The Starfollowers of Coramonde (47 page)

A wide
breakthrough occurred, the Crescent Landers’ line pierced by a wedge of the Dead.
Brodur-Scabbardless saw it and, cursing the luck that had given him the
responsibility of command, brought up all his reserves, three squadrons of
heavy cavalry. With those thousand ironclads at his back, he cast himself into
the gap. The Host rose to meet them, and the Scabbardless was swallowed up in
the melee. The breach closed for the time being, and more reinforcements were
hurried there, but only a part of the reserves could fight free again, and
Brodur had fallen.

Reacher’s
flank, at the extreme right, was falling back in good order. His mainstay,
Kisst-Haa and the several reptile-men, plied their colossal blades and flayed
with their flanged, armored tails. Their foemen were stamped flat by broad,
scaled feet, halved or cut off at the knees by broadswords, plucked up and torn
by mighty claw-hands, or smashed by caudal armor. Even the Dead were no match
for them, yet Kisst-Haa and his kinsmen must tire in time, and couldn’t hold
the entire flank themselves.

Even
wildhearted Katya saw this was no time for charge and sally; she fell back with
Van Duyn and her brother. When the Horseblooded had seen that their wailing
arrows were of no avail, they’d swept out keen scimitars.

Reacher, the
only man afoot, leaping and dodging in the midst of it, slashed with his clawed
glove and struck with his cestus, hurling corpse-soldiers aside. Seeing how
hard it would be for his men to resist the Host, he tried to be everywhere at
once, helping as many of them as he could. It was a mistake; no one man could
do it, not even the Wolf-Brother. He found himself encircled, standing atop a
writhing pile of cadaver parts, lashing out to every side. The mound grew as he
fought, but more and more of the Dead turned toward him.

Katya saw,
and rode in to bring her brother out. But a sword took her horse in the side,
and she went down. Kisst-Haa, who’d been following her with one eye, made a
steam whistle of alarm. One of the Dead loomed over the Snow Leopardess, an
ages-old axe raised.

The
reptile-man bent, picked up the spiked-ball head of a broken mace, reared back
and threw it with all his muscle. It passed completely through the dead man,
hurling the body back ten feet. Van Duyn appeared, to raise his shield over her
and help her up. Reacher leapt down to them, and Kisst-Haa and his kin moved
in, greatswords thrashing. The Snow Leopardess recovered her weapon, and the
group withdrew in hedgehog fashion, defending at all points.

Springbuck,
trying futilely to keep his line dressed in withdrawal, saw Andre and Gabrielle
in among the Glyffans. He left his place, and Hightower held the gap with
enormous sweeps of his blade, swinging a morning star with his left hand.

“There is no
hope but you,” Springbuck told the enchanters. “Our lines will dissolve soon.
We’ve no reserve, nor any place to take a stand.” He noticed that Andre wore
his own sword again, brought south by Gabrielle. He was holding Blazetongue in
his hand. “Andre, your sword has Calundronius in it. Would the gemstone work?”

The wizard
shook his head. “It might clear some small space against the Dead, but not
defeat them in numbers.”

“Then, what
of Blazetongue?”

The wizard
was surprised. “What of it? It has done its last office, calling up the
Trailingsword. We lack the means to summon its lesser fire.”

“Is there
nothing you can evoke from it?”

Those words
brought back the Trustee’s. Andre turned excitedly to Gabrielle. “Our mother
said she thought Blazetongue might have a last service left in it, to render up
when it is unmade.”

She
considered that. “But can we accomplish it?”

“Its magic is
akin to ours. And surely here, directly beneath the Trailingsword’s marker, we
have a propitious place, even though that Omen isn’t in view.”

“Try, try!”
pleaded Springbuck, seeing that he must return to his place. Andre hefted
Blazetongue; Gabrielle lifted the Crook, which glowed with the blue magic of
the deCourteneys. Brother and sister went forward, holding their talismans
high. Swan and the Sisters of the Line came to guard their Trustee.

Hightower
opened a way for them. The Dead, pouring in, were stopped at once by the
brilliance of the Crook. They persisted though, falling in piles before
Gabrielle deCourteney. She had a hard time urging her frightened horse forward,
so Springbuck rode in to take its bridle, leading it on. Andre was at his
sister’s other side.

