The Starfollowers of Coramonde (31 page)

The limestone
pulpit tottered. Andre summoned up blue, plasmic hatred in a last dreadful
bolt. It was insignificant if the Keep were broken in pieces and swallowed up,
or the Isle itself consumed by the ocean. In primal malice, he cared only that
Yardiff Bey die.

An arcane
aura swirled around him. He gathered it in, hands outstretched. The sorcerer
saw with amazement that all his newfound energies were no match, in this
moment, for deCourteney’s stark emotion. But he had a last, hidden recourse,
short of the ocular. Reaching behind him, he drew up the captive who’d lain,
dazed and motionless, out of sight at the rear of the pulpit. Andre’s hands
swept around in unison, funneling their forces.

Gil MacDonald
felt himself hauled up, sick and weak, from half-dreams of storm and lightning.
He remembered little since the Southwastelanders had taken him, beaten, into
captivity, to be held in occult sedation. Now Yardiff Bey’s unnaturally strong
hands used him as shield.

Andre spied
Gil at the last instant, as his bolt went out, too late. He blurted a Dismissal
on the heels of his own spell, but was only partially effective. The American’s
body arched backward in spasms, wreathed in vines of azure light, as Bey
snatched his hands back. The wizard broke off his attack. Gil went stiff, eyes
rolled up into his head, tongue bulging in his gullet. No pain had ever been as
bad as the one in his chest. Awareness slid away.

Andre,
appalled, stood motionless, hands slumped to his sides, mouth agape. Bey had
the American’s body up again, in front of him, backing away. At the rear of the
pulpit, he escaped into pitch darkness, taking his hostage.

The ground
shuddered beneath the rent floor. Roof beams groaned, splitting, raining
slivers of wood. Andre shook himself from his disorientation and saw he
couldn’t repair them. He’d done things in his transport of fury that he’d never
match or undo in any sane moment. He bent, took up his mother and her Crook in
one arm and Lord Blacktarget over his shoulder, and lumbered, ungainly, for the
entrance.

Outside, in
gathering night, Swan and Angorman were preparing to enter. They’d held back,
hearing the conflict, knowing there was little they could do, but their anxiety
had gone past their control. Just in that moment, Andre came.

Seeing the
Trustee in death, the High Constable lost all color. Men of Veganá clustered to
their slain Commander.

The Keep’s
roof collapsed, and the stronghold fell in on itself, into the earth-cleft.
Clouds of dust and subterranean gas rose, and the Isle trembled under their
feet. The shocks sent other portions of the fortifications into rubble, with
creneled turrets and ramparts following the donjon into the earth. Waves in the
harbor tossed the anchored Mariner fleet around like toys.

From the ruin
a silvery shape lifted on streamers of demon-fire.
Cloud Ruler
swung
southward; the sorcerer only wanted the Isle of Keys behind him. There would be
ample time to deal with deCourteney; next time, the wizard would have no tidal
wave of emotion upon which to draw.

At the lip of
the crater where the Keep had vanished, Andre bent over his mother. Swan
ordered her Sisters of the Line to build a pyre, thinking of her brother Jade’s
words. “The last of the Old have passed away,” she whispered. Men of Veganá
began mourning dirges for Lord Blacktarget.

Andre shut
out his grief and called Swan and the other captains. He issued directives for
disposition of captives and departure. The subordinates looked at one another
uncertainly. Some bridled at orders from an outlander.

But the
wizard’s mien was locked, with unspeakable anger riding his brow; no one would
risk defying him. Angorman proclaimed, “The rein has passed to your grip.”

Swan went to
do as he’d said. The men of Veganá, seeing it, did the same. “Tell the Prince
of the Waves to make him ready,” Andre said, “and begin reloading our picked
forces at once.”

“The winds
give that no favor,” Angorman cautioned.

“There will
be wind to overfill all sails, I vow.” Andre took up the Crook of the Trustee,
and removed the arming girdle and scabbarded Blazetongue from Lord
Blacktarget’s body, slinging it over his shoulder. He looked south, where
Yardiff Bey had gone. The Trailingsword hung in the sky there; he shook his
fist toward the Necropolis, and it left a blue glow in its wake.

“We come! If
that Lifetree is destroyed, and you are invulnerable, I care not. Salamá, we
come.”

