Brian Daley - Doomfarers of Coramonde
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For
Fred, Jim* Judy—and
anyone else with the breadth of
spirit to embrace dreams
A Del Key Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1977 by Brian Daley
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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: 76-30343
ISBN 0-345-30972-3
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: March 1977 Fifth Printing: August 1982
First Canadian Printing: April 1977
Map by Robert C. Giordano Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet
T
Of Deaths, Of Departure
Chapter One
Man is soul and body, formed for deeds of high
resolve.
SHELLEY, Queen Mab, iv
"EARTHFAST," that place was called, aspiring skyward from roots of caverned bedrock. There was
nothing that a palace demanded that it didn't boast, and no feature it lacked that was required in
a fortress. From it, the sovereigns of Coramonde ruled.
Earthfast's formal gardens were extensive and elaborate, and so it took Queen Fania's personal
guardsmen some time to find Prince Springbuck as he brooded near an orchid bower on an out-of-the-
way path. He passed his time resisting despair, for he now lived under a death sentence of sorts.
Not particularly noteworthy to see, he was slightly under average height; at nineteen, he hadn't
yet come into his full growth. He was an open-faced young man with straight, dark hair, some of
his late mother's swarthlness of skin, and eyes a light brown like that of his dead father
Surehand. He kept his sparse facial hair self-consciously clean shaven and had no scar or other
feature, as yet, to set him apart in a crowd.
Sollerets rang across marble and two soldiers, a captain and a ranker wearing gilt corselets of
the Household, came to him there. The Prince resigned himself to a mandate to appear in his
stepmother's Court,
There was a modest bow and a barely concealed command to accompany them. He did so with a sinking
feeling, and some true premonition told him that blood would soon be let. That this was to happen
was no fault of the Prince's, though it stood as high probability that the blood in question would
be his own.
4 THE DOOMFARERS OF CORAMONDE
When Springbuck's father, Surehand, had died, he'd made no clear provision as to his chosen
heir—who should, by custom, have been Springbuck. The old Suzerain's second wife meant to see her
son on the throne and had garnered a good deal of support. There'd been dispute, argument and, in
the end, a decision that the matter must be settled in combat.
Events had coalesced in such short order that Springbuck, a good-natured unaggressive young man,
found himself under a tacit house arrest, slated to measure swords with his half brother
Strongblade. It was disheartening enough that the ferocious Strongblade, at seventeen, was the
bigger of the two and more accomplished in arms. But Springbuck was not so naive as to think that
his stepmother and her adherents would leave this critical issue to chance. After all, the writ of
the Protector Suzerain of Coramonde ran for the entire eastern half of the Crescent Lands, that
tremendous sweep of lands which arcs around the Central Sea.
Even Springbuck's last-ditch offer to abjure his royal heritage without trial was rebuffed with a
cold reminder that it was his duty to put the affair squarely hi the laps of the gods.
Just as they'd said at Court, Springbuck was not the fighter his father had been. Surehand, a
stubborn man with a quick temper, had been aware of his own shortcomings and had tried to school
them out of his firstborn son. "Think first," he would tell worshipful Springbuck, "and don't let
your hand be hasty to move. Have I not told you that haste is the thing that has caused me more
regret than any other? Pause, reflect and weigh your options."
In the end, some impulse of self-preservation or awakening of the mettle of his ancestors had
moved the Prince to plan escape to preserve his life. But he was unprepared for the events of this
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evening.
He attempted to maintain his dignity as he strode through the great doors—stalwart things of hard
ebony bound up in iron and studded with thick rivets—and into the brightness of Court, so familiar
in hours spent
Oj Deaths, Of Departure 5
at his father's side, and now seemingly the camp of the enemy.
Lanterns cleverly wrought in brass and blown glass lit the spacious, tapestried room and filled it
with their sweet scent. The windowless walls were hung with the banners of various legions and
houses. Over the dais hung the royal standard, a snarling tiger, scarlet on black, and beneath it
the personal ensigns of Springbuck, his stepmother Fania and his half brother Strong-blade—a
stag's head, dolphin and bear, respectively.
The^ throne was vacant; across its arms rested Flare-core, the greatsword reserved for the ruler
of Coramonde—the Ku-Mor-Mai, as the Protector Suzerain was called in the Old Tongue. Springbuck's
stepmother held Court seated in an ornate chair at the foot of the dais; she wanted no accusations
that she was disrespectful of her late husband's memory or custom. She wore a robe of imperial
white which contrasted well with her thick, raven's wing hair.
Because Earthfast was the best fortified place in Coramonde there were only eleven men-at-arms hi
the throne room itself. Eight archers watched, weapons at ready, from ledges above the milling
courtiers, four at either side of the room. They wore brown leathers, had quivers of barbed arrows
at then: shoulders and were now sworn to Fania by secret oaths.
On the dais itself, behind the Queen, were three fighting slaves, family heirlooms after a
fashion, yielded to Springbuck's grandfather by a conciliatory king after the epic battle at
Skystem Crag. They were not members of the race of men, and many called them ogres. Bigger than
humans, coarse and mighty as oaks, they were dressed cap-a-pie in plate armor thicker than any man
might wear.
