The Starfollowers of Coramonde (16 page)

“Springbuck
told me something about it, the
Ku-Mor-Mai,
that is. Her father was
Yardiff Bey, right?”

“Before the
Mandate, long before she was Trustee, the deCourteneys’ mother was an
enchantress, an aristocrat of Glyffa. She took for husband the man whose name
Gabrielle and Andre bear, the first deCourteney, who came from Outside, a
different place and time, as you did. He had some talent in magic. To make the
tale quick, he grew jealous; he was the lesser magician and she the enchantress
paramount.

“Dissatisfied,
he closed an infernal contract. He was deluded, and his forfeiture was to be
his soul. But an alternative was granted, that he could escape if he yielded
his wife and her favors for a night. Her love must have been strong; she
agreed. Gabrielle was begat. As you say, it was discovered later that the
succubus who fathered Gabrielle was Yardiff Bey in a borrowed shape, furthering
his plans.

“Gabrielle
has been in communication with her mother. The Trustee is aware now that it was
the Hand of Salamá who ill-used her.”

Gil
interrupted, “I got all that. I’m sorry I brought it up to her, but the
question remains. How do we know Bey’s not moving around Glyffa already?”

“Do you not
see? During that poisoned union the Trustee listened and observed the inner
workings of his sorcery. She heard his oaths, the Powers he invoked. She
learned the concealed lines of promise and commitment. In a contest of spell
and counterspell, she would have a weighty advantage by that, for she has
penetrated her enemy’s most guarded activities. Bey would not much care to face
her here, I am certain, or even come nigh in
Cloud Ruler.
This is
Glyffa, where all hearts and minds serve the Bright Lady, and his might is less
here.”

Gil digested
that. “What about someplace else? Could she beat him outside Glyffa?”

“That is
moot. They would be close-matched, but the Trustee is old, old beyond anyone’s
reckoning, and weary. In Glyffa no foe could stand against her, but
outside—well, I pray it is not tested.”

“Swan, d’you
think Bey is with the Southwastelanders?”

“It might be
so. There is such a stench of the Masters hanging over them that the Hand could
be among them and not be detected even by the Trustee. It may be that he
directs them, to retake the sword and the child and break asunder the focal
point of the Bright Lady’s influence, at once.”

The former
sergeant saw he’d have to hang on with the Glyffans. Cynosure and Blazetongue
were important to Bey, and now the Southwastelanders had suddenly driven deep
into the Crescent Lands. What could that mean, except that Yardiff Bey was out
to recover them? Could that mean Dunstan the Berserker was being held somewhere
close by?

Staring,
thinking, Gil spied a motley collection of shabby tents to the north. A
constant trickle of people was coming up from the plain below the camp, adding
to the makeshift village. He asked who they were.

“Displaced
persons, flying before the Occhlon,” Swan explained.

“Have they
been checked out?”

“Lord
Blacktarget has men posted on the plain, and in the mountains. He says no
Southwastelander could masquerade and fool Crescent Landers; their accents are
too barbarous and their stink too conspicuous.”

“Do you feel
like betting on it?”

“We cannot
leave them on the plain; when the sun rises it will be a battleground. See,
there is even a troupe of wandering entertainers among them.”

There was a
ludicrous clown, a red-clad acrobat, and a fire-eater. A fat brown bear danced,
and a tall, skeletally lean juggler kept a fountain of knives and apples going.

“Worry not,
they will be watched tonight. By tomorrow they will have decamped. None of them
want to be near the encounter that will come with the sun.”

Yeah,
he told himself, resigned that he had to stick around,
neither do I.

Since the
army was short on horses, Gil was requested to serve as a courier. He was no
expert rider, but it suited him better than direct involvement. Angorman and
Woodsinger yielded their horses to others, she to remain under guard with
little Cynosure in the Veganán camp, he to command a company of infantry from
Veganá whose captain had been killed. Ferrian, for reasons of his own, declined
to follow any banner, but would serve with the orderlies whose job was to drag
the wounded from battle and get them to medical stations at the rear. It was
risky work; orderlies were themselves often cut down in the heat of the
struggle.

Andre was
another question, the only living Glyffan male who’d seen combat. He was a
seasoned leader, aside from talents of magic. Reconsidering the Mandate, the
Trustee admitted Andre had always been exempt from its bans. He was placed over
a squadron of heavy cavalry, to ride before a Glyffan flag for the first time
in nearly a century.

