The Starfollowers of Coramonde Read online

  “Our situation is less secure now,” he told the other. “My reign is being resisted in many quarters of the suzerainty. The military units upon which I may depend are spread in tenuous array. There are those who liked my predecessor far better than they do me. And there are partisans, irregulars from the late war, who have no love of the commands of Earthfast. In some areas all authority has been swept away.”

  Gil understood, and berated himself for his own hard words, recognizing that his temper seemed more difficult to curb these days. In Coramonde, men sided with neighbors or relatives and obeyed their immediate superior, bound by oaths and honor to their liege, hetman, Legion-Marshal or whomever. Fealty to a remote, central monarch was less concrete. When local leaders came into contention, it was difficult for the Ku-Mor-Mai to settle things from the palace-fortress. Coramonde had known a number of wars arising from such squabbles, when the Legions had been sent in.

  “There have been assassinations,” Springbuck continued, “and defiance, unrest throughout the suzerainty. I will speak to you my secret fear: open revolt is not far beneath the surface. There have already been armed clashes, little short of rebellion. And here am I, with my reliable troops taxed to maintain order, deployed too thinly. Whether I can hold the center in this stress or not, and let things fly apart, is more in question every day.”

  Springbuck was in desperate need of dependable units and Gil had kept an entire Legion busy with his hunt, but the American could feel only guilty apprehension. His anxiety was that the young Ku-Mor-Mai would ask him to shelve the search for Bey.

  Their talk was interrupted by people summoned to the council, taking seats at an oval table of gleaming spruce.

  There was Ferrian, once Champion-at-arms of the Horseblooded, his long hair worn in the high horsetail his people favored; and Van Duyn and Katya, just returned, with Katya’s brother, the King of Freegate, Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach.

  Reacher was only a few inches over five feet, but broad-shouldered and long-legged for that. His hair was shades darker than Katya’s, his eyes not such a lambent violet as hers. He wore fine mesh armor washed with gold for this state visit, but chafed in it. He’d been raised on the High Ranges among fleet-footed hunters, used to their sparse attire and their weapons, the cestus and claw-glove. He was undefeated in battle, armed or unarmed, preternaturally strong and fast. In exchanging greetings, he showed special enthusiasm for Ferrian, an old companion. Katya’s arm was draped around her brother’s neck affectionately.

  Gil waved and said hello, but didn’t go to them. He and Van Duyn had no particular liking for each other. Van Duyn considered the younger man irritating; Gil thought his countryman too dour.

  Last to get there was Andre deCourteney, the wizard who’d done so much to counter Yardiff Bey. He merited esteem from all enemies of Shardishku-Salamá.

  He was squat, balding, with a blue stubble on his heavy jowls. His arms and hands were matted with wiry black hair; stray curls escaped his collar to lie at his throat. He wore yeoman’s breeches and tunic, resembling a teamster rather than a renowned wizard. The pudgy face was open and pleasant, though, and people had always trusted what they saw there.

  “My sister Gabrielle could not be found,” he explained, “and Lord Hightower seems also unavailable. All others are here, I think.”

  Springbuck had Van Duyn and the Snow Leopardess retell the devastation of the Highlands Province. Concern came into each mien. Questions were posed. Gil, out of turn, argued, “We’re wasting time. Only Andre and Gabrielle can go head-to-head against Bey and those Druids.”

  Andre looked surprised. “I do not believe Bey is there, though I am sure I am intended to think so.” Gil’s expression grew chillier. “You are correct, I agree, in reasoning that Bey fostered the attack. But with the Hand of Salamá, you must never make those distressing leaps to conclusion. Ask, rather, ‘Where is the deception here, where the trap?’” He smiled, barely. “I, too, learned that by harsh experience.”

  Gil had been overly irritated at the wizard. He reasserted self-control, wondering, What’s wrong with me? His temper subdued, he said, “Okay then, let’s hear it.”

  The wizard shook his head, jowls jiggling. “I have no theory, except that Yardiff Bey would like to see my sister and me go north with this.” He pulled a chain from his tunic. Suspended from it was a gemstone of changing colors in a silver setting, the mystic jewel Calundronius, one of the deCourteneys’ prime instruments. In close proximity, it negated all magic, dispersing all spells.