Springbuck heard muted laughter and murmurings from the throng as his entrance drew attention. The
lush smells of their mingling perfumes and oils came to him, and the dainty scuffing of slippers
and stirrings of extravagant clothing. The Court had, beforetimes, been composed of wise advisers,
faithful deputies and stern fighting men. Under Fania it consisted of carpet knights
6 THE DOOMFARERS OF CORAMONDE
and dissipaters; Surehand's old confidants didn't come often or stay for long.
He realized that, aside from the titterings, there was an unaccustomed silence in the chamber,
then spied the figure—difficult to discern, since his vision was somewhat weak at a distance—of
the famous and formidable Duke Rolph Hightower.
The Prince's entrance must have interrupted an exchange. With the note of one resuming a train of
thought, the Queen said, "And here now is our stepson, come at his own good time from sulking
alone in our gardens." Her voice was rich, vibrant, but always cold and closed to Springbuck,
however, much he'd tried to ingratiate himself to her. Still flanked by the two guardsmen, he
forebore to reply; Fania was as expert at these skirmishes as his instructor in arms, Eiiatim, was
with the sword
"He cringes from meeting Strongblade in combat,'* she persisted, "and would like to think up a way
to avoid battle, but take the throne of the Ku-Mor-Mai nevertheless. But he will not! Not while my
son and I live."
At this the Prince struggled to master his anger, refusing to be drawn into another contest of
words with Fania. But the powerful voice of Duke Hightower rose then, with an edge to it to prove
that he and the Queen had already had their differences that night.
"Who would not, facing a death under these circumstances?" he countered. "I'm very sure that Your
Grace means what she says, that you mean for Strongblade to rule, but any man with sense in his
head and a bit of spine might question the truth of your motives and the legality of this pending
duel."
Springbuck studied the Duke, who stood defiant and alone in the exact center of the wide floor.
Not Springbuck's friend particularly, he had still been a staunch ally and supporter of the
Prince's father, though rarely a visitor to Court. He was even more conspicuous than usual in
these surroundings, tall and broad-shouldered, contrasting the gleaming finery of the courtiers
with plain, service-worn traveler's attire of gray. He bore an unadorned broadsword at his side
and a cap held sol-
Of Deaths, Of Departure 7
dierly in the crook of his left arm. Greaved legs widespread, he set his right fist on his hip and
glared at Fania without deference. The lantern jaw was set, the high forehead creased by beetling
brows and beneath the flaring mustachios the Duke's mouth was drawn into something dangerously
resembling a snee'r of contempt, displaying large horse-teeth.
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"Legality," Fania said, rolling the word off her tongue with a kind of languorous menace. "The
Duke implies that I'm committing some crime? Hightower, who comes so seldom to our councils, would
now countermand me? Too long has his insolence gone unchecked, I think."
The Duke's voice was brittle with rage. "Insolence? Insolence?" He slammed his chest with a
battered, vein-mapped fist. "/ am Coramonde's bastion in the East; from the shadows of Spearcrest
to the foot of the Keel of Heaven I am the arm and eyes of Coramonde! How many times has my family
defended our stone donjon with our lives at risk? Do you even know, you who were born in another
country? I have paid my homage, aye, and paid again. Who questions Hightower's right to say his
say at Earthfast?"
Fania couldn't speak to this, nonplussed in the face of truth so furiously set forth. But an
inhumanly calm voice spoke next, one that had always sent fear shooting through every inch of
Springbuck's being. He didn't have to turn or squint to know that "it was Yardiff Bey—Yardiff Bey
who was a figure of awe even among other sorcerers.
The Prince knew that he could never have emulated Hightower, who looked to where Bey stood, near
the Queen, and met that mesmerizing stare without qualm. Bey's dark countenance was transformed
into something unearthly by the eerie ocular of green malachite and silver that he wore in
replacement of his left eye. All emotion was habitually hooded on his face, and it took an effort
of will to speak with him and not somehow fall under his subtle influence. Springbuck had been
moved to speak up a moment before as the words of Hightower had filled him, if not with courage,
then at least with
8
THE DOOMFARERS OF CORAMONDE
some transient burst of outrage. But before Yardiff Bey he held his peace.
"Hightower are you," the sorcerer agreed in that voice so remote from the merely mortal, "who
spurns the decisions of the Court when he so chooses. High-tower who withholds levies, contending
that he mounts a more perilous watch than the rest of Coramonde. Sanctimonious Hightower, poised
and ready against imaginary icemen."
" 'Imaginary,' you say?" the Duke shot back. "Lies are your nature as venom is a snake's, I say.
Send any doubters out with me to rural villages to see. Something malignant is growing in
Coramonde, and it wears many faces. I have seen it, I have fought it. Still it grows. Last month
came a call to me from her people and I went, to find the mistress of a great estate torturing
children. She'd been extracting their spleen and marrow for love potions. She had once been a
friend, but I knew her no more and I slew her there myself." The Duke's palm brushed once,
uneasily, across the hilt of his sword.
