Brian Daley - The Starfollowers Of Coramonde

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For friends, John, and their respective ladies,

and for Myra A. Daley, who knew

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I am indebted to the following people for their assistance and information:

James Luceno, Myra Di Blasio, Linda Lionetti, and Major John C. Speedy of the

United States Military Academy, West Point

And to my editor, Mr. Lester del Rey, for generous measures of his patience,

prodding, guidance, candor, and encouragement; I owe thanks for whatever virtues

this book may possess.

A Del Key Book

Published by Ballantine Books

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House,

Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada, Limited,

Toronto, Canada.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 78-61501

ISBN 0-345-30142-0

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: February 1979 Third Printing: June 1982

Cover art by Carl Lundgren

PARTI

Protocols of the Sword

Prologue

IN a narrow ring of light in unmeasured darkness stood the Accused.

His head was bowed, hands clasped together within long sleeves—flesh seeking its

own contact for reassurance, in vain. An arraignment in Shardishku-Salam£, these

proceedings were unconcerned with justice. Their function was retribution. The

Accused was aware of punishments available here; that was a form of punishment.

Yardiff Bey felt nothing change in the enormous Fane of the Masters. Yet between

one moment and the next he knew the attention of the Five was upon him. No

indication escaped to his face or posture, but in. a shielded cinderbox in his

soul, fears blew brighter.

He damped them down. Was he not first among sorcerers, subordinate only to the

Masters? Brief, awful elation fanned up his spine at the thought. In flying back

to Shardishku-Salama* in his demon-ship, Cloud Ruler: to plead before the

vindictive Lords of the City, Yardiff Bey had taken his greatest dare. He was hi

more hideous danger than most men could envision in wildest speculation.

A waitingness hung around him, and cruel, dispassionate curiostity. He'd always

exulted in the cold intellects of the Five, but now it was their displeasure

directed at him. The single beam of light glinted from the strange ocular that

was bound hi place where his left eye had once been. He sent a stem command

through every part of himself, physical and incorporeal: Be still!

He bowed deeply, unhurriedly. When bis voice came, it was impeccable in its calm

control.

"Masters, your servant has returned. Will he be heard?" He sensed mirthless

amusement. Did They

think he'd come on a fool's quest for mercy? There was a vast stirring somewhere

in the colossal temple.

Yardiff Bey was slammed to his knees, by no force he could see. Without his

will, his hands came up to rend the front of his robe, in mourning and

contrition.

"List us your failures," came a disembodied command, "and number your faults."

He was cast headlong on the cold floor, held as a doll beneath a man's boot

would be held, by the stacked, murderous weight of the will of the Masters of

Shardishku-Salama. He sobbed for breath that wouldn't come, and that weight

retreated the merest bit. He knew a meager flicker of triumph; he hadn't been

condemned out of hand, and so had the opportunity to say on. He brought his head

up a degree, neck trembling with effort.

"Waste not the tool," he strained, "before h mends its errors. Let me make my

reparations." He slumped again, drawing breath only with horrible exertion. He

felt, by tingling of images not quite seen on his inner eye, that the Five were

conferring.

The air was suddenly icy, carrying thick, infernal stenches. There was a new, an

overwhelming Presence in the Fane. The sorcerer recognized its awesome savagery.

His patron, Amon, a chief among demons, had come, after ignoring all previous

pleas. Before Amon, even the Masters were silent, deferential in their

intangible, unmistakable way.

When the demon spoke, words lashing like whips, the walls of the huge Fane shook

in the lightlessness.

"More vainglorious plans, unworthy one? Are my agents in Salami to be twice

fools, and trust you a second time?" Amon asked. "List me your failures. You had

the whole of Coramonde hi your grasp. Your puppet-son was enthroned over the

most important country in the Crescent Lands. You had the rightful Heir

Springbuck trapped, along with the wizard Andre deCourteney and his enchantress

sister Gabrielle. How was all that dashed asunder?**

Yardiff Bey groped for response. "I—I sent the dragon Chaffinch against them, oh

Lord. He should have slaughtered them easily. But they had with them the alien

Van Duyn . . ."