  “It would please the Hand of Salamá,” Andre averred, “to see us take this into contest with the Druids, but my thought is for alternatives. Where will Bey strike in the meantime?”

  It was, surprisingly, Reacher who answered. He didn’t often utter opinions, preferring to listen, reserving comments in a shy way. Famous for cunning and prowess, he was uneasy in groups of people.

  But he got to his feet now, working mailed shoulders automatically. He wasn’t used to the confinements of civilized attire.

  Reacher cleared his throat self-consciously. “We in Freegate also feel encroachments of Salamá,” he stated softly. “Horsemen from the distant Southwastelands harry and pillage, a virtual war. I am convinced they are instigated by the Masters, in the City of Sorcery.”

  “Why does everyone equate Bey with Salamá?” Van Duyn interposed. “Surely he fell from grace with the Masters?”

  “He was the supreme operative of the Five,” Andre answered. “Their best and shrewdest lieutenant. It is barely conceivable, but he could have won their amnesty.”

  Reacher shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. “I, too, think our woes stem from Salamá,” he finished, and sat down immediately.

  The door opened again, and Gabrielle deCourteney entered. As famous for her beauty as her sorcery, she bore scant resemblance to her younger brother. Her white skin was flawless, her hair amazingly red, thick and heavy. She met their glances with eyes green as emeralds, her brows high-swept like gull’s wings, her age unguessable.

  She wore a gown of brown Glyffan satin, of becoming folds and gatherings, belted with a cord of woven copper. She settled herself next to the Ku-Mor-Mai. His eyes stayed with her for a moment; he marveled, that this woman was his paramour.

  The others were waiting. Springbuck reassembled his stream of thought. “There are other reports gathered here,” he concluded, “which you may examine. Coramonde’s troubles, too, smack of outside influence. There is a final point.”

  He motioned to his aide, Captain Brodur, who rose and left. “An envoy from the Mariners came to me. I invited him to set it forth to you all.”

  Brodur re-entered with a tall, thickset man whose hair and beard hung in black, gleaming ringlets. His cloak was flowing, wine-red velvet, stylishly cut and vented. His beaded slippers were of finest Teebran leather, but a broad, businesslike cutlass hung at his sash.

  Brodur announced, “I present Gale-Baiter, Captain of Mariners.” The man made a minute bow. Face composed, he delivered his message, careful to keep emotion from it.

  “Not long past, the Mariners declined to partake of your war on Yardiff Bey. Our Prince did not deem it wise, intruding in affairs of Landsmen.

  “Now, war has sought us out. One of our two great Citadels is Citadel no more. It was laid waste to, its sea wall crushed, people massacred, homes destroyed. Fair vessels and sailormen lie at the bottom. Our maritime nation is cut by a fourth part, our safe berthings by half. We sifted the ashes, and know our enemies are the Southwastelanders, who serve Shardishku-Salamá.

  “So we have put aside trade, fishnets and tally sheets, to take up the cutlass and the torch. What help we may render you against the Masters, you shall have. We mean to see all enemies swept from the sea, nothing less.”

  The Ku-Mor-Mai thanked Gale-Baiter. Brodur escorted him out. Conversations around the table were subdued, more lip movement than sound. Van Duyn, who’d expected reinforcements for the Highlands Province, saw th
at things would not go that way.

  When Brodur came back, Lord Hightower was with him. Gil happened to be looking their way, noticing that the aide held himself stiffly, without expression.

  Hightower lowered himself into the chair reserved for him. He was of heroic frame, deep-chested, thick-armed. His dense beard and long mustachios and hair were white with age, hanging like snow on a mountain against his black hauberk. At his side was his great-sword, bigger than any other man would presume to carry, but they’d seen him ply it like a rapier. Past his eightieth year, he was the last pureblood of a gifted line. Like his ancestors, he’d been permitted to go into his age with undiminished vitality. He inclined his head to the Ku-Mor-Mai.

  Springbuck welcomed him formally, then ticked off salient points of the meeting on his fingers. “The Druids and their wildmen are in our northernmost regions; Freegate is beset by raids and depredations; the Mariners have suffered the worst defeat in their history. Combat flares too, I am told, away in Veganá, at the southern tip of the Crescent Lands, but of that we ken little.”