Fania, recovered now that Bey had intervened, soothed, "We are not unaware of these things. It has
become clear to us that such incidents come at the instigation of Freegate, the so-called
independent city east of the Keel of Heaven. Even now are leaders gathered in Earthf ast to
discuss it, and legion musters will soon follow, for a war of defense against Freegate. We ask
Hightower to look to nis own array and prepare to see the crimson tiger into battle." She waved
her hand at the royal standard and smiled a lovely, truthless smile, finishing sweetly, "As he has
done so bravely and so well in the past."
But the Duke was having none of that, not from anyone fair or anyone fey. "These things I talked
about are not come from Freegate but from Coramonde herself. Freegate has always been circumspect
of us and everyone here knows it. To blame them is a lie."
A risky accusation to say the least, Springbuck reflected. Hightower was ever the brave warrior
but never the diffident diplomat. Speaking so to Fania was a far different thing from saying the
same to Yardiff Bey.
From the ranks of the courtiers — as if on cue
Of Deaths, Of Departure 9
mark—stepped an elegant man in plum and amber, whom Springbuck recognized as Count Synfors.
"I would be honored to answer the Duke's insult," Synfors said. "If the coward will draw steel,
I'll make my argument"
Hightower, head cocked to one side, was studying the urbane young Count with a hint of amusement.
"How long," he asked, "have you been groomed for this occasion, little man? Never mind, never
mind; shall we call the armigers, or shall I kill you without all that ironmongery?"
The ends of the Count's lips curled for an instant and for answer he detached from his sash a case
of swords, twin rapiers decorated en suite, hilts flattened on one side so that they fit together
in one sheath. Synfors took the two hilts and, with an abrupt jerk, sent the sheath flying free
and held a wicked-slim weapon ready in either hand.
Unarmed, Springbuck thought for a moment to intervene but checked himself. This was a personal
contest, if unorthodox, and, it seemed to,him, not to be meddled with since it had been fairly
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challenged and freely accepted.
Hightower tossed his cap aside, and the scrape of his sword coming clear of its scabbard was, to
Springbuck's mind, a terse announcement of imminent death.
They closed upon one another with no further word, as quiet wagering began among the onlookers,
who pressed inward a bit. Though Hightower was well seasoned, young Synfors was supple and
generally known to be expert with his unusual blades.
They clashed for a moment, the hurried conversation of blades too quick to follow well, and were
apart again. The Count had thrust with his right-hand rapier and replied to the Duke's instant
parry with a second thrust from the left-hand one. Surprisingly, Hightower had managed to bring
his big sword around in time to block that move too, but not in time to avoid sustaining a cut
along his shoulder.
The conduct of the duel, as everyone there knew, was not according to form or custom. The inequity
of weapons and the failure of the Queen to attempt mediation
10 THE DOOMFARERS OF CORAMONDE
were improprieties of the first water. But in that entire room, no one thought that the Duke would
live to register a complaint, whatever the outcome of the match itself. Springbuck was certain
that all of this had been forseen and that the Duke's famous temper had triggered the spontaneous-
seeming contest quite in accordance with some plan.
The Prince wondered vaguely where his stepbrother was and why Strongblade wasn't present. Perhaps
Fania hadn't wanted her son to be involved, fearing even Strongblade's ability to cope with the
fierce Hightower. Synfors began his predatory glide again, nearing the Duke and initiating the
same double-stroke attack, but suddenly found out to his brief dismay the difference between his
own sportman's accomplishments and the battle skill of his opponent, the wage of a lifetime of war
and drill.
Hightower took a double grip on the hand-and-a-half hilt of his sword and stepped deeply forward
and to the left, windmilling the heavy bastard blade to the right. Such was the speed of the older
man that Synfors missed his thrust as his point passed by his antagonist's shoulder, and such the
force of the Duke's stroke that the beautiful guard of the Count's right-hand rapier was smashed,
the hand beneath it broken and laid open to the bone.
Synfors screamed, dropping his right-hand sword and bringing the left up hi futile gesture.
Another time, Hightower might have let him live, but there was no restraint hi him tonight. The
second rapier was swept away, no more than thin procrastination, and the would-be executioner was
himself dead a heartbeat later.
Fania was plainly shaken at this quick brutality, but she turned to Yardifl Bey. When she turned
back to face the Court she seemed to have drawn strength and control from some quarter, and the
Prince began to wonder, between Queen and sorcerer, who was subordinate to whom.
She rose to her feet, thowing back the white-furred splendor of her robe, and cried, "Murderer!
This fight
Of Deaths, Of Departure 11
was not condoned; you had not my let to brawl, either one. The Count is.beyond my retribution, but
I shall visit my anger twofold upon you."
Springbuck expected to hear the order go out and see deadly shafts throw back the lamplight on
their way to the Duke's heart.
But instead, Fania commanded, "Archog, slay me this man." At this Archog, the largest of the ogres
and the captain of them, drew his huge broadsword from its scabbard at his back and shuffled
forward.
Springbuck watched in horror. The match between Hightower and Synfors had been one thing, a bout
between men by challenge given and taken. The assault of Archog was something else—a deliberate,
merciless executioner about to do his work. The Prince's impulse was to go to the Duke's side and
stand with him. Yet that impulse was drained, and the heir of the Ku-Mor-Mai immobilized at the
ogre's terrifying aspect. His mouth had gone dune dry and he realized that to oppose Archog or, in
his killing rage, even to impede him, would mean death. What would it profit to die?
