The web of wizardry (14 page)

"My turn!" Gordyan swung up on his horse, a huge, ugly blue roan. "Now you shall see how to handle a lance, friend. Watch!"

Gordyan moved with astonishing lightness and grace. Danaer cheered with the rest of the onlookers as the point of Gordyan's lance stabbed every Httle circlet cleanly. Pride swelled the man's barrel chest as he rode back to the hne of contestants and grinned at Danaer. "Does that meet with the army's standards?"

He was like a youth seeking praise, open and blunt. Danaer Uked the man, despite Gordyan's fearsome reputation and their divided loyalties. "It was most weU..."

The place caller pointed to Danaer and spoke coldly. "You are next, lit. Unless you come to your senses and withdraw now."

"Care!" Gordyan growled. "He is Azsed, and an honored guest at this vrentru."

"Then ae know not of your colors, stander." The caller, skeptical and contemptuous, lapsed into a rich Destre accent.

"Out Nyald." Danaer enjoyed matching the chal-

lenge with his own dialect. "Ain mae of the Siredri ve Aejzad."

Gordyan smiled mahciously at the place caller's stupefaction. Then he took Danaer's sword and helmet. "Warrior, you cannot lance while you carry these. I will hold them in my honor."

"My blood one with yours, Azsed," Danaer answered formally. He was touched that Gordyan volunteered to act as his second.

"Then at it! Let us see how your lance arm fares after the army's tampering."

Danaer mounted at a run, a heady exhilaration seizing him. Vrentru! Lancing contest! Nyald Zsed had known no such festival since Danaer was a boy, and never had they staged one so grand as this. Danaer felt himself newly sworn to manhood again, meeting his first testings—a good roan between his knees and the weapons keeper waiting ahead. The weapons keeper handed up one of the slender contest spears; no man was allowed to use a favorite lance to his advantage. The starter dropped his hand.

The roan broke into an easy lope, and Danaer smoothed a hand along the mottled neck and rough mane. "Calm, now. Let us prove it, Sure-Foot." He let fall the reins and they dangled from the animal's shoulders. Shift of weight and press of knee guided the roan through the targets. The Destre lance was shorter and thinner than the army's weapon. But the moment the wood touched his palm, it was as if Danaer had never handled anything else.

Man and animal must act as one. All the old turns and tricks were still his, and Danaer had taught them to his mount—^for these arts were as useful in war as in contests. No sudden breaks, no awkward movements. The lance must strike true, whether it be target or deadly enemy. One by one, Danaer speared the little trophies. His mount could not have been better behaved. Only the sharpest eye could catch the slight dip when the animal changed leads.

"Harshaa! Har-shaa!"

Elated, Danaer trotted back to the waiting line. In the pavilion, the ofi&cers were nodding approval, and

Lira waved the long ribbons of her headband to celebrate Danaer's success. That last was far more reward than the cheers of the crowd, and Danaer was smiling slyly to himself as he dismounted and squatted once more beside Gordyan. He did not crow yet, for this was but the first testing.

Gordyan took him by the nape and shook him, though not hurtfully. "Harshaa, indeed! How did Nyald Zsed ever lose you to the soldiers? You are none of them, Azsed. Come to my lances and be my man."

"My Siim is Straedanfi, and General Nurdanth." Then Danaer softened his refusal. "Then this was but the first challenge. Perhaps I will not last long in the contest."

"You will stand to it," Gordyan said with confidence. "At least until you match with me. School that roan of yours well, then, warrior."

Side by side, they watched the others compete, trading remarks and jests as if they were blood friends of long acquaintance. And one by one, the others were ruled out. Twice more Danaer and Gordyan each passed the judges' demanding eyes. Now stamina counted as much as skill. Danaer thanked Yistar's driU training, which had kept him taut over the years.

And then there were but two left. The onlookers were intently silent as Gordyan rode forth.

One on the ground—done. Another three, far to the sides—done, just when it seemed man and rangy blue roan must overtopple. Mistakes could be fatal when a rider moved at such speed and in such awkward positions. Again and again the lance struck. Even as Gordyan speared the last circlet, Danaer gauged that the big man had been off balance. The giant's gracefulness had failed him in that critical instant. As the Siirn Rena's bodyguard returned to the line, it was obvious he shared Danaer's judgment and was much displeased with his own performance. "A bad lunge, that last one," Gordyan said with an unhappy grunt.

