The Starfollowers of Coramonde (18 page)

There were outcries
all around him. Horses screamed, panic-stricken from the shot and smell. The
heavy knights had cut a swath through the Sisters of the Line, and he was
surrounded by foemen. It suited him well. He emptied the Browning a shot at a
time, with a feral care that he kill as many as he could. He barely noticed the
autoloader’s buck, greeting its explosions, a form of malign homecoming.

Swan came up,
having lost her spear, to engage an Occhlon with sword and shield. She slashed,
striking sparks from the other’s blade, their horses whistling angrily and
battering one another. Her shield was dented and her sword notched, and it
seemed the knight would win. Gil hardly noticed it was the High Constable in
jeopardy when he smoked her opponent. He was in a separate world of misted
ebullition.

Angorman
dashed up with swordsmen and pike-women at his heels, the trap ruined by Gil’s
madness. The Saint-Commander made do as best he could, bringing the fight out
to them. A knight charged; Angorman dodged to one side, chopping with Red
Pilgrim. The Occhlon’s leg was severed, and the chausse that covered it. The
leg toppled to one side of his horse, the knight to the other. Angorman was
already busy with his next antagonist.

Swan’s banner
went forward. Assorted elements under her scrambled to fill the gap and close
up after the cavalry. The Occhlon had been stopped by the countercharge and the
terror effect of the Browning. Now they drew back. Gil ran after them,
forgetting Jeb. He’d reloaded, and began howling, firing as he went.

Glyffan
cavalry pounded past him. Swan might not know exactly what had happened, but
she’d seen the opening and knew how to use that. Enemy archers and infantry had
followed in the wake of the knights. Now they were milling around. The Sisters
of the Line came down on them like harpies, driving them back into each other
in a rain of sword strokes.

Some
Southwasteland halberdiers made a stand. The High Constable dismounted with a
troop of her riders and, with swords and parrying daggers, slipped in among the
flashing polearms. Several of them fell, but once the Glyffans were past the
halberd heads, the Occhlons were defenseless. Many dropped their weapons and
fled. The remnant was quickly overrun.

Gil ran to
join, dropping his empty pistol. He’d nearly forgotten what the conflict was
about, but wanted passionately to be part of it. But as he ran he felt an
ebbing. It became more difficult to think. He slowed to a walk, then stopped.
The rain dripped from his face.

His sense of
equilibrium waffled. He caught his balance with a sidestep. It seemed extremely
hot and bright, as if the sun were out, filling the sky. His legs gave, and he
found himself sitting on the ground. Then he keeled over. In his state, it was
a relief.

A book may be as great a thing
as a battle.

Benjamin Disraeli

Memoir of Isaac D’Israeli

His head was propped against a rock, its graininess scraping
the skin beneath his hair. He opened his eyes, expecting a dizzy spin to start,
but none did. His steel cap had been removed, the Browning placed by his side.

The field was
cluttered with bodies of allies and enemies, and wounded of both sides. The
victors were doing what they could for all.

Swan, the
Trustee and Angorman were near. The High Constable went down on one knee to
study him with untelling brown eyes.

“The
Saint-Commander explained your weapons to us,” she said. “They helped break the
charge. But why did you not tell us you are Berserker?”

Who, me?
he thought, as Andre appeared. “All it was, was I lost my head. I’m not
berserk, I know, ’cause I have this friend Dunstan who—”

He stopped
and gaped. Andre had found a disk of polished metal, a trapping of some kind.
He held it to reflect Gil’s face, or what looked like it, drastically altered.
There was saliva drying on his chin and at the corners of his mouth. His skin
was waxy, his eyes huge and glassy. From fresh cuts he saw he’d chewed and
bitten his lips. The scar on his forehead and the dark smear of powderburn
stood out starkly on pale flesh. He’d never seen himself like this, but had
seen someone in this condition exactly.

Dunstan
after the Berserkergang; I look just like him.
Then a flood of horror pried
at his sanity.
God, please, no!
He knew it was true though; it had been
waiting to flare up in him.

Andre said,
“Some of Dunstan’s Rage must have passed to you when you essayed to pull him
from Bey’s mystic circle in Earthfast. I do not know more.” The American
moaned. “But you can live with it, as Dunstan did, and control it. You must; it
will come more strongly hereafter.”

