to them both. The Sarli accepted their homage and preened. Ti-Mori ignored it. But her rapid progress through the room came to an abrupt halt as she noticed Danaer and Gordyan. Qhorda looked them over idly, but Ti-Mori's scrutiny was sharp. "You are Destre, but what are you?" she demanded of Danaer. It was not a hostile question, though startling in its bluntness.

  "Troop Leader Danaer, in the service of Captain Yistar, my lady .. ."

  "General. Call me General." Ti-Mori continued to study him. She reminded him of Branra in her method of assessing a man to see if he was worth the food he consumed and what manner of fighter he would be. Indeed, m her own way, her fame approached Branra's. "Yistar's scout. I think he said he owned

  one. A useful thing, no doubt, scouring the Vrastre clean of bandit tribes."