He faltered for a way to tell it. "You know there are other universes, mighty

Amon, Realities sprouting from alternatives, like leaves from a tree. Van Duyn

is from another, and from it he and the deCourteneys plucked soldiers, and a

metal war-machine to slay Chaffinch.**

"Your first failure," thundered the demon. "Masters of Shardishfcu-Salamd,

witness it now!"

Yardiff Bey's senses jolted, as Amon conjured up those events again . . .

Through the eyes of Ibn-al-Yed, mask-slave to Yardiff Bey, they saw the castle

where Springbuck, the deCourteneys and their little band were at bay. Ibn-al-Yed

had only to keep them confined until the sorcerer sent the dragon Chaffinch.

But there was a disturbance in the air, a pushing-apart of the boundaries

between worlds. A lumbering, drab-green vehicle came roaring into the meadow.

From it a man emerged, confusion manifest on his face, some odd black implement

cradled under his arm.

It was, in certainty, a trick of the deCourteneys. The Druid who'd accompanied

Ibn-al-Yed called up an air elemental, to undo it. But as the were-wind ripped

at him, the stranger brought up his implement. There were bright, stuttering

explosions. Druid and horse toppled, dead, pierced with holefr by the

otherworldly weapon.

Ibn-al-Yed backed his horse away hi shock and confusion. Yardiff Bey, his

Masters and dread Amon looked back through time, at the indecision in the

newcomer's features. He wiped his forehead once, quickly, on an olive-colored

sleeve. Over his left breast pocket were cryptic letters no one there could

decipher: us ARMY. Over the right was another strip of characters, whose meaning

they would come to know: MACDONALD.

Through the eyes of the late Ibn-al-Yed, the sorcerer watched that early

disruption of his careful design. The image receded, Amon summoned up another .

. .

There was revelry in Hell.

The metal war vehicle had killed Chaffinch, but events had left Gabrielle

deCourteney in the hands of Yardiff Bey. It was an occasion of tremendous

importance, enormous success. In Amon's mansion on the in-

fernal plane, the demon's votaries writhed, ecstatic, to insane music.

Without warning the cyclopean doors burst apart in a shower of wooden splinters

and metal fragments. The armored personnel carrier revved down the center of the

room, treads chewing stone, engine bellowing above the din.

The machine's weapons cut loose, flashing ruin in all directions. Gunfire, as

Yardiff Bey was to hear it called later. The fugitive Prince Springbuck

appeared, and Andre deCourteney. Gabrielle was rescued, as explosions and

gunfire purged the chamber. Yardiff Bey had to flee, as Amon was humiliated by

mad invasion.

The sorcerer quivered, experiencing it again. No one had affronted great Amon

that way in an eternity. Now a last image . . .

Yardiff Bey sat in his own sanctum, high in the palace-fortress at Earthfast,

laboring at a spell against the intruder, MacDonald, whose interference had

persisted. Gil MacDonald of the bizarre innovations, unpredictable deceptions

and unlooked-for influence, had thrown Bey's equations out of kilter.

With this invocation, sapping MacDonald's soul from his body, Yardiff Bey would

remedy that. But he began to meet odd resistance; his enchantments were warped

and subverted. There was howling from his supernatural

servants.

An armed company appeared where the outlander's naked soul should have cringed.

Springbuck, Andre deCourteney, Van Duyn and MacDonald himself, whole, were among

them. In seconds the palace-fortress was filled with fighting and dying, crash

of alien weapons, curses of combatants and belling of sword strokes. Yardiff Bey

made his escape by a barest margin aboard his flying vessel Cloud Ruler. He'd

lost, in minutes, his iron grip on Coramonde.

The taste of that catastrophe denied his mouth once more. Then Amon let the

retelling fade.

First among sorcerers, once the Hand of Shardishku-Salama*, Bey felt his breath

heaving with terror and resentment.

"And all of that you will set right?" came the demon's challenge, on a

sepulchral wind. The sorcerer

raised himself to hands and knees with quaking hope. But his response held only

firm conviction.

"I swear it! I have come back because I am needed. There approaches the time of

greatest effort, but greatest risk also. Let me play my part hi the Masters*

mighty labor, Dark Father, as I was meant to!"

