The Starfollowers of Coramonde (11 page)

It hit the
Tangent with a limp roll, eyes still lit with the intensity of the unalloyed
hunter. It was no species they’d ever seen. Andre’s arrow stood from its
breast, a Horseblooded shaft that had made its piping moan by a trick of
carving the Wild Riders used. Gil holstered the handgun, musing that reflexes
and coordination were more important than instrumentality.

He shrugged
off the carrying rack to check it. Diamond-hard talons had scored long, deep
tears in the tough hide and torn splinters from the wooden frame. An extra
blanket, rolled and stored inside, had been slashed in strips.

“The bird’s
target was the rack.” Andre surmised. They looked to Woodsinger, who drew her
cloak more closely around herself and her charge.

Hearing a
wave of trilling sound, they craned their heads upward. Then they were
surrounded by small birds who rushed past and hovered around them, a
multicolored tempest of feathers, a gale of small wings. Tiny beaks ripped at
them in passing; wings stung their faces. Gil yelped and slapped at them, his
hand coming away bloody. Woodsinger swatted with her crop, pulling her head
down among the folds of her collar. They all fought to master their horses,
realizing they were under no natural attack. Gil fired two rounds into the air,
not counting on hitting anything, to scatter the tiny furies. They exploded
away in every direction, but circled and swarmed like bees, and drew closer
again.

Ferrian let
the packhorse’s rein fall. He pulled Woodsinger’s hood down close to her face
and swirled her cloak around her tightly. Taking her mount’s reins in his
teeth, the Horseblooded drew his scimitar, guiding his horse with his knees.

Andre had put
away his bow. He, too, pulled his sword. With no time for spellcasting, they
had to get out of the open.

Gil, the
Browning Hi-Power in his right hand now, also took his reins in his teeth, as
Dunstan the Berserker had taught him. He peered around for any sort of cover, a
cave, trees, anything. There was none. It was the perfect spot for ambush.

The flock
swept around in unison and came back in their direction. More birds were
joining them every moment. “The cliff face,” Ferrian called. “’Tis better
protection than none!”

They galloped
back, knowing they couldn’t outrun their pursuers. The birds ignored the
riderless pack-horse and were on them in seconds, many species commingled.
Streaking by, they blotted all sounds with their calls and wounded men and
horses. Gil fired twice from each handgun. The birds peeled off from the
blasts, then gathered again, more rapidly this time.

In the
shelter of the cliff face, they fastened up their cloaks for what little
protection it meant. The horses whinnied, tossing their heads and showing the
whites of their rolling eyes. Ferrian pinned Woodsinger’s mount up against the
rock with his own and waited, light racing up and down his scimitar. “Is there
a conjuration that would help?” he shouted.

Andre’s brow
creased. “It is difficult to say. These are no supernatural foes, only living
creatures following some imposed will. I have no ready spell for it. It must be
a thorough enchantment.” Given time, he could disperse it, but he had no time.

Gil watched
the flock come in again. “Andre, it’s with you now. This cliff won’t protect us
from anything but rain.”

“Rain!”
echoed Ferrian. “Andre, bring a downpour!”

The squat
mage looked up dubiously. The clouds were still overburdened with moisture, but
he wasn’t sure mere rain would stop the attackers.

He
dismounted, as Angorman took his horse’s bridle. His mystic passes began; the
sky rumbled.

The birds hit
them again, landing and clinging to whatever skin or clothing they could grasp.
Even Woodsinger was hurt, as beaks found her legs and feet. Another salvo drove
some off, but the rest hovered and pecked and clung. The companions slapped at
themselves and each other. Faces and hands were wounded, and the plunging
horses were near insanity.

Ducking and
thrashing, Andre completed his spell with a syllable of Command. Rain came in
sheets, battering the fliers but not deterring them, though it struck with
driving force.

Covered with
them, Andre opened his palm. A brilliant flash of light broke forth, scattering
them. It was a spell of sight more than substance; they sensed it, and resumed.

Andre was
reduced to despair. Harnessing his arts, he might fell individual birds in
large numbers, but they would eliminate him long before he could finish them.

Woodsinger
screamed and began slapping at a starling that had fixed its claws near an
opening in her cloak, stabbing its beak at the child’s struggling arm. Wincing
in pain, the baby began to bawl. The nurse brushed the starling away and
covered her charge again, but the wails continued.