But for a scant second, Hightower tore his gaze from the creature tramping to confront him and
fixed the Prince with his eye. That look said nothing of expectation or resentment; there was no
bitterness because Hightower had come to help him only to lose his own life. It was, Springbuck
saw in that one instant, the Duke's way of ensuring that the Prince would see and understand. It
simply said, "I am Hightower. This is how I live, and how I can die, if it comes to that."
And that stark message came through so well that the Prince lurched forward to join the Duke, and
hi the impact of the moment, none noticed the sob that escaped him. But he was seized from either
side by the guardsmen and held fast in armored hands; in a moment the eight archers had leveled
unswerving arrowheads at his breast. He stopped struggling to watch as the ogre closed with
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Hightower.
The Duke waited, perhaps bitter with himself for leaving his own liege men outside Earthfast; he
exhibited none of the confidence he had shown with Synfors.
12
THE DOOMFARERS OF CORAMONDE
He shifted his grip on his sword and, uttering a piercing war cry, threw himself forward at his
new enemy, swinging a savage blow.
But Archog met the Duke's weapon with his own with such terrific energy that the man's sword broke
hi two. Stunned, Hightower fell back on one knee, holding the useless quillons and stump of his
blade before him as if his sword were still whole.
With a scream that had no message but animal anguish and loss, the Prince, beyond any care or
caution for his own life, shook his captors loose and fumbled at the ranker's belt for his sword.
The captain should have jumped back and let the archers do their work, which would have pleased
his Queen well; but in the heat of the moment he instead brought down an iron-girt fist and dashed
Springbuck into semiconsciousness.
Archog advanced and swung again, this time knocking aside the Duke's sword stump and beheading
him. The ogre stood over his victim's body, which streamed its hot life's blood across the floor,
and his bone-chilling gaze lifted slowly to Fania, no trace of elation or rancor hi it, awaiting
further instruction.
Fania, whey-faced and glassy-eyed at the ghastly scene, tried to find her voice but couldn't.
Again she turned to Yardiff Bey, and once more appeared to summon composure from that source.
"Take the . . . remains of the traitors away,'* Fania managed at last in a subdued tone.
Archog stooped and straightened, to move toward the portals, the Duke's body under one arm and the
head cupped in the other gauntleted paw. Synfbrs' body was carried away, too. Finally the Prince
was lifted by the two guardsmen.
In the whirling haze that had settled around him, Springbuck shrank back before the realization of
his failure to aid Hightower as before the heat of a bonfire.
Chapter Two
This before all else: be armed.
MACHIAVELLI
NERVOUS, whispered conversations sprang up among the courtiers. Fania glanced about her in sudden,
imperious anger.
"Where are my stepson's mentors, Eliatim and Faur-buhl?" she demanded.
The majordomo, resplendent in filigreed cloak and bright sash, carrying his staff of office,
stepped forward and bowed. "Your Majesty," he intoned, "Eliatim accompanies guests of state home
to then1 embassy houses and the philosopher Faurbuhl seems nowhere to be found."
"In that case, have the Prince taken to his rooms and left in the care of the Lady Duskwind."
Springbuck was hoisted and carted away as she turned to the Court.
"Have the servants rinse clean the floors. Fetch drink and chargers of food and let the musicians
strike up."
As the Prince's bearers exited the Court, he groggily heard the crowd call tentatively for an air
wherewith to dance. In quick fashion the arena was changed back to a ballroom; delicate feet would
soon mince where the blood of men had been but a short time before.
Springbuck ascended slowly from his bodiless fog, jounced along, slung over an armored shoulder
for a trip that seemed endless. Then there was the sound of a discreet knocking, the officer's
respectful voice: "My Lady Duskwind?"
"Yes?"
"It's Captain Brodur, and we have the Prince with us, my Lady."
What odd inflection was that in Captain Brodur's
13
14
THE DOOMFARERS OF CORAMONDE
voice? Springbuck wondered dazedly. Was it urgent, almost nervous? His wits were beginning to
return and he felt a growing desire to vomit.
"He is somewhat, umm, incapacitated," Brodur continued, "and the Queen instr—"
"Oh! Bring him in and leave him on the bed. I shall attend to him. Only wait a moment when I
unbolt the door, then you may enter."
The enlisted man made a rude, whispered jest at the Lady's expense and was rebuked by his officer
as the two brought their burden into the room and dropped him onto the brocatelle spread of his
wide bed. He bounced once on the soft mattress and lay in a sprawl, holding down bile.
The instant Springbuck heard the door close, he vaulted clumsily from the bed to stand and take
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his bearings, bracing himself both literally and figuratively. With Eliatim, his instructor-in-
arras and warfare, away, he wouldn't be under the close scrutiny he'd endured lately. Had the
captain left for good, thinking he'd be unconscious for a while? The certainty was suddenly hi him
that his chance to escape had come on this least likely occasion.
He couldn't see Duskwind and so assumed that she was in the bath chamber. Crossing to one of his
wardrobe chests, he extracted three broad, silken headbands, then leaped back to stand beside the
door leading to the bath. Watching it carefully, he groaned as realistically as he could.