He couldn't hear the current of thoughts that passed among them. Amon's sawtooth

voice came again. "I see what is in your thoughts, for they are open to me. Your

Masters' might waxes plentiful now, but will be diverted more and more into the

enchantment they forge as time goes on. They must work undisturbed, and though

the chance of hindrance is slim, yet it must be eliminated. Begin your work,

search out that last source of peril. But be warned: your Masters and I, and my

terrible Overlord, are engaged hi other struggles, other enterprises. You must

be self-reliant, or be swallowed up in that final Night we shall found."

Then Amon was gone, between one heartbeat and another.

The ring of light began to move, to lead the sorcerer back out of the Fane. He

lurched at first, drunk on the enormity of it but his stride soon became surer,

stronger, with his incredible good fortune. Raw power swelled hun, of magic and

personal force.

Yardiff Bey's feet were set once more, on the thrill-path of conquest

Chapter One

What are MacDonald's antecedents, after all? Dropout, drifter, product of

popular-culture eclecticism. His sole sustained adult endeavor revolved around a

war that estranged him from his society. An absurd background for a young man

caught up in meta-eventst

from EDWARD VAN DUYN'S personal journal, The Infinite Parallax

TIRED, he chose not to sleep. Too often lately, he'd awakened hi saturating

sweat from tremulations of the soul.

Gil MacDonald sat without lamp or candle, before the dying embers of the

hearthfire in his room. In them, he saw racing horsemen and swords malting-

hornet-darts of light in the night. On a night filled with just those things,

his lover had died.

He raised his right hand, the one that had held the Lady Duskwind's as her wound

had stolen her from him by inches. He drew it across his eyes, to wipe away

memory; his thoughts could seldom go far from her.

He'd been snatched into Coramonde, with his crew and their armored personnel

carrier, by wizardry. After they'd been returned to their own Reality, he alone

had chosen to come back. He hadn't counted on falling hi love. In love, he'd

never thought he might lose Dusk-wind so cruelly. Bereft of her, he found his

remaining desires condensed, embittered.

He'd come back to the palace-fortress at Earthfast only that evening. For weeks

he'd combed the Dark Rampart range, west of Earthfast, with an entire Legion of

Coramonde. It had been rumored that Yardiff Bey

kept his flying ship Cloud Ruler concealed there prior to his rise to power and

subsequent overthrow.

Gil hadn't turned up a thing, not a whiff. Worn thin, short on the sleep he

resisted these days and determined to find the sorcerer, he'd balked at the Ku-

Mor-Ma?* urgent request that he go back to Earthf ast. When he'd finally

arrived, he'd found that Springbuck was closeted with some visiting big shot

He'd immediately gone off to be by himself.

A soft knock came at the door. Gil's hand dipped inside his loosened gambeson,

fishing out the Browning automatic. He padded to the door, the clammy stone

making his bare feet clench. The knock came again, discreet rapping a servant

would use. Nevertheless, he stood to one side of the bolted door, cocking the

pistol.

"Yeah?"

. **Sir, the Ku-Mor-Mcd craves your presence with an haste. He has tidings of

import which you must needs

hear." ** 'Craves my presence,'w Gil muttered. "Okay, tell

him rm coming, be right along.**

He wondered why Springbuck would want conversation hi the middle of the night.

He sat on his wide, empty bed, sighing and pulling his boots on. A new thought

made him pause. Maybe Springbuck had picked up on something about Bey?

His sword, byrnie and other gear he left on the floor, in a burst of enthusiasm

born of enmity.

Springbuck, Protector-Suzerain of Coramonde—Ku-Mor-Mai, in the Old Tongue—had

been up late with affairs of state, hi his comfortable study. Its curtains were

fastened across high windows, and a fire crackled in the hearth. Burnished lamps

of brass and crystal lit it warmly, and thick furs and pelts were strewn on the

floor.

He'd no sooner finished conferring with the envoy of the Mariners when his

seneschal had announced Van Duyn and the Princess Katya. He*d had them admitted

at once. Duty, spent from days of hard riding, they'd told their story, their

grave words interweaving.