Dawn came
chilly and hazy. Gil reported to the Trustee’s pavilion after a restless night.
It was swarming with officers and functionaries, and High Constables with capes
colored for their Regions in red, yellow, brown and gray.

The Trustee
sat across a little table from Swan, both of them ignoring the hubbub, playing
chess as if they were alone, and this an idle day. The chesspieces were large
and topped by little lighted candles. The game was going rapidly, moves coming
with unusual haste, with little or no lag between. Swan’s hair was pinned up,
to fit her bascinet; her armor glinted from diligent polishing.

An aide
stepped in Gil’s way, demanding his business. The Trustee looked up, saying he
could be admitted. She asked if Woodsinger and Cynosure were guarded; he said
they were, in the tent of Blacktarget himself. “What are the candles for?”

Sunrise
wasn’t far off. The two women began snuffing out the flames. Swan explained.
“It is a variation developed by the Trustee. When a candle goes out, its piece
is eliminated from the game. Wicks are of assorted duration, and we pick which
pieces get which lifespans at random, except that the king goes untimed.”

“Sounds like
a fast game.”

“Verily,” she
replied, moving her chair back, “and a martial one. It has the merciless
pressure of time, an uncaring randomness and rude unpredictability.”

The Trustee was
on her feet now. “I enjoyed that, my dear; it is helpful to put one’s concerns
aside. You are becoming good at this wildcard game. How much do you owe me?”

“More than I
can pay. But this time I shall win.”

The Trustee
patted her arm. “I shall checkmate you in three moves when we return, you have
my promise. If not, consider us even.”

“Done.”

The old woman
took up the crook of her office. People in the tent became totally attentive.
“Each of you has her particular instructions,” she said, “and if you but keep
them in mind, all will be well.” She lifted the crook. Everybody but Gil bowed
to receive her benediction. As she recited the blessing her eye caught the
American’s. He dipped his head to her once, politely. Gravely, she winked in
return.

Then everyone
was moving. Swan went past, bidding him good fortune hastily. Someone shoved an
armload of hardware into his hands. He found himself holding a lance of
polished ebony and a shield of brightly painted leather, rimmed and studded
with iron, bearing the Trustee’s device of a green unicorn. There was also a
pair of greaves, rusty ones whose dark stains suggested their previous owner
hadn’t been very lucky.

He was about
to protest; he’d be no match for an experienced opponent. Then he saw that he
could throw the stuff away if he wanted, and—who knew?—he might need it.
Outside, he buckled the greaves on clumsily, took the lance and tested its
balance. His muscles tensed unconsciously, ready for impact. He felt a twinge
of the ferocity that had filled him in Dulcet’s hall.

The conjoined
armies were drawn up, waiting. There was movement far out across the plain, the
Occhlon leaving their camp and taking up positions.

Lord
Blacktarget and the men of Veganá were to take the right flank, stretching down
to the river’s side. The general could be seen haranguing his men, waving
Blazetongue, though he intended to leave the sword behind.

The left
flank, to be anchored at the foot of the slopes, was under Swan. She had two
thousand troops, mostly light cavalry and archers, backed by four companies of
pikewomen.

Gil watched
the Occhlon assembly writhing its way into order. He couldn’t see much, except
that there seemed to be an awful lot of them. The Trustee called for her horse;
she would command the center herself. The women closest to her repeated the
call. They were all veteran commanders, wily fighters.

He mounted
Jeb Stuart and trailed the Trustee and her knot of advisors and aides to her
position at the center. They passed through ranks of waiting soldiers of both
sexes, who resembled those he’d known in his own world, in a way. Young,
worried, they were examining their feelings, thinking ten thousand thoughts of
how the day would go. He caught snatches of conversation.

“What should
I do if—”; “Suppose my enemy comes at me so—”; “The grip of the lance is the
thing, remember it and you will be—.”

He passed
squatting pike-bearers and straight-backed lancers, and ranks of nervous
sword-and-buckler infantry anticipating the order to shield-lock. The Trustee
was greeted with some cheers, but more silence. This army had lost before and
might again today, portents or no portents. These were all people who would die
if it did.