Gil heard. He
slid from Jeb and lurched to Andre’s horse, hoping the wrapped Blazetongue
would show signs of its fire. He couldn’t get to it; the bucking, terrified
animal wouldn’t allow it, though Angorman held its bridle. The American heard
Ferrian shout for him to beware. Batting at the unavoidable birds, he got out
of the way. The Horseblooded leaned over, slicing with his scimitar. Thongs parted
as one; Blazetongue dropped to the ground.

Another
round, fired into the air, won Gil more space and time. He snatched the sword
and sprinted to Andre. The wizard was stumbling toward the cliff, covered with
feathered attackers. One of his wounds, over his temple, had blinded his left
eye with his own blood. Gil helped him beat himself free.

“Andre, the
baby’s scared. Can you get the sword working?”

The wizard
shielded his face and tore the coverings from the weapon, while birds whirled,
pecking. “I know not; its fire is not nigh, so far as I can detect.”

He unsheathed
the greatsword and tried to hold it up in both hands, the phrases of a
conjuration tumbling from his lips. He was soon buried under the fliers, his
spell stopped cold. He jabbed the blade’s point into the ground and stumbled
back.

Gil dropped
to his knees. Together they punched and pounded at maddened jackdaws, sparrows,
linnets and jays. There was a crackle from Blazetongue. Blue effulgence
whooshed up its blade like smoke up a flue, leaping off its pommel,
disappearing.

The splashing
rain threw up a curtain of steam. As if poured from a kettle it came, boiling
hot. The flock’s wrath became mortal pain. Humans and horses cowered against
the cliff. Birds dropped, slaughtered in thousands. Those that found clear
space by the cliff rebounded from the rock, blundering back to their deaths.

Gil pressed
his face to the cool stone, fearing his lungs would be cooked. White steam
filled the world, but the birds’ cacophony dropped away. Only the hissing of
superheated rain remained.

Andre gasped
his foremost spell of Dismissal. Within seconds the torrent subsided. The
horses began to quiet. The travelers uncovered their red, glistening faces.

Hot curls of
vapor rose from soaked ground. Remains of plants and fallen birds floated in a
muddy, foul-smelling soup. Dazed, the party hunkered in the lee of the cliff,
staring at the scalded landscape.

“Andre, you
far surpassed my expectations,” Angorman confessed.

The wizard,
watching the ground drain, waved the remark away. “I called the rain down, but
our survival may be laid to Blazetongue. I did not release its force.”

“The kid,
then?” Gil asked.

“You saw the
weapon’s energies fly up out of it. Blazetongue itself is responsible; I did
not activate it, and neither did the child.”

He picked
himself up, dabbing at his wounds, and rummaged through his saddlebags. “I have
ointments somewhere, albeit none of us seems too badly burned or injured.”

“But what
about the rain?” Angorman persisted.

Andre
stopped. “My Lord, I informed you in Earthfast; there are more than mere
nations in opposition. Blazetongue is the Bright Lady’s instrument. Those
birds, bloodlusting on the wing, reeked of Amon, and the Five. The sword put
forth its energies to advance its ends. Two primal forces clashed on this
heath; the Perfect Mistress carried the day.”

The
Saint-Commander made a sign of thanksgiving. Andre observed, “This party is of
enormous consequence, we have seen. I profess to understand little, just now.”
He scanned the steamy distance. “Our packhorse is gone, or dead perhaps; her
burden was nothing we cannot replace, if needs be.”

Gil blew his
breath out wearily. “You mean you want to go on? What if we’re walking into
another ambush?”

“Going on is safer
than going back. Ahead, in Glyffa, where the Divine Mistress’ sway is greatest.
Behind, it is less.”

Gil, hand to
his eyes, shook his head slowly. “How much longer will we have the option?”

Angorman’s
chin came up, harshly. “When one accepts a commission of service, one is
past
the point of no return. Or have you forgotten the Faith Cup?”

Instead of
answering, the American got up to make sure Jeb was all right. A cool breeze
was carrying away wreaths of steam and stench. The water had receded and the ground
had cooled considerably.

Gil concluded
that his only hope was that pressure would be off the party once they’d
delivered the child. They rapidly prepared to leave this area, blighted by the
confrontation of the gods.