  Katya said, “If you are leading to war against Salamá, it would be no easy undertaking. And will not our enemies consume our lands in our absence?”

  “That is precisely why these attacks occur, I should say,” Andre stated, “and why we must plan to send our vengeance south. Do you take it that Salamá simply wants new territory, or a few more subjects? I do not. They contrive to make it dangerous for us to prosecute war against them, for one motive. They need time. They have some design of their own, that brooks no interference. They give us our own preoccupations, so our alliance is pulled into fragments. Thus, they insure an uninterrupted span for themselves.”

  Katya inquired, “To what end?”

  “I cannot divine its nature yet,” the wizard shot back, “but something is taking shape in that dire city, of more peril than all these other incursions. The Masters decreed this screen, hiding larger danger in the south; in Shardishku-Salamá.”

  “The people of Coramonde—those who still support me—will want more proof than that,” Springbuck said dubiously.

  Andre responded carefully. “It is my hope and belief that they shall have confirmation, plain and unmistakable, in the correct moment. Other forces are in conflict here besides mere nations.”

  Reacher, head hung in thought, made up his mind. “Andre deCourteney is the font of wisdom in opposing Bey and his Masters. Let us plan in concert our response to the strife he promises.”

  “Tomorrow,” Springbuck concurred, “we begin.” He grinned. “And there is one more pronouncement. In times as precarious as these, it has been the custom of the Ku-Mor-Mai to select a Warlord, for first officer in all matters military, I advance Hightower as Warlord over Coramonde, his authority issuing directly from my own.”

  The old man sputtered thanks. “Honeyed words are not my aptitude. My gratitude I will evince by service.” He reddened at their applause.

  The session ended. Gil avoided talking to the Ku-Mor-Mai, sore at himself for time wasted looking for Bey. That his temper had become so fragile worried him; he didn’t want to discuss errors.

  Ferrian of the Horseblooded stopped him in the corridor. The burly, one-time Champion-at-arms had made a remarkable recovery from the wound, suffered in the fight for the throne room, that had cost him his right arm. He was more inward-turning now. He beckoned Gil aside and pointed to where Captain Brodur took notes from Springbuck’s instructions.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Uh, he’s the guy who used to be one of—” Her name came with difficulty, even now. “One of Duskwind’s agents, right? Tried to help her save Springbuck, back when Bey was going to have him killed?”

  “Aye, and knows the palace-fortress and the city, and can tell you who reported to Bey, and carried out his commands. You are so intent on locating the sorcerer that I’d wondered if you shouldn’t speak to him.”

  Gil checked the idea over, scratching the dark smear of powderburn on his cheek absentmindedly. “Good thinking. Not here though; Springbuck’s already had enough of my Bey-hunt.”

  “Brodur drills at the fields every morning, at about the sixth hour. That would, perhaps, be the place.”

  “Got it.” He yawned, jaw cracking. Things were moving again; maybe he could sleep. “I’m headed back for the rack. See you tomorrow.”

  He’d taken less than four steps when a hulking form blocked his way, hissing loudly. The thing, nearly seven feet tall, was reptilian, covered with a thick, green-scaled hide. Knifelike fangs curved from its jaws, and its heavy tail was encased in caudal armor of spikes and sharp-edged flanges. At its back was slung a greatsword even larger than Hightower’s.

  Gil goggled, then composed himself. “Oh, hey, Kisst-Haa. Hi.”

  The reptile-man’s fearsome head dipped once in reply; he had no speech but his own sibilant tongue. Gil had forgotten that Kisst-Haa was in Earthfast, having come along on the raid on the throne room. That must be one of the reasons Reacher had come, the American concluded—to take his faithful bodyguard home with him.

  Reacher’s keen ears had picked out Kisst-Haa’s hiss. The King appeared, Van Duyn and the Snow Leopardess with him. It occurred to Gil, eyeing the reptile-man more closely, that the thing that made him more human than animal was his eyes. They were manlike, expressive, with whites, yellow irises and tiny dots of pupil. But it was weird to see the diminutive Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach trade glad hugs with the monster, who rumbled happily.