When he’d
gotten to the center of the melee, Andre dropped from his saddle, Blazetongue
in hand. Taking the greatsword by its thick quillions, he stabbed it deep into
the sooty ground. Gabrielle had dismounted too, in a ring of swordswomen. She
struck the weapon’s hilt with the Crook, and blue sparks shot out; struck it a
second time, and beams of light shone from it, making the Dead shield
themselves. She struck Blazetongue with the Crook a third time; the sword
turned to blue incandescence, not burning, but discharging all the energy bound
up in it. Flames spread outward, consuming their way through the Host of the
Grave, driving them back from the living, guided by the deCourteneys.

The balefire
spread left and right, racing along the battle line. Any of the Dead whom it
touched became momentary torches, dropping into piles of ash. Men held their
cloaks or shields to fend off the heat, but the fire didn’t seek them out. A
barrier of blue burning sprang up from the dust. The bulk of the Host of the
Grave was held back by it, unable to get at their antagonists. But there were
still many of the Dead on the other side, the Crescent Landers’. Springbuck
demanded, “Will it hold, this wall of magic?”

“While there
is anything left of Blazetongue,” Gabrielle assessed, “but then it will end.”

Unearthly
combat continued, the living taking the offensive mode. Those of the Host left
on the northerners’ side of the flames were now outnumbered. The living rode
them down with charges and a rising and falling of arms. Many of the Dead had
been consumed by Blazetongue’s released energies, but many more waited beyond a
curtain of flame that now burned lower. Springbuck, gazing out at them, saw
their hungry, glowing eyes, like a night of stars. They were biding their time
until they could take up where they’d left off.

A shout came
from Hightower, “See!” They searched, and saw it riding high up, a silvery
shape on red pillars of demon-flame. Springbuck thought of Bey, watching and
gloating aboard
Cloud Ruler,
and channeled his resentment into his right
arm.

But the
flying vessel swooped lower, and lower yet. It banked and came back, its fire
splashing off the ground. Ship of the holocaust, it trailed its red blast
through the Host of the Grave. It withered the Dead like insects in a bonfire.

Cloud
Ruler
cut a path of annihilation from one flank of the Dead to the other,
leaving behind it the stench of cremation. The Dead wavered.
Cloud Ruler
came around for another devastating pass, and a third. The northerners hewed
down the Host remaining on their side of the conflagration like so many
executioners. The demon-ship swung back and forth, carpeting the ground with
the seared Dead. Springbuck couldn’t speculate how that vessel might be coming
to his support, nor could Andre, nor Gabrielle. At the moment, that was
unimportant.

Evergray
brought the sky ship around for another run. Gil and Dunstan had lost count of
the passes he’d made through the Host of the Grave. There were a few stragglers
escaping
Cloud Ruler’s
purging fire. Except for those few, though, the
ancient sentinels of the Five had been incinerated.
Cloud Ruler
circled
for a landing.

Below, the
last of the curtain of flame was dying. Where Blazetongue had been planted,
there was only a hole, the ground around it a glassy fusion. The Crook of the
Trustee was quiescent. Breathing was a trial; fumes were the residue of the
Host of the Grave, a thick, smoky reek that permeated hair and clothing and
choked the lungs. When they disembarked, Gil and Dunstan coughed, rubbing their
eyes and staring at the charred field. Evergray stood, fists on hips, satisfied
with what he’d done.

“In this
moment, the Masters must feel their weird upon them,” he declared loftily.

Springbuck arrived
with the deCourteneys, Hightower and the others from Coramonde, Glyffa and
Veganá. The
Ku-Mor-Mai
dismounted and rushed to the American and the
Horseblooded, pounding their backs, gripping hands and shouting amazed
greetings. Gil was careful with Dirge, unsure if its spells were still active.
Questions and explanations were lost in the confusion, but the deCourteneys
became concerned, seeing Evergray, who was smiling, his aura flickering.

Swan arrived,
and Angorman. She saw Gil and called out his name; even in the tumult he heard
it. She came down off Jeb Stuart, removing the bascinet, its white wings and
mirror brightness smudged now. Her snake-skin armor showed signs of the battle,
and he was still marked with Flaycraft’s blood. Neither of them knew what to
say.

“You found
your friend,” she ventured at last. “Did you slay your enemy, then?”

“No.” He
looked to Dunstan, who was joyous as his nature ever let him be, talking to
Springbuck. “But I guess it’s all right. You?”

“The Trustee
fell in conflict, and Gabrielle has taken her place. Yes, I have survived; more
than many were allowed to do.” He brushed her hair back at the side, where the
birthmark ran. She flashed her smile and took his hand.