I gave the day to Angorman, and
showed to him my heel,

and prayed he would forego the
chase

(and vowed me nevermore to face

his bright, moon-bitted Pilgrim,
poet-cleaving Red ordeal)…

from “The Lay of the Axe and the
Rose,” by the hedge-robber and self-styled poet, Kidsheerer

TOWARD evening of the next day,
they came to a towering cedar next to the Tangent. On its face an area was
roughly planed off. Graven there was an intertwined rose and double-bitted
axehead. The carving was old, but the tree’s growth hadn’t obliterated it.

Angorman ran
a hand over the aged scars. Gil assumed the tree had been planed by Red
Pilgrim. They left the Tangent for a well-used side road, on the
warrior-priest’s assurances of good accommodations.

The vineyards
here boasted an exotic strain of oversized grapes nearly as big as figs. The
workers had no guards or weapons, and weren’t too surprised at the sight of
wayfarers. The road ran past an old manor house, more or less a stronghold.
Angorman entered its gate. They followed him into a pleasant courtyard that
hadn’t seen military activity in years. The house had plainly been grand in its
day.

Their arrival
had been signaled ahead somehow. An elderly woman waited on the front steps to
greet them. She was slender and stately, with white hair caught in a bun. Her
unadorned robes were as cheerless as a nun’s habit. There was a ring of large
keys at her belt, a pair of scissors and a little capped jar, the kind scholars
used as a portable inkwell. She held a writing quill. Her features were lined
with humor; a glint in her eye said she’d laugh readily. She seemed frail, but
healthy and active. Dismounting, Angorman laid his axe down—the first time Gil
had ever seen him do that—and bent knee to her stiffly.

“Welcome,”
the woman proclaimed to him alone. “My heart is happy you are here, and
remembers much that makes it glad.” She turned to the others. “Thank you, all,
for the joy of your arrival. All that is here is yours to use.”

Angorman made
introductions, telling the others that their hostess’ name was the Lady Dulcet.
A footman showed up to take their horses. Dulcet apologized for their wait,
saying her chief servitor was nowhere to be found. The travelers carried their
own sparse luggage. Gil took Dirge along, and his saddlebags. Andre tucked the
bundle of Blazetongue under his arm.

Dulcet led
them to a high-ceilinged dining chamber floored with walnut, gleaming in age.
In a hearth that must be twenty feet long, whole logs burned. In the middle of
the hall was a dining table where thirty people could sit to eat with room left
over. Candelabra lit the place, and close by the fire plush, pewlike benches
sat on carpets of subtle weave.

“You have
done well by your fief, Dulcet,” Angorman told her.

“It is my
nephew’s now. Property in these parts is kept by those who can defend it. I
steward it for him.”

The
Saint-Commander frowned. “It should be yours, and your heirs’.”

“But I’ve
none, and never shall have, shall I? That was fated long ago, the day you saved
me from Kid-sheerer. If I cannot have the mate I chose, I will have none.”

The old man
looked away, his features a doleful monument. Gil knew the Order, like the
Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, swore celibacy. That tenet must have come under
stress here, with Dulcet wanting Angorman and no one else. Having seen what
life was like for an Oathbreaker like Wintereye, Gil wasn’t surprised by the
tragedy he saw.

The Lady
Dulcet called for food, then insisted on seeing the baby. She and Woodsinger agreed
the child was a perfect treasure. Her questions were few; it was enough to know
that they were bound for Veganá.

“My nephew
Newshield should be back soon,” Dulcet was saying. “He went out hunting this
afternoon, all at once. He’s something of a scholar lately. A terror in his
younger days, but he has come along nicely, I think. He has even had men of
learning here, to consult with him.”

They took
seats together at one end of the long table. White wine was brought in fluted
goblets of lavender glass, a vintage from the giant grapes of the local
vineyards. Then they were served hot bowls of stuff like thick bouillabaisse,
which they scooped up with crisp shells of breadcrust.

It was dark
when they settled at the hearthside benches, telling of late developments on
the far side of the Dark Ramparts. Woodsinger began to yawn, the baby asleep on
her lap. When Dulcet had her shown to a room, Ferrian and Andre went with her,
saying they were tired, meaning they’d be on guard.