The Starfollowers of Coramonde (2 page)

Now Van Duyn,
former Senior Fellow of the Grossen Institute for Advanced Studies,
inter-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 in 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 in living memory, at
least not on this side 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
under 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.

Gil
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-Mor-Mai
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 himself 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 in 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 in 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-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.