The Trustee
took her place on slightly higher ground, her green unicorn banner nearby. She
took one last look right, left and behind, then raised her crook. Trumpets
blared around him, and Gil’s belly twisted. The entire army began a slow
walking pace across the plain. Early-morning stillness left battle pennons limp
on staffs and spears. He wiggled the lance to seat it in its rest. His hands
were damp; his heart banged in his chest. He hated the idea of a large-scale
clash, where he could get himself wasted from any direction.

The enemy
stepped off with crashing cymbals and thundering drums. Gil noticed that the
point of his lance was bobbing around and realized he’d crouched in the saddle
and clamped it to his side in anticipation. If he actually had to use it, a
rigid grip would spoil his aim. He sat erect again. His fingers flexed at the
enarmes of his shield.

The enemy
stopped when their right flank, facing Swan and her Sisters of the Line along
the slope, came to high ground of its own. Then the Occhlon center advanced to
stand and form a salient point. The men at the river bank, fronting Lord
Blacktarget, stayed put. The river ran swiftly, deeply at this point, offering
no fording place for miles, and that was one of the reasons for which the
Trustee had chosen this spot.

Both sides
halted. They exchanged challenges of a sort, soaring horn blasts of the Crescent
Lands and cymbals and drums of the Southwastelanders. Then there was silence,
and for the next ten minutes nothing happened at all.

Gil knew this
was common in the Crescent Lands; these were people who trusted in defense,
fortification, armor, shields. They preferred to let their opponents make the
first move. He fidgeted as sweat ran down from the padded brim of his cap.

The Trustee
conferred with her privy councilors. Finally, she ordered: “Archers forward.”
There was no need for riders to carry the word this early, when trumpets could
be heard and movements clearly seen. All along the lines of the North, bowmen
and bowwomen stepped out, limbering strings, drawing shafts. The battle’s first
phase had started.

Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of
waking…

Sir Walter Scott

The Lady of the Lake

THE archers stopped about ten
paces out, taking maul-hammers from their backs. Sharpened stakes were pounded into
the ground at a forward cant as defense against cavalry. Lengthy pavise
shields, protection from enemy missiles, were held by assistants while the
archers shook out their quivers, arranging their arrows at their feet.

The Sisters
of the Line were armed with slightly lighter bows; few had the height and
length of arm to pull the heavyweights some men preferred. The range was
extreme. The archers began lofting long flight arrows in high arcs, saving
their livery shafts for closer combat. Gil could hear bowstrings snapping on
leather bracers up and down the line, and the whizz of pile-headed arrows. They
flew beyond the wall of enemy shields, but he couldn’t tell how much effect
they had. The shooting went on for a minute, then bowmen emerged from the Occhlon
ranks, set themselves up in much the same way and returned fire. The
Southwastelanders’ bows were giant recurve weapons, over six feet long, but
simple “self” bows, not composite; they lacked the range of the Crescent
Landers’. Moreover, the Occhlon used a pinch-draw in their release, less
effective than the northern two- and three-fingered draws. Only a few of their
shots found their way among the Crescent Landers. Gil raised his shield
whenever he saw a salvo coming, but no shaft dropped near him.

As the
Trustee had hoped, the uneven archery duel tweaked the Southwastelanders to
move. A sally of fleet horsemen swept up the river bank, their places in the
ranks taken immediately by reserves. Some of the southerners wore mottled armor
with bizarre patterns of decoration. Swan had told Gil that there were warriors
among the enemy who fashioned their panoply from skins of the huge snakes and
lizards of their desert.

Lord
Blacktarget and his men swept their swords out. Their war-horses, hearing the
sound, danced and reared in anticipation. The men of Veganá rode out to meet
the foe before the Occhlon could get in among the stakes and take a toll of
archers. The two sides hit with scores of individual collisions. A dust cloud
went up in the hazy light while cries and chants mixed with the horns and
cymbals. Gil expected to see the Trustee rush reinforcements in, but it didn’t
happen. The ruler of Glyffa regarded this as an early probe and held back from
committing herself. The Occhlon pressed hard, but Gil heard a thousand throats
hollering
Veganá!
above the melee. The attempt to roll up the Trustee’s
right flank faltered, reduced to maddened charge and countercharge over short
distances, with swords, maces and axes in sharp opposition at close quarters.