The web of wizardry (41 page)

"I will take sword and lance in this battle!" It was a woman's voice.

"The Rena wishes you would not," Gordyan said gently, most deferentially.

Kandra stood before him. She tossed her head, her hair like a shimmering flag, her green eiphren spark-

ling. "I am Lasiirnte of Ve-Nya, and I will command."

Gordyan was almost abject. It was a tone Danaer had never heard him use. "Forgive me, Lasiirnte, please. You are a most skilled rider, but you are unblooded, as befits the consort of the Rena. I ... I know I speak out of place, but serve the Rena otherwise, I beg you. Offer Malol and Nurdanth advice on the fighting methods of our people and how to employ them best..."

"That is their realm, not mine. Do you think I would let Wyaela best me?" Kandra's black eyes flashed with indignation. She pointed across the valley at Thaante's height. "She makes her stand there. And I will hold here! It is done. We are warriors both."

"Lasiirnte," Danaer broke in, "your favor, but Gordyan speaks with much wisdom in this thing."

"Ve-Nya will follow only me, and that is an end of it," Kandra snapped. Her face was bright with the same battle fervor that inspired all the Destre-Y today. "How would Argan deem any chieftain who would not lead her tribe to war? The lit commander must hide behind his flags, safe from the line of blood. But we are Destre-Y. / am Destre-Y! The Rena defends Thaante's center, and I will meet the Markuand, lance to lance, here. My brother died at Deki. Now Ve-Nya Zsed has none to lead them but me, his chosen successor. And they will have that right," she finished with ferocious pride. Her attention swung to Danaer again. "Soldier, do you bring me a message?"

Impressed by her regal manner, he conveyed Branra's report. Kandra accepted it with a curt nod and turned away to speak with some of her warriors. Gordyan's gaze met Danaer's and he said, "I will be close to her left hand, with my personal guard. Yet the Rena is most worried, and so am I. But he will not deny her this." Danaer smiled wanly as Gordyan shook his head and went on. "Truly, she is a chieftain, just as Wyaela is. You . . . you say Branraediir is on our flank? Good! Bloody Sword will not desert us when we need him."

When Danaer got back to his units, an air of expectancy hovered over them. Danaer had seen its

cause during his short ride along the ridge. Mountainous clouds of dust rolled up in the Vrastre east of the valley. The reason for those clouds must be close, and it could only be that tens of hundreds of feet and hooves broke the earth and stirred it to powder.

Everyone watched the clouds eagerly, standing by his horse and awaiting the commands. Shaartre and Rorluk and Xashe and many of Danaer's comrades murmured their restlessness. Courage was building, and they tired of doing nothing. Veteran and merchant's son and peasant herdsman were at one with each other. Like Danaer, most of these units had trekked to Deki and lost many a brave friend. They had learned that the tales of the Destre were not aU true, and that in this battle the enemy was Markuand. Though the men of The Interior lacked the customs that bound Destre warriors, Danaer had seen their valor through the years and did not scorn it. On every side now they took oath, swearing to acquit themselves well and perhaps to avenge a dead man the Markuand had slain.

Danaer made his own vow silently: For Argan, and to gift Straedanfi. May he bear with him to his god every second Markuand I slay. Drink their blood and curse their souls, Keth, Dread Guardian of the Portals.

A white pennant was raised on the slope below. Across the valley a finger of fire stabbed into the late-morning skies, spewing orange sparks. It was a device Danaer had never heard of or seen, and the loud explosion that accompanied it made the horses nervous. There had been rumors of some new signaling invention, a secret among the lords. Now it seemed Malol was using it to manage the movements of his noblemen.

Men examined their weapons and fidgeted. Now the valley was being buried in dust. Danaer put his distance-trained vision to work. Under the cloud there were horses, many of them army blacks with a scattering of roans and a few of the reddish-colored steeds the Clarique favored. With them were men and women warriors, pretending to be in headlong flight. Green

banners fluttered, the tattered standards of Clarique which had survived the debacle at Jlandla Hill.

Ti-Mori! Rejoining her countrymen at last! Like a shamming golhi-pup which dragged its leg ...

A great noise washed up from the valley's entrance, and still greater quantities of dust. A furious rearguard action was taking place, to make the pretense seem more real. As it reached the farthest end west in the pass, Ti-Mori's ragged banner was planted defiantly and moved no more. The she-wolf turned to face the Markuand.