"Coming, my love," Duskwind called from the next room. "You drank overmuch, perhaps? I'll ease
your sufferings; we'll see what steam and massage can do to help it".
So saying, she opened the door and walked into the bedroom. She must have been preparing to bathe
when the guardsmen had knocked, he reflected in the brief moment in which she stood with her back
to him, puzzled by his absence. She was naked, her honey-streaked hair unbound and the big knuckle-
shield rings missing from her slim hands.
He pounced on her from behind, snatching her wrists from her sides and drawing them together at
the small
Of Deaths, Of Departure 15
of her back. She gasped in surprise but couldn't turn around, as he confined her hands with two
deft loops of a headband.
"Springbuck, is that you? Stop it! This is no time for drunken games, you idiot!" There was a
strange, sharp note in her voice that he'd never heard there before. She squirmed and struggled in
his grip and he couldn't have answered her if he'd wanted, because he held the remaining two
headbands in clenched teeth.
Tightening the second loop, he whirled her around, tripped her and lowered her to the thick carpet
on her stomach, straddling her.
Alarmed now, she shrilled, "You mustn't do this! Listen to me—" \
He'd used the second headband as a gag. The third he fastened around her vigorously kicking legs,
fettering her at the ankles. Lifting her as carefully as he could manage under the circumstances,
he carried the wildly protesting Duskwind to the bed. Even then he found himself marveling at the
warmth of her smooth, brown-gold skin and the fragrance of her, as he threw her across the covers.
As a precaution to her thrashing efforts to free herself, he added extra bindings and, out of
modesty, pulled the covers over her, leaving only her' head and graceful feet exposed.
He bent to peer into her gray eyes. "I'm sorry," he told his lover, "but I'm leaving and I've
decided that there's no place for a highborn and gentle Lady on the journey I mean to make." At
this her eyes went wide and she began to shake her head violently, attempting to speak through the
gag.
He nodded sadly. "Yes, I must go and I cannot take you, though life will be desolate without you."
This last was rather an exaggeration; he looked forward to going forth a free agent. But he was
fond of her, had been happy with her. She had even consoled him against his pending combat with
the vague reassurance that something would happen to prevent it.
Well, now something would.
Duskwind shut her eyes tightly in exasperation, then stared imploringly skyward. Perplexed, he
nevertheless decided that he had spent enough time with her. He
16
THE DOOMFARERS OF CORAMONDE
went to another chest, dug under some robes of state and drew forth the things he had assembled
for flight. He unlaced his buskins and threw them to one side, took off his tunic and removed his
copper bracelets and bandeau. These he kicked into a corner, done with them for all time. Turning
then to his preparations, he was arrested by a glimpse of himself in the cheval glass which stood
against the wall. He moved closer and regarded himself, an open-faced young man hi his nineteenth
year.
Smiling experimentally at the mirror Springbuck was rewarded with a totally unremarkable smile. He
was positive that he would attract no attention or recognition as the Prince. He felt stirrings of
confidence that his escape would be successful.
He abruptly remembered the door and whirled on it in apprehension. It was closed but unlatched.
Thankful that Duskwind's one outcry had elicited no inquiries, he darted to the door and shot the
bolt to, congratulating himself on his luck and, at the same time, feeling a growing knot in his
stomach, fear reaction from the events in the throne room and an ache to be away.
He" knew brief regret that Faurbuhl was not to be found. He had considered taking the old
philosopher with him, though he had revealed nothing of his plans to his teacher. Indeed, the idea
had come full-blown a week before, hi the strange period between waking and sleeping when the mind
was most flexible and receptive. A whisper of a suggestion was enough, and he knew that he must
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escape, and in that same moment was glavanized to search out the magician Andre de-Courteney and
the madman Van Duyn.
Forcing himself to matters at hand, and putting Faurbuhl out of his thoughts, he looked to his
equipment. He had decided upon and surreptitiously collected the costume of a bravo of Alebowrene,
subdominion of Coramonde. Though he knew there would be several of such men in Earthiast during
the High Durbar preceding the death duel for the throne, the clothing of a servant or merchant
would have been less conspicuous, so that Springbuck approached his adventure with perhaps more
romantic notions than he admitted to himself.
Of Deaths, Of Departure 17
He donned the brief cincture, comfortably supple and, hi his opinion, overwhelmingly preferable to
stiff, heavy robes of state. He then strapped to each forearm the leather demisleeves which
guarded against wounds from wrist to elbow. It was difficult work manipulating the numerous
buckles on each leather with one hand, hampered in fastening the second by the hand-cupping cuff
on the first. Still, these were an infighter's defense he'd used before and he knew their value
well. He pulled on high cavalryman's boots and picked up his sword, his newfound sword.