Gil’s face
was buried in his hands. A new thought occurred; did this mean Dunstan was
still alive? Was it some shared bond with his friend? Some calm returned. “Was
there any sign of Bey, Andre?”

“None
whatsoever.”

The Trustee
was telling Swan to examine the enemy camp; the Occhlon had been routed when
their flank was rolled back along the heights. “We shall pursue them as soon as
we may,” the old woman was saying. “It is not beyond chance that they may stand
to fight again. Lord Blacktarget promises we shall gather more strength in
Veganá with word of Blazetongue and Cynosure, and victory.” She looked at Gil,
then away.

Andre helped
him to his feet, handed him his pistol and got him onto Jeb Stuart. The wizard
didn’t seem disabled by his wound at all. Keeping their pace slow, they all
rode to the Southwastelanders’ abandoned pavilions. Inside the biggest tent,
Gil let himself down among some cushions. Energy was creeping back into him as
the others started sorting through the enemy commander’s property. He supposed
he might as well help search; there might be a hint on Bey’s whereabouts. They
were poking around sacks, cases and portable shelves when Andre called. He held
a small wooden chest. In it were jars and boxes, stained with painty stuff that
he said was makeup, and weighted balls that a juggler might use. They all
thought about the traveling troupe, in the refugee camp. Among them and perhaps
among other displaced persons as well, there had been Occhlon. And maybe, Gil
thought, Yardiff Bey.

“We should
not delay the pursuit of the Occhlon,” the Trustee said, “but neither can we
let southern spies go unhunted.”

“What can
they be after?” Andre asked himself aloud. “Blazetongue and the child?”

“No,” the
Trustee responded, “I have word that all is well in the camp.”

“What would
the Southwastelanders be so hot to get their hands on?” Gil puzzled.

“There is
Arrivals
Macabre,”
Andre replied. “Bey is eager to get it.”

“What is
this?” the Trustee snapped. They told her of Bey’s obsession with Rydolomo’s
book. “There is a copy at Ladentree,” she said.

“What’s
Ladentree?” Gil wanted to know.

“It is our
great library.”

“My God,
that’s it!” He glared at Andre. “Why didn’t you tell us about the library?”

The wizard
ran a hand over his balding head. “When last I was in Glyffa, Ladentree was a
monastery, but had no great store of books.”

Swan told
him, “It was made a center of study and thought when the Mandate was imposed.
Precious books and documents were brought there from every corner of Glyffa.”

“That’s where
he’ll go,” Gil stated flatly.
Goddam Bey’s got more disguises than a Chinese
fox.

The Trustee
became brisk. “We act immediately. Swan, take your best women and give chase.
Be alert; they may have changed guises yet again. I shall secure this area and
follow.”

“I’m going
too,” Gil told her. He didn’t have to worry about joining combat; numbers would
be on the side of the Sisters of the Line. Worrying about what to do if Bey
were there, he looked expectantly at Andre.

“I shall
accompany you, of course,” the wizard said.

“Good enough.
Uh, what about Woodsinger and the kid?”

“I shall stay
with her for now,” Angorman volunteered. “Then I will come along with the
Trustee.”

Swan set out
a subaltern to gather the Sisters she wanted. A horse was found for Andre.
Ferrian appeared, having gotten his mount back, to see how they’d fared. The
Horseblooded was taciturn, avoiding their eyes; Andre explained what they’d
discovered, finishing, “We leave for Ladentree now. Would you come?” Ferrian
frowned in thought.

“C’mon, man,”
the American shouted. “There’s nothing you can do here. Let it go.”

“Your aid
would be appreciated,” Swan said. Gil looked at her in some surprise.

“Then you
shall have it,” Ferrian replied.

The High
Constable had chosen fifty of her personal guardswomen, an elite. They found,
as expected, that the entertainers had decamped as soon as battle had begun and
left behind tents, baggage and the trained bear. Gil stopped long enough to
pick up Dirge.

It was just
over seven miles to Ladentree. The southern army must have been maneuvering to
get as close to the library as it could. Had the Glyffans waited much longer
before engaging them, the Southwastelanders might well have taken it.

The countryside
was quiet and empty, with everyone either recruited or in hiding. Gil began to
hope that they could trap Bey or even get Dunstan back alive. In any case, the
book mustn’t fall into enemy hands.