Now Van Duyn, former Senior Fellow of the Grossen Institute for Advanced

Studies, niter-universal traveler

and self-exile from his own Reality, ran a hand through disheveled gray hair,

adjusting gold-rimmed glasses with the other. His heavy M-l, that otherworldly

weapon, rested against the arm of his chair. For his help in the thronal war,

Springbuck had granted the scholar stewardship over an impoverished collection

of city-states, the Highlands Province, in the northwestern corner of Coramonde.

The Princess Katya, who'd become enamored of the alien, had gone with him, to

watch him apply his peculiar theories of government and organization. Van Duyn

had made impressive progress in his few months there, but now the province was

abandoned, its few survivors scattered.

"It can't be anyone's fault but mine," the outlander was saying. "The local

commander, Roguespur, pleaded for more men, arms, patrols and fortifications.

But I needed men for improvement projects, and iron and smiths for plows and

equipment, and the border's been quiet for years. I knew the Druids were said to

be there, but those were old tales." He shook his head. "I should have listened

to them. I should have remembered—"

Katya put a pale hand on his. Her long, white-blonde hair swung around her with

the gesture. Springbuck recalled the sobriquet given her hi her own nation of

Freegate—"the Snow Leopardess."

"Edward, how can you blame yourself?" she remonstrated. "No sword or spear laid

waste to the Highlands Province, and none could have saved it. When magic comes,

only magic can countervail it,"

Springbuck pursued the point. "You're certain it was the Druids?"

The Snow Leopardess affirmed it. "Their spells haven't been seen hi living

memory, at least not on this ride of the mountains. Yet, from whence else would

come that magic of polar winds and an ice-elemental?"

Van Duyn concurred wearily. "When those clouds came down out of the mountains,

we went from late summer to midwinter in minutes. No clothes or fire could

protect us against that cold. When the ice-demon followed behind, nothing could

withstand it. No one who got near it lived. I saw men shatter like icicles. All

we could do was run for our lives.*' He remembered the

gallop, frozen grass shattering wider their horses* hooves like filaments of

glass, the air filled with a cold of such awful purity that each breath was

torment and the reflex of breathing contested with the pain of the lungs and

throat. The ice-elemental, liberated from some absolute-zero corner of Hell,

continued to prowl the province for victims. And those who fell behind never

caught up.

**Toward dawn, we passed out of the frozen zone," Katya went on. "We tried to

return the next day, but it was beyond us, unendurable. Twill demand the

deCourteneys' arts, I avow, to alter the situation back

there."

Springbuck avoided their eyes noncommittally. "Other ears must hear this. Will

you both withdraw to private chambers and take refreshment? Katya, your brother

is in Earthfast. He'll want to see you at once, I know."

"Reacher is here? What brings him?"

**Several matters. He, too, has news. Many reports have come to me in recent

weeks. Reacher will join you presently, as you dine."

When they left, Springbuck called for a council, then thrust aside the addenda

for his latest Restoration Edicts and found himself staring at his sabre Bar,

the sword called Never Blunted, which hung over the mantel.

Ga MacDonald, whom he summoned, entered in obvious haste. Unannounced and

unaccompanied, as they both preferred it, the other alien slid into a chair. The

Ku-Mar-Mcd contemplated his friend.

The former sergeant's face was clean-shaven, his hair trimmed short. It gave

prominence to the dark smear of powderburn on his cheek, the scar on his

forehead. He'd gotten both in the throne room at Earthfast, when Springbuck had

won his crown by rite of combat.

"Now what?*' the American asked. He listened to these latest developments,

sitting forward on his straight-backed chair, hoping to hear what he wanted so

badly.

"That's gotta be it," he posited. "Bey's there, in the north, coming at us with

his Druids." He hitched him-

self around eagerly. "How far did they come? We'll let Bey in far enough and

whap!, the deCourteneys take a crack at him."

"You are less cautious than you once were," Springbuck observed.

"Huh? Look, I never said we shouldn't watch out. But this is Bey, man, Bey!"

"And you were certain he would be hi the Dark Rampart range, remember? Before

that, it was the far eastern provinces you wished to search, where he used to

have many supporters—"

"And he wasn't there; I know! This deal though, this is the real item. Hell, the

Druids used to work for Bey; isn't that what you told me? So why are we spinning

our wheels? When do we move out?"

"Not yet, in truth. There are other factors."

