The web of wizardry (31 page)

Danaer longed to be with her, support her as he had in the council tent when he and Kandra had kept her safe from the buffeting wind. He must stay on the walls, though, and she in her room at the inn, bearing her burden of darkness and sorcery.

The rain was followed by a brief hail, pellets of ice that hurt and drew welts and blood. Men swore and shook their fists helplessly at the sky and endured what they must. Some raged against these unholy things and became hysterical and must be restrained by their comrades. The cost in broken sleep and tenseness was heavy.

When the hail ended, Danaer again felt that gentle ebbing sensation, a touch of Lira, though she was nowhere in sight. After that there were no more unnatural torrents, and in what was left of the day men drowsed in peace.

The second night was much worse than the first. The assault was no greater or more fierce, but now the defenders knew what they must expect. They had hoped Markuand had spent its fury in thak massive attack. But another flotilla left the Clarique bank, coming toward the walls. There were more siege towers to replace those lost, more white-clad, silent warriors eager to fight and die, inhuman in their refusal to be thrown back short of death.

Many men doubted they could withstand another such terrible attack, but they found courage in themselves they had not known existed. It was not even a thing of honor, for they could not think that clearly. They fought to survive, lifting weary arms again and again, striking and killing as they must. Citizens with hay forks and other homely implements ill-made for war filled the gaps left by Deki's wounded, standing next to soldiers and militiamen. They fought clumsily but with fervor. Some were well dressed and had obviously never known privation. Others were gutter sweepings of the lowest sort, conscripted by Lorzosh-Fila in an attempt to hold his city. Merchant and peasant and beggar and soldier stood and fought together and died together.

But they held. There was more magic, more

shielding of the Markuand towers. And more counter-magic from Lira, the tingling in Danaer's talisman and that crackling pressure in the air, and a bursting of the Markuand wizard's spells. Like the gently bred Dekan merchants, Lira was engaged in a war much against her nature and against a foe with many times her powers. Yet the combined forces of her dedicated sorkra arts and the valiant defenders of the walls threw back the Markuand once more.

The dead were past counting now. Deki's own losses were severe, but nothing to the carmine harvest of the river. As Deki had protected ancient Ryerdon's people against invasion from Traecheus, now she successfully held off the onslaught of an aUen enemy evil beyond comprehension.

Danaer had no spirit to welcome the second dawn breaking over the scene of butchery. Like the rest, he dropped in his tracks, barely able to move. Then came an order he did not believe—^he and those who had been there since the first night were to go to their quarters and sleep. Danaer peered over the parapet at the Clarique bank. There were no more boats, no wizard's fog filled with warlike and ominous sounds. The fires were gone, mute proof of the toll of the battle. Uncaring, beyond wondering on this, Danaer staggered down ladders and ramps and followed some kindly citizen who led his surviving unit mates to their shelter within a barn. Men fell on their blankets, asleep before they could stretch their lengths.

Much later, Danaer slowly wakened and sat up, running his tongue over crusted and foul-tasting lips. The candle on the wall indicated that he had dreamed for ten marks. His arm still ached from the swordplay he had put it to, and from the weight of Markuand bodies he had thrown back over the wall.

Had it really happened? The second night of battle was a blur. There had been towers, more arrows, more boiling oil, and many, many bodies. He ground his knuckles into his eyes and cheekbones, yawning back to some semblance of awareness.

It had happened—all of it. And when it was done, Markuand had seemed broken, her fires gone, her

boats all smashed, and her army drowned in the bloodied river. Markuand did not know retreat, and neither did Deki, for there was nowhere to go. Every Markuand who crossed the river attempted the walls, and all of them died. Soldiers had tried to take some prisoners, only to lose men as the Markuand stabbed their captors and killed several. After that, the Siirn ordered all to be slain, as they had dealt with the Clarique they had captured at Jlandla Hill. They gave no quarter and asked for none, and died in silence.

Yistar had made some sort of announcement that his sorkra had penetrated the Markuand wizard's plans and found there would be no more frontal attacks. Danaer wondered if he remembered that aright. If so, it was gladsome news. As many men as Deki had lost, Markuand had unquestionably lost more, and perhaps his generals had slain their wizard, deeming him a false sorkra.

