The Starfollowers of Coramonde (51 page)

Springbuck,
finding Calundronius, had raced for the stoneyards to rescue Dunstan and Swan,
only to meet them as the two emerged. The
Ku-Mor-Mai
sighed his relief,
shaking the lean Horseblooded by both shoulders.

The others
were at the rear of the ruined dray. The King pointed toward Salamá; Springbuck
couldn’t quite see, but the others described for him the horseman coming with
supernatural speed.

“That’ll be
Yardiff Bey,” grated Gil, certain. He was glassy-eyed, his skin blue with
shortage of oxygen. Hightower was propped against the wagon, eyelids closed,
yet they fluttered open at the name.

The Warlord
spoke to the heart of matters in a quavering voice. “Time is short, and I see
but one horse.” Fireheel stood waiting, the only one not driven or frightened
away.
“Ku-Mor-Mai,
finish this ride.”

There was no
counterargument. Springbuck took Red Pilgrim from Swan. “Fireheel is brawny,”
he declared, gathering the gray’s reins, “and can bear one more beside.”

“Then, let it
be Gil MacDonald,” the old man bade, words coming in a gargle of blood. “I am
late in years, and have my death-wound.”

They hoisted
Gil into the gray’s saddle and used the baldric of Ferrian’s scimitar to hold
him to the high cantle, seeing he was half-fainting. Springbuck rode behind,
carrying the axe and steadying his friend. Swan removed her gleaming,
white-winged bascinet and wrapped its chin strap through Gil’s belt. “If you
can fill this with the waters of the Tree and bear it back, Hightower’s life
may still be saved. I will try to find a horse, and follow, if I can.”

Springbuck
nodded, but doubted she had the time. He spoke to Fireheel gently, asking one
last effort. The stallion complied. And so the two, the ruler of a mighty
suzerainty and the displaced alien, became, of all the thousands who’d answered
the Trailingsword, the ones to cover the final stretch.

The other
four turned to await the sorcerer. Dunstan was still armed with Andre’s sword,
and Swan had drawn hers, taking up Springbuck’s fallen shield. Ferrian
brandished his flashing scimitar, and Reacher leaned against the dray,
balancing on one foot, holding Swan’s javelin.

A fey calm
settled over them. Soon, the salvoes of the hellhorse’s hoofbeats could be
heard.

Fireheel
churned to the summit of the steep, grassy slope. Springbuck, who’d barely been
able to hold Gil in the saddle, slid off, unfastened the baldric, and eased his
friend down. The American couldn’t stand, couldn’t breathe or speak. He lay on
the ground, clawing at his throat, as the pressure in his chest choked life out
of him. Springbuck, beyond knowledge and beyond prayer, took Red Pilgrim in a
woodchopper’s grip, and with a broad stance, raised the axe.

When he
sighted the four waiting for him in the road, the sorcerer recognized that his
options were exhausted. The hellhorse was beginning to falter, and there was no
time for spell-casting. He must unleash that weapon he wore where his left eye
had been.

He’d lost the
eye, long ago, in mortal combat beneath the earth. He’d wrenched from its
socket the single Orb of his monstrous opponent, and made it his own in
replacement. Now he leaned to one side of his mount’s neck and flipped open the
ocular.

The Orb
seemed to turn the whole world a harsh, unendurable white, abolishing all
color. There were only outlines to be seen in its brilliance. The pain Bey
felt, liberating those energies, threatened to rob him of consciousness. Dust
swirled up, and the air was superheated. The four mortals fell away, covering
themselves, seared and blistered.

But the Hand
had already elevated his awful gaze up the mound. There, its venomous light
caught Springbuck full in the back as he raised the greataxe. Calundronius
didn’t protect him; the Orb was no enchantment, but a living property, like
dragonfire. The
Ku-Mor-Mal
pitched forward, but brought the axe through
its arc. The crescent bit dug deep into the earth. From that crease water
gushed, to fountain and flow.

Bey had
already clicked the ocular shut, clinging to his horse’s mane; the Orb was
fueled by its user’s life, and a moment’s exposure had nearly cost the sorcerer
his. He barreled past the dray and his downed opponents like Death, the Hunter.
Near the top of the hill though, his steed came to the end of its unnatural
endurance. As it sank to its knees with a resentful sibilance like a snake’s,
he slipped clear and continued afoot.