Gil bristled. "Yardiff Bey arranged your folks' deaths, didn't he? Yeah, and

Duskwind's, and that of how many others? And he snatched our pal Dunstan, and

still has him, am I right? So what's gotten into you, saying 'take a break'?"

Springbuck stretched hi his cumbersome robes to ease himself and measure his

reply. Slightly shorter than average, with dark tones of skin and hair, he

betrayed a fencer's sinuosity even when seated. As usual, he'd foregone the

crown he seldom wore outside his Court. The corners of his eyes creased from

time to time; he was nearsighted, part of the reason he liked to parley in his

study.

The Ku-Mor-Mai owed the American a great deal, not the least of which was his

life. There -was substance to what Gil had said, too. Yardiff Bey was the

creator of such suffering, pain and misery that his capture demanded high

priority. And the sorcerer's being at large posed a threat to all the Crescent

Lands, Coramonde in particular.

"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-Maa. 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 hi 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

hi the high horsetail his people favored; and Van Duyn and Karya, just returned,

with Katya's brother, the King of Freegate, Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach.

Readier 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 hi 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 hi 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-SaJarna.

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.M Gil's expression grew chillier. "You are correct, I

agree, in reasoning that Bey fostered the attack. But with the Hand of Salama>

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, Whafs 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 Cal-undronius, one of the

deCourteneys* prime instruments. In close proximity, it negated all magic,

dispersing all

spells.

"It would please the Hand of SalamaY* Andre averred, "to see us take this into

contest with the Druids, but my thought is for alternatives. Where will Bey

strike hi 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 hi 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 hi Freegate also feel

encroachments of SalamaY' he stated softly. "Horsemen from the distant South

wastelands 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

SalamaT' 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. *% too, think our woes

stem from Salami," 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 then-

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-Moa. His

eyes stayed with her for a moment; he marveled, that this woman was his

paramour.

The others were waiting. Springbuck reassembled his 14

stream of thought. "There are other reports gathered here," he concluded, "which

you may examine. Cora-monde'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-SalamiL

"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-Mar-Mcd 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 that things would not go

that way.

When Brodur came back, Lord Hightower was with hun. 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-

Med.

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 Vegand, at

the southern tip of the Crescent Lands, but of that we ken little."

Katya said, "If you are leading to war against Salamd, it would be no easy

undertaking. And will not our enemies consume our lands hi 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 Salami 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-Salaml"

"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."

Readier, head hung in thought, made up his mind. 16

"Andre deCourteney is the font of wisdom hi opposing Bey and his Masters. Let us

plan hi 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-Mcti 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-Mcd., 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.

Fenian of the Horseblooded stopped him in the corridor. The burly, one-time

Champion-at-anns 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 Dusk-wind'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 Fd 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 17

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 hi Earthfast, having

come along on the raid on the throne room. That must be one of the reasons

Readier 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 gain'

cowtirf, 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 bad 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."

Fenian, 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 hun 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 swardcraft. 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 fleche. 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 hi

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.

Fenian and Gil went over. Gale-Baiter was disputing the decision. "Cams, sir,"

he blustered to the president, "did you not see the man cover his target-parts

with his shoulder? What swordsmanship is in that?"

The president, a dignified master-of-arms, held himself rigidly. "There was no

covering, my Lord. We but officiated the duel as we saw it fought, well and

fairly." The Mariner flushed. He whirled on Brodur, who

was toweling his face. "You, sir; admit it! You touched me lucky, and not within

the rules. Let us see who's best two times out of three!"

Brodur regarded the Mariner with a grin. "Bee pardon, mv Lord Envoy, but shall

we go from there to three of five? T should be delighted to teach you how it is

done, but alas, I lack the time." He extended his palm. "Mv winnings, please."

Interesting shade of heliotrope, thought Gil, watching Gale-Baiter's face.

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Forfriends,John,andtheirrespectiveladies,andforMyraA.Daley,whoknewACKNOWLEDGMENTIamindebtedtothefollowingpeoplefortheirassistanceandinformation:JamesLuceno,MyraDiBlasio,LindaLionetti,andMajorJohnC.SpeedyoftheUnitedStatesMilitaryAcademy,WestPointAndtomyeditor,Mr.LesterdelRey,forgenerousmeasuresofhisp...

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