Behind her, through the tongue of the pass, more riders now rushed to her support. The Royal Commander's infantry, bearing their own standard.

All along the two ridges, the fighting groups now raised their flags. Branra's blood-red pennant floated over Danaer's units, and to his right rose the black flag of Gordt te Raa's realm, marking the position of Lasiimte Kandra and Gordyan.

Sound roared, an assault on the ears, and dust heaved like the smoke thrown out in the tumultuous eruptions of Krantin's mountains. Amid the cacophony, Danaer heard an ominous singing he remembered vividly from Deki—archers, loosing their deadly shafts. If the Tradyans were shooting from their blinds along the slopes, they must have targets. They could see Markuand scaling the heights, heading up toward Danaer's position and all the others.

Danaer swung his arm to make sure the last of his wound's stiffness was gone, then waited tensely. He gathered reins and a tag of his roan's mane. White-clad invaders were coming into view out of the dust, chmbing Yeniir, riding fast. Branra too galloped back and forth, exhorting his men to stand a moment longer. Then he gave a mighty shout and they all lunged to the attack, lances set, thundering downhill.

Hurriedly the Tradyans ducked into their blinds and bushes, close to their markers, fearful of being run down.

Danaer had scaled the outer slopes of Yeniir and knew that by now the Markuand's horses would be staggering. The two lines of cavalry met in a grinding

collision of screaming animals and splintering weapons and cries of wounding and death. Danaer's first lance rammed into a Markuand chest, and his roan, obeying knees and reins, crashed into the light-boned gray the enemy rode. Man and animal went down, dragging Danaer's spear with them. Immediately he drew his second lance and closed with another foe.

White seethed in the valley and up onto the slopes, an endless wave of Markuand. It was not a matter of finding a target but of selecting a worthy one, trying to guess which alien would be an ofl&cer whose death would cost his army dearly. Danaer soon lost his second spear much the same way as the first and drew sword, setting to work.

There were shrieks and yells to the rear as the infantry moved down behind the cavalry, occupying the space they had overridden. They aided the Krantin wounded and finished off dying Markuand. Many of these men were also veterans of Deki, and though the Royal Commander had said his army should be merciful when it could, Danaer knew the soldiers were not likely to honor his order. The archers crept out of hiding, following the horsemen down, seeking fresh vantage points from which to aim their arrows.

They took a fearsome toll, these Tradyans. A few of the Markuand also drew bow, but they lacked the Tradyans' power and most certainly had little of their skill.

Again and again, the white-clad invaders came against them. The cavalry maintained its line with great difficulty, struggling to keep the Markuand from reaching the crest of Yeniir. At each new onslaught, the ranks were thinned. Danaer tried not to think about reserves or relief, knowing there could be none. All of Krantin was now engaged.

More skyworks burst above the valley. Now the horses had other things to distract them and did not notice the explosions. One such signal was for Branra's units, and he called for more effort. Somehow, they pressed forward a length or so. Danaer was one man among thousands, yet he felt a tension binding them all. And he sensed another, countering tension in the

Markuand, commanding that they too hold and conquer.

Obeying the commands of their officers? Or of their wizard?

Danaer had kept no count of the Markuand he had slain, but he readied himself to send many more to Keth. Then Branra was traversing the slope at a reckless pace, flogging his roan with his reins. "Get to the Destre-Y! Bid them thrust along our flank! We are sorely pressed!"

Danaer wended his way through the carnage, an-gUng east. He galloped past archers and throat slitters and toward the banner of the Rena's consort. Reaching it, he dismounted at a run and was startled to see a group of Destre standing behind the line of blood. Their lances dangled limply in their hands. Warriors? Not slaying Markuand? What had happened? Were they bewitched, as the Sergeant of the Post had been in Deki? Danaer shoved his way through the strangely quiet throng, to come upon a scene that stunned him.

Kandra lay on the grassy slope, her servant Esbeti beside her and weeping as she tried to comfort her mistress. Gordyan also knelt, his big hands stroking Kandra's brow and hair with infinite tenderness. A Destre herb-healer labored over the Lasiirnte, his expression showing the hopelessness of his task. There was a gaping slash above Kandra's belt and a great quantity of blood. Danaer wondered that the woman still lived, but she did. Gordyan's face was a bleak mask which did not quite hide his terrible anguish. The herb-healer spread his hands. "There is nothing I can do . . ."