A curious weapon. He'd come across it poking around hi the older, ignored rooms of the armories at
Earthfast. Basket-hilted, it was much like a cavalry saber except that the blade was only slightly
curved and a bit lighter than that, made of some unfamiliar, pewter-looking metal. On the pommel
was struck a single complex glyphic which the Prince with his sketchy knowledge of such things,
found undecipherable. On either side of the blade, just above the narrow fullers, was written the
name Bar, an odd-seeming name for a sword, evocative of defense rather than offense. It's most
puzzling aspect, however, was that even after obvious long neglect Bar was bright, and its edge
sharper than any he'd ever thumbed. Convinced he'd found a weapon of some special property, he'd
kept his discovery to himself. Its scabbard had been unserviceable with age, and so with some
difficulty he'd procured another to accommodate it, of black, polished fish skin with bindings and
fittings of white brass, and a belt to bear it.
He buckled the belt about his hips and fastened the tie-down around his leg. Then he slipped his
parrying dagger into the sheath stitched inside the top of his left boot. Its hooked pommel rode
just high enough to protrude from the boot top below his sword, ready to be seized at need in his
left hand.
He'd thought of wearing a helmet and his fine chain mail, but discarded the idea of several
accounts. For one thing, both of his suits of mail were known in and around Earthfast. The risk of
recognition would be increased, even if he were well cloaked and hooded. For
18 THE DOOMFARERS OF CORAMONDE
another, he didn't care for its weight, since he wished to travel as lightly as possible. And
lastly, he'd never grown to like the burden of armor as had his half brother Strongblade. Though
trained as most young nobles were in riding, running, jumping trenches, climbing and fighting
encased hi mail or plate, he had always hated its hindrance. He much preferred to be free of its
encumbrance like the Alebowrenian or the Horse-blooded of the High Ranges.
Almost ready to leave his ancestral home, he thought that his renowned forebear Sharplance might
have felt just so, fleeing the distant East in the dim past. He went to fetch the cache of coins
secreted behind a carven ivory panel in the bathing chamber, stopping first to check the bonds of
the still-furious Duskwind. He strode into the next room, anxious to be away, but stopped in
midstride at the sight which greeted him
there.
The large pool contained no water, but rather the body of Faurbuhl the philosopher. His face was
blackened, eyes swollen and darkened tongue bulging from his mouth, hands still clawing hi death
at the garrote yet inbedded hi his neck. Springbuck experienced momentary dizziness and a refusal
to absorb the death of his would-be companion, who stared sightlessly at the decorative water
apertures above his head.
A moment only, and the Prince realized that the Lady Duskwind had been in this room when the
guardsmen entered but had made no outcry and thus must be implicated in—perhaps had committed—the
gentle old man's murder. Springbuck's lips drew back in a soundless snarl.
He prized loose the panel and retrieved his wallet; then he took out his sword and, gripping it so
tightly that his hand shook, returned to the bedroom. Through hot tears forming, he saw a bundle
lying behind the door and opened it with a vicious kick to survey its contents, Duskwind's
traveling clothes and accouterments. He moved to the bedside, glaring down at the bound girl, his
face fell to look upon, until she consigned her soul to the gods of her house.
But they had been lovers; she had meant a great deal
Of Deaths, Of Departure 19
to him in that time, and he could not bring himself to kill her. Shame at events in the throne
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room and his growing impulse to be away, coupled with grief for Faurbuhl, numbed him and drained
his thirst for revenge; he'd shown no merit himself in the night's tragedies. He searched her
imploring eyes.
"What reward did they offer you?" he wondered aloud. "What wages to slay my friend and then flee?
Was it to be blamed on me? Is that why Captain Brodur left me here so handily? Be still! I'll not
kill you, though I ought to; I give you your life and leave you to your own devices. But I vow,
the next moment that I see you will be your last."
And because he wouldn't have her see a Prince of Coramonde weep he sheathed his sword with a clash
and took up the brightly lacquered war mask he'd obtained, with its colorful crest of plumes. He
set it on his head, covering ail of his face save mouth and brimming eyes. Tying the wallet to his
sword belt, he fetched his long cloak and swirled it around him. Concealed from throat to heels,
plumes bobbing behind, he drew back the bolt and let himself into the corridor. There were no
guards in that part of Earthfast, nor were any needed since Fania's own picked men manned the
gates with orders not to permit him egress, and they were under the impression that he was in
custody and under guard.
But of this he cared little; he simply wanted to leave Earthfast forever.
Chapter Three
They all hold swords, being expert in war; every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear
in the night.
THE SONG OF SONGS, Which Is Solomon's
HE'D readied a story against being stopped by the port-glaves, of being confused and lost in
looking to rejoin his "master," the eavoy from Alebowrene, the sort of thing that happened often
in Earthfast with so many visitors and their retinues quartered there. Crossing the open exercise
areas he came to the stables, filled with the ceaseless sounds and thick smells of horses of all
sorts: brave coursers and glum-faced palfreys, massive destriers, well-formed jumpers and the
enormous draft annuals that pulled the war drays of the entourage from Matloo.