  Gil shook hands perfunctorily with Van Duyn, clasped forearms with Katya, then with her brother. Reacher became grave. “Duskwind was given every honor,” he assured Gil, “and her ashes lie with her family’s. Her kinsmen wished you to know that—”

  The American broke away, shaking his head. “No, Reacher. It’s fine, I’m sure, whatever, but no more, please.” He brushed past Kisst-Haa. “I have to go. Got an early date on the drill field.”

  The next morning, he put on soft, close-fitting blouse and pants and his Browning. He also strapped on the sword left behind by his friend Dunstan the Berserker, who’d been abducted by Yardiff Bey. Just like the Froggy goin’ courtin’, he thought, settling the weapons. Reacher had inadvertently evoked a ghost, and Gil had only salvaged a few hours’ sleep.

  Knights and other fighting men sweated and strained in rigorous rehearsal. They’d left their finery at home, using older armor and accouterments for practice.

  They swung swords at pells, tilted at quintains, hurled javelins, launched arrows, hefted axes. They feinted slyly with knives and toppled each other with dented shields. Dust rose, feet shuffled; man-nets were cast, like sinews of clouds, to bag or miss their quarry. There were wounds and other injuries, mostly among overzealous younger men.

  Gil spotted Ferrian to one side, a distant look in his eyes. Gil had seen the rugged Horseblooded fight like a devil during the raid on the throne room. Now he stood apart, longing to be among the warriors again.

  Ferrian noticed him, eyeing the Browning in its shoulder holster, and the sword of Dunstan. “Why bear a blade, when you have that, ah, gun?”

  Gil resettled the holster. “See, there aren’t many rounds left for it, or the Mauser either. High-speed nine-millimeter ammo doesn’t grow on trees; I’d better be ready when the last shot goes.”

  Ferrian, not much older than the American but a veteran of uncounted duels, agreed wryly, “Wisdom indeed.”

  “Where’s Brodur?”

  “I was just watching him. See there, yes, where men are come together to fence with light blades in the new fashion? Brodur is there, in gray hose.”

  “Got him now. Who’s he talking to there, Gale-whatshisname?”

  “Gale-Baiter, the Mariner envoy, yes. The seaman has been dueling, with lesser opponents for the most part, and wagering heavily. Brodur’s decided to try his luck. He is quite the betting man himself, you know; he insists no respectable gentleman can live on his pay alone.”

  Gale-Baiter was
bigger, burlier than a fencer should be, whipping a heavy cavalry rapier through the air, expounding swordcraft. Brodur, long hair braided and fastened out of his way, paid close heed. He was compact, had a short-cropped beard and was smooth in movement.

  The two observers couldn’t hear what was being said—some difference of opinion over a fine point. With swords at hand, the theoretical discussion didn’t last long. Gil could picture it, some lofty remark like, “Sir, if you are so very accomplished, you would perhaps vouchsafe a demonstration?”

  Bets were going down right and left as the two squared off. Four judges were selected, and a president of the match, from the onlookers. The contestants placed themselves on the piste, held up dulled swords in their right hands to salute, and began.

  They felt one another out, their dialogue of blades sporadic. Brodur showed an inclination to retreat, so Gale-Baiter tried a sudden fléche. Brodur, with less skill than Gil would have expected from a money fencer, managed a firm, blocking parry-in-retreat. But he failed to advance into an attack. He didn’t seem to be toying with the Mariner or taking it easy, but in the next few moments the envoy pressed him sharply. The bigger man carried Brodur’s blade from a high line to a low in bind, barely failing to hit in opposition to the blade.

  The interplay became more rapid. Gale-Baiter indulged in flourishes, stamping his foot, striking Brodur’s weapon with repeated beats and calling for him to come, fence boldly, show heart. Brodur stayed calm, counterattacked, and the jury followed the action along the piste. The younger man was quick, but not as confident as he should have been. Gale-Baiter began using vigorous stop- and time-thrusts. Brodur made a false attack and his lunge drew the Mariner out in parry-riposte. Brodur parried, hit on the counter-riposte so quickly that Gil missed it. Both judges watching Gale-Baiter spotted it, though. The president analyzed the phrase and gave the match to Brodur.