"You struck it fairly." Danaer sensed this was a

man who needed such an assurance, and he did not begrudge it. But as he again took up lance, Yistar's words rang in Danaer's memory: When you ride to the target, put all else from your mind. Strike to kill. Whatever the cost, he would not do less than his best. If defeat rankled Gordyan, Argan would determine the price of victory.

For the most part, the targets came easy now, practice and art blending to put the circlets on the spear point. Danaer dipped the lance as he passed each position, by the rules, dropping his trophies one by one, then going on to the next target. At last he was crossing the space before the final and most difficult of the goals. His roan shaved the entrance poles, but none fell.

Danaer matched his balance to that of the horse as they came at the run. His lance was ready and he called, "Ka-saa!" The responsive roan increased his pace, dipping, bringing his rider into direct line with the target. Done! Danaer quickly lifted the lance and circlet and braced for the jump over the water barriel beyond the last position. The roan sprang across and landed cleanly on the grassy flat.

A deafening ovation erupted as Danaer delivered up his last precious circlet of bone and turned toward the contest line. For a heartbeat, Gordyan glared at him, his craggy countenance dark and threatening. Then a reluctant smile broke. "Warrior, you won honestly. Where did you learn that trick of setting the roan at the charge just as you hit home?"

"Spearing sand lizards at Nyald Zsed," Danaer said, only partly joking. "I had a further advantage; my roan is smaller than yours, and more of a level with the targets."

Gordyan cocked his head, weighing that placating comment. Then he said gruffly, "Get to the judges, or they may still award me the honor by default."

Danaer's name was announced, and then the judges stepped back to leave him alone, facing the pavilion. Malol and the General and Lira Nalu were gazing down at him with pride. But Gordt te Raa's face was

unfathomable, as were the expressions of many other Destre chieftains.

It was the custom for a victor in contest to dedicate his triumph. That simple ritual was now heavy with peril. Danaer knew he must guard every word lest he give offense.

"All praise to Argan, the praiseworthy, and to Gordt te Raa, Siirn of Siank Zsed . . ."

That much could be said safely. But more was expected, and the crowd hushed, waiting. Danaer steeled himself and said, "My soul to Argan, my honor to my word, and my victory to Krantin."

Murmurs, and sighs of reUef, spread among the onlookers. It was obvious they had feared some alien lit dedication which would spoil the vrentru. Even the chieftains under the pavilion seemed easier for Danaer's dedication, one acceptable to any Destre-Y. Most turned to their companions and chatted on the fine points of the contests just concluded.

One of the dignitaries continued to stare at Danaer. Gordt te Raa studied the soldier until Danaer began to feel a deep uncertainty. The Siirn Rena was inscrutable, unmoving—and he was the final arbiter of what would be the outcome of this fateful council.

VIII

The Storm Magic of Markuand

Other, less important contests were beginning on the field. But Gordt te Raa gave a barely perceptible signal, and all around the canopy servants began working ropes. In minutes the immense sunshade was converted to a tent, enclosing the council. The chieftains and their attendants rearranged themselves into a rough circle, with Commander Malol's party now seated at the Siirn Rena's left. More servants hurried

in and out, bringing roasted meat and larded grain cakes and leathern bottles of wine for each dignitary and attendant.

Malol and Lira were disturbed by the unseemly haste of Destre eating habits. General Nurdanth, with his deep knowledge of the plains people, was not surprised. Nor, of course, was Danaer. lU at ease, the Royal Commander and the sorkra tried to copy the manners of their neighbors, refraining from conversation and gobbling their food. Destre-Y ate as if they knew not when they might eat again. The last crumbs were licked from jBngers, then servants bore away the remnants.

Warrior chieftains picked at their teeth yvith knives and wiped greasy hands on forearms and their richly stained vests. All around the circle intent and none too friendly stares were shifting toward the four strangers. When all the amenities of belchings and compliments had been done, Gordt te Raa ceremoniously removed his mantle, folding it and placing it on the bare earth before his cushion. His hair was still covered by a plain dust cowl, in the manner of Destre-Y on formal occasions. The Siim Rena stood and stepped out into the circle, standing beside his mantle. He raised high his eiphren ring and invoked the goddess. "Argan, guide our wills."