Springbuck had planned to take his own horse, Fire-heel, but found the big gray gone from his
stall and was afraid to inquire after it with a groom for fear of recognition. Instead, he
selected a light reconnaissance cavalryman's saddle and began to ready a swift-looking ronc-in
bearing the markings of the High Ranges on its flanks and Earthfast's croppings on its ear. The
horse proved balky though, shying from him and whinnying softly. His warmask, light as it was, yet
made things more troublesome, and so he removed it and set it aside. He finished quickly and
turned to reopen the stall door, to find himself faced with a figure from his past. The light was
poor but he still knew his old playmate Micko, stableboy now, but close companion back in the days
when rank meant less and larking was the order of the day. Micko was at one with animals, just as
his father was, though he hadn't inherited his sire's affinity
20
Of Deaths, Of Departure 21
for forest and field, and was most at home in kennel, aerie or barn. But even Micko, never one for
insight or subtlety, knew the drift of things at Court and must know it was his obligation to
raise the alarm on pain of a traitor's fate. Springbuck could only wait and taste bitterness. But
Micko, a sorrowful expression on his grimy face, said only, "Do not let him take his head, as he
likes to; he will wear himself out early in the ride." Springbuck's cheeks burned. He wanted to
explain why he was flying by night like a criminal, how his enemies had an infinite number of ways
to ensure that he wouldn't survive a duel for the throne, but he couldn't think of any words which
did not strike him as self-serving.
So, he brushed brusquely past Micko and, mounting and masking, guided his horse through the stable
and out across the main bailey, clopping over smooth paving lit by fluttering torches and toward
the portcullis, raised in this time of moribund festivity. He fell in with a group of riders,
laughing celebrants who'd just mounted nearer the palace proper. The gate warder did not try to
delay them, obvious guests of the Queen. As they all rode down the rampway from Earthfast,
Springbuck gradually fell behind his temporary escorts.
Once down the long slope, he stopped and turned in his saddle for one last look at the ancient
keep with its bright lights and whipping flags and battle pennons, as the faint sounds of gaiety
drifted out over the night. With a sigh, he faced back to the way before him. He knew he must make
good distance before dawn, and started down the broad boulevard which led from the palace-fortress
through the city spread at its feet. He'd thought to perhaps hide in the city for a while until it
was feasible to travel overland, but had dismissed the idea. Kee-Amaine would be torn brace from
beam in the search for him and the rewards offered would guarantee betrayal from anyone else who
identified him— unless Micko had already changed his mind.
He cantered slowly down the way, not wishing to attract attention by moving any faster.
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Kee-Amaine, the City of the Protector, surrounded Earthfast as a gaudy collar does* a desperado's
neck,
22
THE DOOMFARERS OF CORAMONDE
being here fine and colorful and there frayed and badly used. The street saw little traffic at
this hour and the lanterns that lined it flickered fitfully in the night wind. He passed a
detachment of the civic watch making its rounds, but they didn't bother to hail him or ask his
business, seeing him come from the palace-fortress, since things had seemed quiet this night. It
was getting • colder, and they were anxious to finish their tour and return to lay down their
heavy pikes for the warmth of their barracks berths.
Before Springbuck's grandfather had imported the twin innovations of night patrols and
streetlighting, life in Kee-Amaine had been confined after dark, since none but the well-armed or
foolish ventured out into the threatening blackness to risk robbery or murder.
Two riders approached from the other direction, that of the Brass Lion Gate, which gave access to
the Western Tangent. Their course would bring them right past him, but Springbuck thought that
conspicuously avoiding them would be poor strategy, and so rode along,
He was soon sorry he did; as they neared him, he recognized them for Novanwyn, a Legion-Marshal
and favorite of Fania's, and his senior captain, Desenge. They stopped and stared at him curiously
just as he drew even with them, and Desenge called out, "What does an Alebowrenian do here,
sitting a horse which I myself saw in the royal stables only this afternoon?"
The Prince stopped, like it or not. To ignore them would demand pursuit and ruinous inquiry.
Besides, Desenge carried in its saddle rest his long spear, Finder, heavy and black and said by
some to be unable to miss its mark when it flew from its owner's hand, with many ill deeds to its
name.
The Prince attempted to disguise his voice, hoping that the war mask would help, as he faced them
and answered, "I have just made obeisance for my liege, Knight-Commander to the Warchief of
Alebowrene, at the feet of your Queen. My horse was lamed and I was given this one to take Her
Grace's regard to my lord." Novanwyn inclined his head politely. "Please excuse my aide's
curiosity." He smiled blandly. "And let us keep you tarrying no longer. Oh, and if you would be so
Of Deaths, Of Departure
23
kind—Legion-Marshal Novanwyn's respects to your liege?"
Springbuck grunted noncommittally and continued on his way, shaken. Passing long walls and
hedgerows bordering the way in this area, he rode for a time, then paused in a side street and
squinted back along the way to see if he were being followed. To no avail; either he wasn't
pursued or his nearsightedness made it impossible to see those behind him.
He decided, though, to take a circuitous route, swinging past the marketplace and coming round to
the southern wall and the Brass Lion Gate by back streets. He hoped that, in tomorrow's turmoil at
his escape, no one would link a renegade Prince to a lone Alebowrenian. Then it occurred to him
that it was a foolish hope; Duskwind had seen his attire.
Memories of Hightower's death began to intrude again and he spent the ride in painful examination
of his conscience. Alternate outcomes spun in his head; if he'd moved sooner, faster, fought
harder, could he have saved the Duke? Should he have stayed in Earthfast and fought the duel? At
best, he would eventually have had to meet Strongblade in arms, Strongblade who was wont to toy
with two lesser opponents at a time and who'd often bested their instructor, Eliatim.