Evergray
broke off his gloating, interrupting reunions. “Who reigns here?” The words
hung, imperious, in the smoky quiet. All looked at last to Springbuck.

“I am
Springbuck of Coramonde,
Ku-Mor-Mai.
There are only free equals, met
here. Yet I have led as much as any.”

“That being
the case, you may marshal all the freewill forces for me. But all other decrees
will be mine.”

Gil saw the
anger that drew all around. “Hold it, Evergray. They want what you do, to stop
the Masters; you just can’t take over like this though. Outside Salamá they do
things differently. We’re all—”

“Silence!”
The giant’s face shone in fury, eyes blazing. “No free-will creature may defy
me. I am Evergray of Shardishku-Salamá. I will stop the grand design of the
Five, and impose my will on them, as they would have done to me. My authority
transcends all others.” He shook his enormous broadsword at the city. “Be
ready, then, to perish!”

“And your
word outweighs all others?” Angorman spoke up, leaning on Red Pilgrim. “And the
gods?”

Evergray’s
burning gaze went to him. “You mortals never saw how the gods’ destinies hinge
upon your own. When I have thrown down the Masters, I will topple the shrines
of the gods, and none will survive!”

Angorman
brought his greataxe up in a flash. “For the Bright Lady!” He rushed the giant.

Evergray
brought his weapon around, stopping the legendary axe with a blade-to-blade
intrusion. Sparks shot from the meeting. Before anyone could act, Evergray
drove his point through the Saint-Commander. Angorman sank with a shedding of
blood. Gil, horrified, called the old man’s name. The warrior-priest’s eyes
fluttered shut.

Hightower
attacked, his sword uplifted, but Evergray parried and, as they went
corps-a-corps,
dealt a blow with his free hand that flattened the Warlord. Swan was calling
for archers.

There was an
explosion of arcane blue, as Gabrielle’s Crook spoke. Evergray shrugged it off,
and sent a counterspell at her. The Crook strobed harsh colors.

Gil saw that
Evergray could never endure or even understand the mortals he’d decided to
rule. And it was Gil MacDonald who’d brought him here. The American brought
Dirge up before he himself became a target, and sank the deathblade deep into
the giant’s side.

Evergray
threw his head back and screamed in agony. Dirge hummed angrily; black smoke
roiled from the wound. The giant spun, yanking the hilt from the outlander’s
grasp, and slapped him to the earth like a rag doll.

“You,” the
Scion accused, unbelieving, “whom I freed!” He was swaying, leached by Dirge’s
malevolent enchantments. He pulled at the sword clumsily, but it resisted him.
At last he yanked it loose, fighting for balance, knowing what terrible wound
he’d taken.

“MacDonald,
did you mean my death from the first? Ah, you have gulled me. Die with me,
then!”

Hightower,
back on his feet, leapt to interpose himself. But Evergray, even wounded, was
too strong and fast. Bey’s sword struck through the old Warlord’s guard and his
armored body, driving him down to the dust atop the stunned Gil. Dirge slid on,
out the back of Hightower’s mail, into the American’s side, irresistible
invasion of steel through complacent flesh.

The Warlord
groaned and writhed; Gil felt as if he’d been butt-stroked in the ribs. There
was a rushing sensation to it, noise and feeling both, air leaving his
punctured left lung.

Evergray drew
Dirge out brutally, eliciting another cry from Hightower, to strike again. Now
Gabrielle blocked his way, and she struck Dirge with her mother’s white wooden
Crook. There was a bright splash of magic, staggering Evergray, who dropped his
weapon and closed his huge hands on the Crook. Archers held fire, and even
Andre couldn’t interfere where the Trustee’s Crook was concerned. Strands of
mystic brilliance played up and down the rod of office, flickering over them
both, as she diverted the giant’s energies, drawing them to her through the
staff. His aura grew dimmer, while hers increased.

Andre,
Dunstan and Springbuck eased Hightower off Gil. The wizard and the
Ku-Mor-Mai
looked to the Warlord while Swan and Dunstan bent over Gil, all of them wary of
the duel erupting nearby. When they saw the damage Dirge had done Gil, the
Horseblooded’s sad clown face seemed about to come apart from grief; Swan made
a low sound of woe, suppressed far back in her throat. The American got himself
up on one elbow, keeping his good lung, his right, uppermost to help breathing.
His wound sucked and bubbled with his respiration. He dapped a hand to it,
sobbing in pain, eyes bulging. With a flood of horror he realized that the
weapon Evergray had used on him was the dread blade Gil himself had carried
south.