Tribal mantles were taken ofi and laid before their owners, a massive proclaiming of the assembled clans and callings. Gordt te Raa returned to his position of honor beside his consort. "Speak, Royal Commander."

It was all the introduction Malol te Eldri was to receive. Kandra glanced at the visitors, her eyes shining with sympathy. For a moment Danaer thought she might plead with her lord and beg more welcome for these people of the army. Danaer was not the only one who noticed Kandra's reaction. Gordyan was hunkering against a tent pole near his master and mistress. Now he rubbed a hand over his chin, looking torn. He would second the desire of the Lasiimte, even if it might run counter to that of his sovereign. Yet the Siim's bodyguard dared not open his mouth. He hulked and seemed miserable to be caught in the

dilemma. At length Kandra sighed, deciding not to argue or to defend the guests.

If Malol te Eldri was daunted, he concealed it well. He spoke without apology or preamble, as Nurdanth had advised him. Danaer Ustened with great interest as the Commander told of Markuand's invasion and victories, and what was Hkely to come. That done, he broached the possibihty of an alliance, a thing unheard of between Destre and the army, a united force to hurl back the awesome might of Markuand.

Nurdanth had tutored his kinsman and fellow oflS-cer well. Malol's manners were nearly impeccable. Though an lit and gently bom and reared, he adapted himself readily to this audience. The Royal Commander wisely did not attempt the difficult Destre dialect, speaking only Krantin, with an occasional reference in a plains tongue common among traders and caravan leaders.

When he came to the end, there was a long, brooding silence in the tent. At last, it was broken. "You speak of the survival of Krantin, Army." The curt statement came from a tribal chieftain at the far side of the circle. Danaer eyed his mantle, remembering the man as Handri-Shaal of KaUsarik. "All Krantin, then?"

"All Krantm," Malol te Eldri insisted. "In this defense of our land, we must be as one."

There was another thoughtful silence until Gordt te Raa urged, "You must reply to this, Siim-Y. The tribes, and the spilled blood, will be yours."

A woman got to her feet, and Lira plucked at Danaer's sleeve and leaned close, whispering, "Wyaela te Fihar, the second in conmiand of Vidik Zsed?"

"Most correct." Danaer marveled that she had heard the woman's name but once, in passing, yet had forgotten neither title nor tribe.

"What of these invaders, these Markuand?" Wyaela demanded. She was not beauteous, nor did she wear the half-skkt of wedlock, as did Kandra. "How great is this threat? What manner of warfare may we anticipate from this new enemy?"

"The sorkra can tell you." Malol te Eldri gestured to Lira. "The Lady Nalu is part of the Web of Wizards. She will give you what we have learned through that Web of far-seeing ..."

Lira, even standing, looked small and fragile amid the Krantin-Y on every side. But everyone attended her with awe and respect. Like Danaer, they all feared and honored the sorkra, and Hke him, had been glad to avoid dealings with wizards until now.

Dramatically, Lira pressed her fingertips against her temples and said, "Know you that for those of my calling the mind may see just as the eyes may. With the Web, a sorkra may see across a journey of a candle-mark, or across a ten-days' distance. My Web has seen terrible slaughter and conquest in the land of the Clarique. These aUen Markuand have overrun the outer islands. The Markuand dress all in white. They are ever silent. They chant no war cries and, like the Destre-Y, never show pain during battle. They do not beg for mercy, nor do they give mercy. No man survives their victories—only women and children they capture as slaves. They butcher their captives and mutilate the bodies savagely. Quick death is the most desired gift of their bested foes. And the women . . ."

Lira faltered, her tiny figure swaying as if she were about to faint. Danaer got to one knee, his hands out' to break the sorkra's faU. But gradually Lira came to herself and steadied, swallowing, forcing herself to goon.

The tent seemed cold. Even with Peluva's sacred burden shining brightly and gilding the grass beyond the pavilion, a great grim shadow fell over the council as they listened. Could it be the wings of the beast-bird, Nidil, the omen of terror and death? Men and women chafed limbs to bring back warmth to flesh prickling with chiU.

"The women," Lira said, her voice trembling, "endure brutality beyond imagining, a using by beasts and demons, not men—a degradation past bearing. Women pray to find a weapon to strike back at then: new masters, or failing that, one to kill themselves