Gordyan seized his garment and shook him. "Lasiirnte will not die! You will save her!"

The Azsed physician said sadly, "She will be with the goddess soon. I have potioned her, and she does not suffer."

With a strangled gasp, Gordyan flung him away. He gazed at the circle of warriors. "How did this happen? I will kill the man who let her be hurt!"

They wept openly, and one managed to say, "All who were guarding her were slain. Lasiirnte fought

most bravely, a true warrior woman." The man pointed to something that might once have been human. The body was so butchered Danaer's belly heaved at the sight, though he had seen much slaughter. Several other Markuand lay near the strewing of shattered skulls and brains and entrails as well as the bodies of many Destre-Y who had died trying to protect their Lasiimte.

Choking with grief, the man went on. "They . . . they all came at once. They seemed to appear out of nowhere. We did not see them until . . . until it was too late!"

Wizardry! Markuand—^unseen by keen-eyed Destre-Y in time to save Kandra. Danaer knew this must be the work of Prince Diilbok's mistress. Chorii had taken the guise of Kandra and failed in that deceit. Now she had taken her vengeance, and Kandra lay dying.

Gently Gordyan resumed stroking Kandra's hair. His eyes, and his soul, met Danaer's. They had drawn the same terrible conclusion. Andaru. The price of victory was the blood of a woman of Azsed. Danaer had thought he would not care what sacrifice was made, so long as Lira lived. But now his heart ached and rage tore at his spirit. Not Wyaela but Kandra was to be the sacrifice. The woman with the eyes of a diamond-black, the Rena's beloved consort ...

A groan rumbled in Gordyan's constricted throat. Suddenly Kandra spoke with surprising clarity. 'T ask something of you." He bent very close, never ceasing that steady caressing. "We must not lose this position. The Rena desires it, and I desire it."

"We shall not, Lasiirnte, I swear to Argan!"

"And you will tell the Rena that I regret my failure.. ."

Danaer dropped down beside her and took the dying woman's hand. "You have not failed, Lasiirnte. You are givmg us Andaru. It was prophesied to me so. You will go to greet the goddess with more glory than any Azsed-Y has ever known."

There was deep grief in Gordyan's face, but now loving gratitude joined it. Kandra smiled weakly, a

spark of delight illuminating her last moments. "Truly? You give me great joy, Nyald-Y, great joy." Then she turned her head and said with increasing faintness, "Bear my mantle, Gordyan. Upon my lance, as it was done in the old days. Give my warriors that standard. And have no sorrow. It is Argan's will. . ."

She twisted in his arms, her eyes shifting, no longer seeing the world. "Esbeti? Esbeti? Draw the curtains, httle one, it grows cold . . ." With a small sigh, she was still, the life melting from her. Kandra's woman began to chant with the singsong of hysteria, taking the pendant from her mistress's hair. She held the faith-jewel toward the heavens to guide Kandra to the portals, her voice tinged with madness as she keened the prayers.

Gordyan eased Kandra's head onto the grass, staring at her as a man disbelieving what he knew was true. Like Danaer, he had seen much death, but this one was past bearing. Then he rose and caught up Kandra's bloodstained cloak and speared it onto a Destre lance. He lifted it above his head, and because of his great height all could see it well. "Warriors!" he roared. "Warriors of Ve-Nya and Azsed! For Lasiimte Kandra! In her name! It is Andaru! Andaru! Conquer! Conquer!"

Danaer had the wits to scream, "Bring the attack to your left, Gordyan!" Then he too was burned by Argan's holy flame of passion. Men cried with rage and leaped onto their roans, sweeping down Yeniir, led by Gordyan. Headlong they rushed toward Branra's beleaguered units.

"Har-shaa! For Kandra! For Andaru!"

The shout was stronger than any weapon, flung into the faces of the attacking Markuand. A few of the army's fighters brushed shoulders with the now-goddess-govemed Destre-Y, and they took up the challenge without knowing its meaning. They were shaken by this berserk charge of the tribesmen. A human avalanche of roans and Destre warriors careened into the line of battle. Markuand reeled from the shock, beginning to go down as before an invincible storm.

For the second time Danaer could recall, he saw fear on a Markuand face. On many Markuand faces. They did not fear wizardry now, as had the man he and Lira had sent into nothingness. Now they feared sword and lance. Their master's magic potion that controlled their pain was not sufficient to shield them from this awesome Destre fury.