Two days
after the invasion, one of the Isle’s taprooms had been revivified. The place
had been called the Dogfish; its shrewd young proprietress had buried barrels
and cases of her best under a false floor in the celleret when the Occhlon had
come, months earlier. She’d dug them up and reincarnated her establishment,
naming it the Broken Yoke. She’d scarcely unlocked her door when two Mariners
crowded in, and began depleting her modest stock.

“’Tis the
source of no small bitterness,” Wavewatcher complained a little later, “this
reaping unkindness where the harvest ought to have been gladsome thanks.” He
was squiggling doodles on the tabletop with moisture from their tankard rings.

“If our
intermittent shortcoming has been disregard of orders,” Skewerskean added,
“why, ’twas done holding the Mariners’ best interests uppermost. Most times.”

Foxglove, the
proprietress, she of the tumbling sable locks and swaying hips, was bringing their
next round. “Wherefore are these complaints? Is it so perishing unpleasant to
be put in authority over your own ship?”

The harpooner
growled, “Life becomes charts, schedules, manifests—”

“He feels
worse about it,” Skewerskean confided to her, “because he was named captain.”

“Pay calls,
customs men, pilot’s fees—” the redbeard droned.

“And I am
first officer, purser and supercargo.”

“—ship’s log,
inventories, credentials—”

“We can
embark on compensatory business ventures only, or the Prince promises to make
us grease-boys in the sculleries.”

“And,”
finished Wavewatcher, pointing to the ceiling, “just try getting a goddam
shipwright to pick up a mallet without letting him hold the mortgage on your
oysters!” He plucked up another drink.

“Oh, la!” Foxglove
commiserated, “the weight of the world, hmm?”

“We always
saw that it threatened,” Skewerskean admitted, counting out her exorbitant
price, “and avoided it also. But the Prince had replacements to appoint, and we
are both qualified.” The chanteyman held her hand now, playing his fingers over
her wrist. She gave a preliminary tug, not completely unhappy with that
inter-sport. “Telling no to a Prince is one of those matters better left
unassayed.”

The door’s
opening, admitting another customer, interrupted the game as Foxglove whirled
her hand free. Wavewatcher, scrutinizing the man framed in the light, let out a
snort. “There; all courses cross in time, just as is said by the old
grand-daddies. You are a long haul from your Earthfast, old son, and farther
yet from the High Ranges.”

Ferrian took
a chair with them, the toll of diligent riding apparent on him. “Your memory is
spry. I congratulate you on the news I had at the docks, that you two have
arisen in this world. I was seeking a ship and, hearing your names, thought it
could be no others but you.”

“Pray waste
not those well-wishes,” Foxglove advised from behind the bar. “Success
depresses them.”

The
Horseblooded told them, “I arrived at the coast this morning, and ferried over
on one of these supply ships that are ending the starvation here. I am informed
I am too late to speak to Andre deCourteney.”

“As all will
attest,” replied Skewerskean. “The wizard enlisted our Prince’s further aid,
half by plea and half by statement inflexible. They sailed for the
Southwastelands, and all those allies and mounts with ’em, in great haste and
with precious little ullage. The Trustee was slain in combat with Yardiff Bey,
as was Lord Blacktarget, but the Crook and that especial sword Blazetongue go
on with Andre deCourteney.”

Ferrian was
nodding. “I had the tale from a Glyffan woman, and heard this news of Gil
MacDonald as well. I thought the balance of these hodge-podge soldiers would go
along soon, but there are some to garrison the Isle, and others to be set back
on the Crescent Lands.”

“Aye. That
wizard did insist, all speed and mobility was his preoccupation. Hence, most
foot soldiers stayed here.”

“Where will
the fleet make landfall?”

The
chanteyman was playing with his tankard. “Not near here. Observers report
amassed southerners, frustrated with their lack of passage ships. The Prince
and deCourteney, avoiding them, were making southeast. The wizard called up the
very air, filling all sailcloth. Common thought has him landing farther east,
where he can drive toward Shardishku-Salamá with less resistance.”

“And the
Crescent Landers put themselves under him?”