He was
pleased in a tiredly dispassionate way that Cynosure and Blazetongue were safe,
but glad to be free of them. As with Dunstan, the lethargy that had replaced
Berserkergang passed away, leaving reflective calm.

They sighted
Ladentree silhouetted against the setting sun, a rambling, airy place on a hill
above a diminutive lake. It sprawled grandly in galleries, courtyards,
repositories, study chambers, vaults, shelf rooms, auditoriums and copy
studios. Its walls were blue-black stone, its roofs of thick orange tile.

They came to
the front of the place, a tall arch of amandola marble. There were fresh
hoofprints, deep and wide-spaced from speed, leading into the building itself.
They left their own horses outside and Swan posted ten cavalrywomen to hold the
gate. Gil left Dirge and Dunstan’s sword behind, not to be slowed up.

The main
corridor was broad as a city street, roofed in elaborate groining and
fan-tracery, lit by wide windows.

There were
fresh marks on the time-worn floors, pale dints of iron horseshoes on the
darker surface. A word from Swan, and her Sisters of the Line drew swords. They
raced along the corridors past paneled doors, their boot scuffs barely
disturbing the vast quiet. They came on a body curled on the floor, a man with
a broken length of wood beside him. He was dying, a deep wound in his side.
Swan cried out, recognizing her brother Jade.

Some of the
glaze left his eyes when he saw his sister. “Swan, you are needed; you are
here.” He strayed into unconsciousness for a second, but forced himself back
out of it. “They came hours ago, riding their horses through our halls. We
couldn’t stop them. But we would not help them look for what they wanted, and
they could not find it. At last they became angry, beyond temper. Silverquill—”
He paused for a fit of coughing on his own blood. “The Senior Sage tried to
run. They chased him.”

Gil wanted to
tell him to save his strength but there was no point; the wound had as good as
killed him already. “Oh Swan, I broke the Mandate. I fought them with that
length of wood to make them stop. The temperance of years ruined in a moment
of—” He was racked with coughs again. The blood ran freely from his mouth now.

She hugged
his head to her. “You did what you must,” she said softly. “Warrior-spirit, you
did what you could, no sin.” He looked up in hope, his last exertion. He
slumped, breathing leaving him. She looked up at the sound of boot heels.

It was Gil
MacDonald, pistol in his fist. She thought at first that the Berserkergang was
on him, but he was composed. Voices had attracted his attention, drifting from
an inner courtyard. Ferrian, Andre and the guardswomen went after the American.
Swan remained at her brother’s side. Stern war captain, shrewd administrator,
she was lenient with herself for once, taking a moment out for mourning.

Gil came to a
pair of beautiful doors of reticulated carving. Through them he could see Sages
of Ladentree, cowering from three members of the troupe. One of the intruders,
the bear trainer, stood aside, holding some tiny white thing in his hand. Gil
saw it was some minuscule songbird.

The Occhlon
dropped the bird and clapped his hands together loudly. There was an exaltation
of white wings up from the trees. Some birds flew to safety but many, close to
the man, dropped with helpless paroxysms of wings to lie on the turf. Apparently
they were so fragile that loud noises would stop their hearts. The Occhlon
found that entertaining. He unslung a horn, to see how many he could frighten
in adjoining courts and rafters.

The doors
were latched from the outside. Gil took a step back and kicked. The painful
rebound of his foot felt good, making him assert control; he intended never to
capitulate to the Berserkergang again. There was a splintering of old wood. The
doors slammed open.

The bear
handler saw him, dropped the horn and put hand to hilt. The Mauser’s muzzle
came up.

“Give it up,”
Gil offered, “or I’ll kill you. It wouldn’t bother me. Decide!”

The
Southwastelander’s blade came free. Before Gil could get a shot off, Ferrian
dodged around him, scimitar in his left hand, for a revenge of his own. Gil
lowered the pistol.

The two
fought up and back, hard boots scoring soft turf meant for bare feet or
slippers. The other Southwastelanders, juggler and clown, waited, outnumbered.
Ferrian was plainly the better fencer, with a flexible wrist and inspired sense
of timing. The other, with a husky build much like the Horseblooded’s, using
his accustomed hand, found himself losing. Their blades wound, rang and rang
again, investigating the scenarios of death. Ferrian’s scimitar was first to execute
one. The curved blade leapt at the Southwastelander’s heart. The man died in
cruel surprise.