Springbuck's stealthy leave-taking and the deaths of Hightower arid Faurbuhl began in him a desire
for some act of violence and retribution, with a vague idea that he could expiate his shame and
redeem his self-respect.
Perhaps there would come an opportunity in the promised war between Coramonde and Freegate, if
things actually went that far. No major war had been fought in or by Coramonde in nearly a
generation, but Fania—and Yardiff Bey—seemed set on starting one. There were many and diverse
substates under Coramonde; to greater or lesser extent internal friction was a constant. It wasn't
beyond conceiving that Springbuck could find support for an attempt at wresting back the Crown.
But there came to him the lines from the Old Tongue," impressed upon him with admonishments by his
father, regarding civil war:
24 THE DOOMFARERS OF CORAMONDE
He should pause and search his heart well
Who thinks to go Doomfaring
In the War that is war between brothers.
A single house bleeds with Every internecine fall of the sword And the abattoiral axe.
Could such wounds to Coramonde be justified? The Prince was unsure.
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Still, if armies were waging war on the far side of the Keel of Heaven, the situation could come
full ripe for the dislodging of Fania and Strongblade.
And Yardiff Bey.
Springbuck thought again of the look that had passed between the Queen and the sorcerer in the
throne room, that of vassal to Lord.
Bey in command?
How much, after all, did anyone know about him? The archives had it that he'd first appeared in
Earthfast over half a century earlier. Since then he'd been away often, for as long as ten years
at a time. He'd come back from one such sojourn, twenty years earlier, with the bizarre ocular in
place of his left eye, object of cautious speculation.
Rumors about him were inexhaustible: that his sword Dirge dealt wounds which couldn't be healed,
that he had an enchanted flying vessel concealed in the mountains of the Dark Rampart, that some
of his hidden conspiracies and secret liaisons led ultimately to the distant south, to Shardishku-
Salama, where oldest magic still worked against men.
But little was known of Bey for sure, and few dared pry.
The Prince called to mind the one time that he'd seen Yardiff Bey betray emotion. On that
occasion, six months earlier, the wizard Andre deCourteney had come to an audience with Surehand,
bringing with him the madman Van Duyn, who claimed to be from another universe, or some such.
Bey had scorned Van Duyn as demented, but appeared to regard Andre deCourteney as a threat, not so
Of Deaths, Of Departure
25
much to his position as councillor extraordinary to the Ku-Mor-Mai as to his very well-being.
But, with Van Duyn making his outrageous claims and propounding his scandalous ideas for a
government by plebiscite, Surehand had hardly needed Bey's urgent prompting to banish the two from
Earthfast, provoked as he was by their heresy.
As far as Springbuck could determine, Van Duyn and deCourteney had gone to the little village of
Erub, to the northeast, to establish an unorthodox school of their own. The Prince hoped that it
was so, and meant to seek them out. He had questions to ask them, particularly about Yardiff Bey.
As he rode along mulling all of this, the scenery had gradually changed from the walls of the
gentry who lived near Earthfast to common residences, shop and tavern, and finally the empty
market plaza. He cut across the wide square past the Temple of the Bright Lady and quickly made
his way up winding byways to the Brass Lion Gate. The guard commander there had just come on watch
and was uninclined wpgster himself over an Alebowrenian, all of whom were known for their
truculence, especially since the gate would soon be opened anyway for the predawn influx of
farmers with their produce and other goods for vending, and so accommodated Springbuck's exit.
The gate yawned behind him as the Prince rode across the hard-trodden earth to where the Western
Tangent shone gray and straight in the light of the watchtower. Storm clouds had gathered and a
sparse rain began to fall as he spurred his mount away eastward toward Erub. Eastward where,
perhaps, Andre deCourteney would have answers and the Prince's confusion and misgivings would be
thrown open to the light of wise counsel solicited from one of the best-known wizards of the day.
He let the roncin out to a gallop, heedless of Micko's warning, diverting tension and venting
frustration hi a wild ride down the broad, seamless Tangent. The rani misted in a dew on his cloak
and the sleek, rolling hide of the horse beneath him, and he removed his war mask to feel the
moisture on his face.
26
THE DOOMFARERS OF CORAMONDE
He rode expertly, crouched low over the roncin's neck, letting the tearing wind snatch the events
of the night from his brain. Lightning was flashing intermittently when he came upon a horse
incongruously leg-hobbled alone at the roadside. With a start, he saw that it was his own,
Fireheel, and came to a halt.
"I thought that your own horse would give you pause," said a familiar voice, and the Prince's
heart clenched with dread. It was a voice he associated with long hours of exhausting training
during which he was exhorted to match its owner—endless, impossible effort—one of the most capable
warriors alive.
Though the rain was heavier now, and the night dark, Springbuck had no difficulty identifying the
man with bow in hand who stepped from behind a nearby tree and up onto the raised surface of the
Tangent, arrow nocked, deadly confident.
The lightning flashes showed him EHatim.
Chapter Four
The secret of happiness is freedom, and the secret of freedom is courage.
THUCYDIDES,
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