Danaer stared down at himself. His helmet had rolled off and lay beside the pallet. He had slept on his sword, not out of diligence but because he was too tired to remove it. His clothing stank. Like any Destre, he did not scorn dirt, but the shirt and breeches were stiff with gore and spittle and chafed him sorely.

"Awake at last?" Danaer blinked at Shaartre as the older man limped toward him. Shaartre was a bit pale. "I have found you another uniform, so give me those rags. Some Dekan laundresses set up their tubs outside and offer to serve the 'brave soldiers.' "

Danaer began to strip, pointing to the leg Shaartre favored. "What happened? I did not know you were wounded."

"Ah, it was not too bad. I lasted both nights. Luckily the Markuand arrow was nearly spent when it struck me. The surgeons wanted to keep me in the infirmary, but I know better than to lie abed while my leg cripples on me." The Troop Leader treated his close escape lightly. "Besides, Yistar needs everyone who can fight. We are off duty for now, but stand ready to assemble should the call come. They say there will be no more attacks, but..."

Danaer went to the water barrel and stood in the

catch pan, pouring several dippersful of rainwater over his itching flesh. It washed away the worst grime and left him more awake. As he put on the uniform Shaartre had brought, he noted neatly sewn tears on the tunic's belt line. The man who had suffered that wound must be dead. Danaer asked no questions. The previous owner would not come seeking his uniform, certainly, and Danaer had no compunction about wearing it.

Shaartre snatched up his discarded garments, and Danaer had to jump to rescue his Destre mantle. True, it was also badly dirtied, but he would not risk it to the untender mercies of laundresses' rocks and washing paddles. Shaartre flung the dirty clothes to a passing, soldier and ordered him deliver them to the tubs outside. Then he grinned and winked at Danaer. "We will all get new issue when we return to Siank garrison."

"If we ever return to Siank."

"We shall, youngling. You have not heard all the news—your big friend Gordyan had an easy time on the bluffs, killing many Markuand. They never came close to the top. And they say Qhord's cutthroats did for the Markuand by the hundreds, and any who got through the marshes were torn to pieces by Ti-Mori's harpies. We suffered at Deki, ai, but we taught them a lesson."

"How many wounded?" Danaer asked, not wanting an answer. "Well, at least we gave better than we got."

"Come along with me, to an inn called the Green Skirt. We will celebrate the victory. I assure you, both the wine and the women are worth your coin, and they do not scorn even us men of The Interior."

"Perhaps I will join you later."

"You long to see your witch, eh? I hear Yistar has kept her busy with her sorkra deaUngs," Shaartre said with affection.

Danaer was coming to hate the word "sorkra." "If so, she has earned a respite."

When he left the temporary barracks, night was blackening the streets once more. The nature of the

populace seemed to have changed. There were honest women like the laundresses and citizens' wives, those who remained with their men even in a city under siege. But now Danaer saw many more jades and women of ease. And there were men who dealt in human misery and the wages of war. They had avoided the fighting, but now they looked to reap profits in hawking scarce wares.

Yistar's headquarters buzzed with activity, though things were less disorderly than the first time Danaer had been at the commandeered inn. Many junior officers wore bloodied clothes, and their sobered expressions showed their taste of battle had matured them too quickly. Neither Yistar nor Branra was anywhere to be seen, and Danaer edged past the other staff members, heading for the stairs. One of the aides was saying, "We threw the devils back and drowned them. That is it, fellows—a good war!"

Danaer's momentary amusement at that boastful tone faded. A good war? How many brave men had died in this good war? And the war was not won, despite such bragging. Danaer recalled blades a finger's-breadth from his neck or chest and the gleam of the enemies' eyes, bright with a strange fanaticism which controlled pain and made them silent in the face of agony and death. Men falling, dying, lances protruding from their guts or their heads split with ax, their eyes pierced by arrow—men he had known and ridden beside for years.

It was never easy to feel the Death God's icy breath. Danaer scorned the aide who spoke so casually of his first battle.

He was more anxious to see Lira than he had ever been, mounting the stairs to the upper story three at a time. She was still within the same room. There was no magical parchment this time. Lira sat on a low stool, her hands folded in her lap, ordeal written large on her face.

But she rose to greet him, and Danaer clasped her hands to his breast. He drank in her presence, reveling in her daintiness and beauty, the scent of her hair. Her dark eyes met his and he forgot blood and vomit and dying men.