At the summit
he discovered Springbuck stretched out full length on the ground. Not far from
him, Gil MacDonald’s body lay face down in the runoff from the hill’s mystic
waters. But that runoff was becoming less and less; between the two forms, the
Lifetree stood.

Angorman’s
axe haft had awakened from the sleep of centuries and put forth roots, growing
with preternatural speed, as if years were passing like minutes. Even now, it was
less a helve than a sapling, knurled with the promise of limbs.

Yardiff Bey
smiled; he was in time. The Tree was still young and vulnerable to his powers.
His hands danced skillfully, calling sorcery to him, but without effect. Then
it came to him that Springbuck still wore Calundronius. He started for the
Ku-Mor-Mai,
meaning to hurl the gemstone off the hill, but stopped dead. There was a
gurgle, a watery snort, movement, a gust of exhalation.

Gil MacDonald
rolled out of the runoff, shaking water from his eyes, spitting, coughing. He’d
been healed, not drowned, by those rarest of waters.

The last
thing he remembered was an unbearable light that had downed Springbuck; the
first thing he saw was Yardiff Bey. He bounced to his feet, forgetting he’d
been as good as dead, but recalling he was unarmed. Bey’s hand went to his
ocular. He would risk its use one more time; Lifetree and enemy would both
fall.

Gil concluded
that the ocular was connected with whatever ray had struck the
Ku-Mor-Mai;
but too much distance separated him from the sorcerer.

“The episode
ends well,” allowed the servant of Salamá, finding the catch of his ocular.

A white puff
of feathers struck his cheek. He recoiled instinctively. Another streaked past,
as several more hovered before his face. Suddenly, the air was alive with
piping, swarming Birds of Accord, like a snowstorm of wings and song. Bey
swatted them away, wildly angry, and made to unlatch his ocular.

Gil MacDonald
was no longer there.

The Hand of
Salamá spun, searching in the blinding, deafening blizzard as Birds blundered
into him. Gil hit him blindside, taking advantage of the unseeing ocular. They
grappled on the ground, the American’s punches and chops hardly hurting the
sorcerer. Bey’s strength was immense; he struck away a groping attempt for a
choke-hold on his throat, but Gil got his wrists, holding his enemy from behind
in a leg-lock, moved not by Rage, but rather by outrage.

Still, this
was Yardiff Bey. Irresistibly, his hands came to the ocular. It would serve him
one more time, and win him all his desires.

Something
pressed hard at Gil’s side as he wrestled; Swan’s helmet. He released his hold,
and Bey’s hand flew to the ocular. Gil tore the helmet loose, grasping it by
its white wings and, as the Orb shone forth, jammed the glittering bascinet
down backward over the sorcerer’s head, holding it fast.

The Hand of
Salamá arched backward, squealing in horror. Smoke, glaring white light and the
crackle of mystic fire escaped around the helmet’s edges. Gil clung, literally,
for his life. Then he had to yank his hands away, as the bascinet became too
hot to touch.

It lasted
only seconds. Bey slumped, paroxysms ended. The Orb, unpowered, went out. Gil
worked up the meager energy to shove himself free.

As he did, a
gale sprang up on the hillside. A chorus of gloating, gibbering voices came on
it, invisible, circling the hill. Then there was a new voice, surrounded by
ranting and wailing in the manner of the damned. Gil recognized it: Yardiff
Bey’s. Sobbing, pleading to no effect, the sorcerer’s soul was borne away to
pay unholy debts.

Then calm
returned, and the Birds of Accord resumed their waiting.

I cannot rest from travel; I
will drink

Life to the lees.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Ulysses

IN the Fane of the Masters were
whines of utter despair. The Lifetree had taken root, exerting its equilibrium.

The
influences of the Five pulsed erratically against blue deCourteney
enchantments. Andre spread his arms wide with a gusty laugh; Gabrielle’s
luminance was renewed. They’d been beleaguered, but now the attacks were
dissipated like so much mist.

Gabrielle’s
green eyes narrowed. Arrogant Masters who’d been within an instant of godhood
were naked to her. The sorceress’ unquenchable will, supported by her brother’s
arts, dragged her enemies from their places. Their dreams of deity were broken,
leaving only their obscene shapes. Skaranx, faithless watchman; Temopon,
deceitful advisor; Vorwoda, hateful lover; Kaytaynor, friend-slayer; and
Dorodeen, flawed hero; they came in a semicircle around the deCourteneys as
failed, petty spirits.