“Well, the
Sisters of the Line are under their commander, that Swan, and the Veganáns have
some interim general, but they did indeed obey the wizard. All of them were
angry for the deaths of the two great leaders, and time and again Blacktarget
and the Trustee publicized that the Trailingsword must be heeded. And so, too,
thinks the Prince Who Sails Forever. Off they all sailed.”

Ferrian
leaned forward. “Everyone, is that so? Angorman too? Well, my hearty
sea-rovers, it falls to me to catch up to that fleet as soon as ever I may. Is
it enough to hear that many lives ride with it?”

Their faces
perked up. Until this moment life had been a dreary sentence of sober industry.
For the Horseblooded’s words there was the enthusiasm reserved for stays of
execution.

“We can
accept only offers of business,” Skewerskean reminded his friend and captain,
“on the Prince’s order.”

The tall
Rider frowned, left hand burrowing in his pouch. He came up with a pair of
copper bits, all the money he had left from what Silverquill had managed to
find for him. He laid the little pellets on the table, where they clicked
together, a preposterous sum with which to purchase passage.

“They’ll do,”
Wavewatcher announced, and scooped them up. Foxglove shook her head
unbelievingly.

“But can you
overhaul them in the fleet?”

“Horseman,
meseems ’tis fundamental; breezes that drive them eastward must pass us. Or if
not, we may still make our attempt.”

Skewerskean
warned, “The Prince will see us hung.” But he threw back his drink, rising to
go.

Over his
shoulder, Wavewatcher called to Ferrian, “Meet us on the quay in the half-hour,
and all will be ready.” To the chanteyman, he philosophized, “Remuneration is
remuneration; nobody ever said anything about
profit,
witling.”

Ferrian
watched them go, then chortled down into his drink with the humor of long
sleeplessness. He caught Foxglove staring at him quizzically, and raised the
toast to her. “Here’s to as perceptive a pair of businessmen as this old world
ever saw, and to good ends for two-penny rovers.”

Proprieties of the
Apocalypse

And when fate summons, monarchs
must obey

John Dryden

MacFlecknoe

THERE was no elation to be had
from this rallying of blazonries, clan totems and banners of war at Seaguard.
Coramonde, generations’ labor of the
Ku-Mor-Mai,
was coming undone in
rebellion and civil strife.

Springbuck
had been working toward a time when, his realm secure, he could gather a host
here and sail for Shardishku-Salamá. But he hadn’t envisioned it this way, a
desperate rush to gather what troops he could and confront the Masters while it
still was possible. He’d left trusted Honuin Granite Oath in command, yet even
Earthfast was no longer secure.

Springbuck’s
decision to cast all his strength southward, and not stand fast in a wasted
effort to subdue Coramonde, had come hard. His every instinct had told him to
hold on, as his ancestors had done, to grip the suzerainty with the martial
fist. But, from what he knew of Bey and of Salamá, Coramonde couldn’t be saved
if the Five worked uninterrupted.

“Can I expect
further loyal contingents?” he asked his Warlord.

Hightower
sighed, raising frosty-white eyebrows. “Communication has fallen apart. Some
have sent you knights and scutage and men at arms, and posted the call along to
those they trust. The strike force that was Bonesteel’s own before his death
stayed true, made a forced march here, flying the crimson tiger and your own
stag’s head.

“We may
expect no more from Honuin Granite Oath either, than that he hold Earthfast and
some of the suzerainty. So, we have a quiltwork. There are archers from Rugor,
Clansmen from Teebra, four of the war-drays of Matloo dispatched by loyalist
septs, and your personal guardsmen who number less than two companies. Oh, and
members of the Constabulary of the Way continue to drift in. There is also
Balagon and his One Hundred, the Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, along with a
good part of the Order of the Axe. Strange, to see them more in comradeship now
than enmity. But those are all you have, and a goodly part of Coramonde in
chaos.”

“As it would
be,” informed Gabrielle deCourteney, “whether you stay or go. Salamá has many intrigues
incubating in Coramonde, and cares not which ones hatch, so long as there is
discord and confusion.” Her wide mouth smiled, dimpling, sardonic. “Put aside
any idea that you two could have held on here, my desperadoes; that is what the
Five would most have liked to see.”

Springbuck’s
chin was against his chest. “But our roster here is short. Militarily speaking,
this is farce.”