She did not resist his embrace, her lips a heady intoxication that warmed Danaer, giving him renewed vigor after the terrible fight and weariness. "Rasven kept you safe, my Sharp Eyes," she was whispering, her voice shaky with awful fatigue.

Danaer was deaf to that note. Strangely, he played the braggart, like the young ofi&cer below. "We turned back all their onslaughts . . ."

Lira's expression clouded. "Only for the moment, Danaer. You do not know the strength of their chief wizard, and he rules their warlords."

He led her to a couch and drew her down beside him, heedless of what she was saying, of her mood, kissing her and caressing her. A hunger grew within him, a strong calling of the goddess's summons, male to female. "I thought of you often while I was on the walls, and called your blessing to me, qedra. Markuand will not come past my sword to hurt you, ever. We have dealt death to all of them, and broken their machines."

"Oh, indeed you are brave, but the dark power which threatens us—"

He did not let her continue, silencing her with his mouth. For a moment Lira's response was equally greedy, all Danaer wished, a sensual promise of what would be. He had no care but the joy of this moment, wanting to prolong it and increase its delights to the full. They would leave behind wizardry and blood and feed this ardor into a life-giving flame ...

Yet when he touched her intimately, to his astonishment Lira jerked away and cried for him to stop. He could not understand. Her hunger was as great as his. Why, then, this prudery that denied her body? Anger grew where desire had been. "How have I displeased you? Is it because I am not a man of your own people? And not one of your sorkra?" Danaer got to his feet, his lust turning to a different sort of heat.

Lira cowered, seeing his rage, shaken. One part of him wanted to beg her forgiveness and take back the hard words. But instead he was saying still more cruel things. "Mayhap there is some young wizard who

owns your favor, a man I can never challenge to fair combat—having no magic to counter his."

"No, please, Danaer, do not say this," Lira pleaded, distraught.

A stinging insect plumbed his brain, a harassment he could not put away. Desire. You are Desire. Serve the goddess. You musi noi dishonor her law . . .

"Teach me your ways, then," Danaer said suddenly, struggling against this aberrant urge. "Teach me the customs used by SarH men to satisfy their women. I can learn. And if I cannot, I will show you that a Destre is as lusty a lover as even a Sarli woman could desire." Boldly, in a fashion that shocked them both, he seized her, starting to pull her to him.

A lancing fire seemed to scorch his hands, and Danaer recoiled, sucking his fingers, his mind whirling. What had he done? What was governing him to make him act and speak so?

"Danaer, Hsten to me . . ." Lira said, trying to take his hand and soothe his hurts.

"Now you strike at me with your wizardry!" He drew back his arm to deUver a blow, then froze, horrified by what he was doing.

"Nothing! I swear, qedra . . ."

"Upon Rasven? Upon that sorcerer god of yours?"

Tears welled in Lira's dark eyes. "You must listen. There is no lover save you ..."

"Then share joy with me." For a precious moment the unwonted fury left him, and Danaer felt the warm yearning again. "Be my qedra, my woman, if I am your lover."

"I cannot! Not . . . yet. Please wait a bit longer. I must remain chaste."

"For another man?" The anger returned, double, an overwhelming hot rage that brooked no argument. It bade him take her, crushing her will, like a coarse peasant of an unbeHever ...

Or like the Markuand who ravaged the women of Clarique!

He shrank from that comparison. He twisted his anger to deal with Lira's rejection, making a knife of words she had struck into his heart. Coldly, not

recognizing his own voice, Danaer demanded, "Is it the time of your courses? Is that the reason you deny me?"

"No, no, Danaer ..."

"I know I am crude and unlettered, not of your birth and breeding."

"Danaer, do not! It is only my wizard oath which keeps us apart."

An invisible hand clutched his vitals. It both intensified his ardor yet turned it oddly off the path. "That is a wall as strong as Deki's, a wall you always will put between us. You were not slow to meet my embrace a minute ago. Now you put me aside. Such a woman has a name among the plains people." Lira wept and tossed her head from side to side in her confusion and desperation. He would not hear her tearful begging. "Hablit was right. Like Kandra, you promise what you will never give. Kandra's wall against men is her rank, and yours is your sorkra calling. You are owned by that wizard Web."