One by one,
Gabrielle called their names. They came to touch their heads to the floor at
her feet, monstrous shapes bending to an unforeseen task.

No words
passed, but the same sharp aspect was in both the deCourteneys’ miens.
Gabrielle raised both hands high, a very empress of magic. A final radiance
broke from the two. The central column vibrated, a webwork of cracks appearing
all along its granite height. The deCourteneys turned to leave their enemies.
The Masters made a tentative move to follow. She whirled back; they were cowed
by her glance alone.

The stone
pillar was wrapped in a sleeve of blue glory, held together only by Gabrielle’s
imperatives. Brother and sister came to the doors, which Andre opened with a
motion of his head and a word of Compulsion. Men fell back, averting their eyes
from the unbearable light. Framed in it, Gabrielle made a last Dismissal. The central
column came apart in a shower of stone and dust. The roof cracked, enormous
chunks of it breaking loose. The immeasurable weight of the Fane collapsed.

In that
penultimate moment, the Five shook loose from the ages of their plotting,
resigning themselves to death with a perverse curiosity, as their Fane crashed
down upon them.

Returning
down the road from Salamá, Andre and Gabrielle and the army came to the broken
dray. There, Ferrian and Reacher kept watch over the body of Hightower.

Gabrielle went
to him slowly, stooping to kiss the Warlord’s leathery brow. “He was at peace,
at the end,” Ferrian told her gently.

Her eyes were
brimming. “It was granted us both to know why we failed against Salamá so long
ago. Seeing the Lady’s whole plan was a measure of compensation.”

Healers were
seeing to Ferrian’s temple and Reacher’s leg, applying demulcents to the burns
they’d gotten when the Orb had opened against them. They had no news yet of
what had happened on the hill, so wizard and sorceress hurried on, as Van Duyn,
Katya, Dunstan and Swan already had.

Riding up,
they saw a blackened area in the grass, not knowing it was the spot where Bey’s
hellhorse had fallen and evaporated as its unnatural life was consumed.

At the top of
the hill, the rest had gathered by the Lifetree. The Tree towered over them,
already crowded with caroling Birds of Accord. The timeless artificial twilight
of Salamá was dispersing, and honest night breaking through.

Swan, Van
Duyn and the Snow Leopardess stood over them as Gil and Dunstan knelt by
Springbuck’s unmoving body. Andre grieved anew, thinking this last death might
be more than his sister could bear. Then the
Ku-Mor-Mai
groaned, drawing
up one knee. Gabrielle ran to him, as Gil recounted the events of the chase.
Sisters of the Line crowded around their High Constable, pressing ministrations
on her, and on the others’ wounds as well.

Of Bey’s body
there was little remaining except dark powder; its spirit had preserved it all
these centuries.

“The water
stopped running before I could get to it,” Gil told Andre sadly, “and now the
Tree’s taking it all; no more runoff.”

“’Twould do
Hightower no good,” the wizard admitted. “He died even before you came to the
mound.” He gazed to one side, and saw the double-bitted axehead, its collar
snapped open by the insistent growth of the Lifetree.

“What about
the Masters?” Gil wanted to know. Gabrielle pointed back toward the city.
Shardishku-Salamá was consuming itself in fires leaping upward toward the sky.

“I’ve got to
see,” he announced. Jeb Stuart’s hurts, and Fireheel’s, were being attended by
knowledgeable cavalrymen. Gil was about to borrow a horse when Springbuck,
struggling to his feet, called for two.

“Where is the
injury so grievous it will keep us two from seeing this sight?” he demanded. No
one contradicted him, or pressed to be taken along.

By the time
they’d gotten to the city, the fires were burned out. There were only minor
drifts of smoke; of the Necropolis there was nothing. The sky was nearly dark
now, but the light of dawn was coming up in the east.

“So fast,”
Gil murmured, “how could it have gone up so fast? Even the stone is gone.”

Springbuck
shrugged. “The Masters endured long after they should have died, and so did
their magic, and the things it built. All this destruction, held in abeyance,
was accomplished in quickened time.”

Gil
dismounted. “Coming?” Springbuck followed suit slowly, babying burns, aches and
wounds.