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PART II:
Jeopardies of a
Two-Bard Commission.


Chapter Six

I struck the board, and cried “No more;
  I will abroad!”

George Herbert
“The Collar”


At first, the going was pleasant.

Springbuck’s letter of transit, bearing false names and authentic seals, let the party go without interference, barely noticed. The silver brassard of Angorman’s Order opened many doors, to busy inns, lonely huts and spartan outposts. Gil got used to seeing caps doffed to the Saint-Commander and the badge of his Order, but remained suspicious of everyone. Angorman was sometimes asked for a special benediction, which he never failed to impart. Andre, too, usually seemed to know a good stopping place not too far away. Gil never knew whether the evening would give him a straw mattress in a priory cell, a hard, narrow bench before a tavern hearth, or a comfortable bed in a local Lord’s keep. Wherever they stopped, one of the four men would sleep near Woodsinger, or stretch out with his back to her door. Despite Angorman’s prestige and Andre’s providence, they were sometimes compelled to bivouac under the sky, with Woodsinger and her charge inside the one small tent they’d brought.

Andre, Ferrian and Angorman relieved Woodsinger of her burden from time to time, quieting the baby if she woke by night but wasn’t hungry.

Gil didn’t. He shared any other chore or problem, but flatly refused to become involved with the infant herself. No one pressed him to do differently. To make up for it, he always bore the carry-rack when Woodsinger rode with the baby held inside her cloak; it was his tacit apology. The child took the trip well. Woodsinger was extremely capable, looking after her well-being, keeping her healthy, clean and fed without commotion.

They rode with Angorman at their head, leading one packhorse’s rein, Red Pilgrim usually propped butt-in-rest like a lance. Gil followed, with Woodsinger and the baby behind. Ferrian was next, leading the other pack-horse, guiding his own mount with his knees, Horseblooded style. Andre brought up the rear, bow in hand, watchful at their backs.

Coramonde’s diversity amazed the American. He met dashing, egotistical bravoes from Alebowrene, in the Fifty Lakes Territory, and reserved, puritanical men of Matloo, patrolling their flat, grassy province in huge, armored war-drays. Passing through the Fens of Hinn, marshes abundant with fish and game, he kept sharp watch, but saw few of the elusive, cantankerous people who inhabited them. Then, for eight solid days, they passed under the tangled, gloomy forest canopy of Teebra, famous for its eagle-eyed archers.

The Tangent frequently held some traffic: a trapper with furs, a farmer with produce, wary shepherds with their flocks or a boisterous column of Free Mercenaries off to their next job. Now and then a wealthy man or Lord would go by in a polished coach drawn by a matched team of six or eight horses. They encountered bands of tinkers, bangled and sly, who offered goods of dubious origin and mules and horses with cleverly doctored markings. Every so often the party was forced to make way for a military dispatch rider, his straining mount throwing off flecks of foam. They overtook ponderous convoys of merchants’ wains, leaving them behind quickly. These were guarded, but Gil still thought they were a fat, inviting target. Springbuck had been right; joining one would have been a mistake.

There were roadside shrines, most of them the Bright Lady’s, and no two images of Her were quite alike. One statue embodied Her as highborn, hair arranged painstakingly, with a haughty tilt to her chin and a patronizing smile; the next represented Her as a big-boned peasant woman, bobbed hair gathered in a kerchief, skirts rucked up for field labor, barefoot and laughing heartily. But all Her many personae were quite clearly one, the ever-changing, omnipresent Lady.

The party stayed, by and large, to the Western Tangent. Its straight, unobstructed course made the going far easier than any local road could have. Gil had been worried that the Tangent’s hard, tractive surface would harm the horses’ hooves, but the others reassured him there was nothing to fear, and were right. Apparently, that was one of the qualities of the Tangent, a highway predating the Great Blow, the Unity’s most visible single artifact, certainly its most useful one.

Everywhere were signs of doubt or discontent The corrosion of Springbuck’s authority was more advanced on the fringes of Coramonde. Twice, nearing the Dark Rampart, the travelers left the Tangent to skirt areas where, they’d been warned, warfare had erupted. They saw thick, dark smoke smudge the sky, from battle and siege. Once, a distant fire lit the night, a burning village.

People were storing food frantically; this promised to be a severe winter. The American became used to eating as his companions did, with the left hand. The right stayed free, theirs near hilts and helve, and his close to the grip of the Mauser, his holster flap left open.

They were even more cautious traversing the Dark Rampart range. There, the Tangent cut between sheer mountain walls or spanned stomach-wrenching chasms on delicate-looking arches. Refugees, fugitives and deserters had fled up here during the war to hide and live as they must. The party came across graves from which the bodies had been stolen by the starving. When they camped at night, they picked as defensible a spot as they could, even if they had to stop early or go on in dusk. Three times, it took the flash of swords and great-axe to discourage small bands of shabby, sunken-cheeked men who blocked their way. They saw no other women or children, and Gil assumed none had survived up here. Armored, mounted, the party wasn’t pursued or molested.

All hospitality had ended, and any amenity they hadn’t brought with them. They all began to reek, their clothes and gambesons stained and itchy.

Their stocks grew low. Soon, they had only a dwindling supply of dried fruit and rock-hard travelers’ loaves that reminded Gil of Logan Bread. They cut consumption drastically, except Woodsinger, who must nurse the baby. All game had disappeared, prey and predator alike. Angorman and Andre were adept at gathering edible roots and plants, but even these were scarce. They came on a hermit’s cabin, high in the chilly peaks. Andre managed to barter, at scandalous price, a supply of the only meat the old recluse had, dog. It was salty, chewy and greasy, but far from the worst thing Gil or the others had ever eaten. By the time the last of it was gone, Gil found that he missed it, thinking of their shrunken stock of fruit and stony loaves.

They came down out of the mountains the next day, just as the first snows threatened the heights. At the merestone that marked the boundary of Coramonde, they came to the first foreign border.

They were met with suspicion. The lesser states and kingdoms had turned back virtually everyone, but the letters of transit and Angorman’s badge got the party past.

Gil saw Andre’s wisdom in not taking more men. Four, with a woman and child, were enough to guard and provide. There was an inner resonance to two pairs of armed men, the implied capacity to defend at all points. Still, they were few enough so that border guards were inclined to permit them by. A military escort, in this climate, could have proceeded only by force.

They sold one packhorse, no longer needing it. The wide, straight Western Tangent took them quickly south, sometimes passing through an entire lesser kingdom in a day. They were able to buy food, particularly the proteins Woodsinger needed. The nurse allowed as how the child was old enough to begin taking small samples of regular foods, and began feeding her mushed bits of egg, cheese and fruit.

Morale improved; conversation became more lively. One afternoon Ferrian brought down a pheasant with his war-quoit, the first fresh game they’d had in weeks. It only afforded each a small portion, but put them in an exceptional mood.

“How come,” Gil asked Andre that night, tossing a bone into the fire, “you do that? When you were talking about your sister just now, you said ‘sorcery.’ But you always call your stuff ‘wizardry,’ and they always say Bey’s a sorcerer.”

Andre leaned back against his saddle. “All those terms denote diverse methods of dealing with the same thing. They are different paths of approach. Never would I make a living sacrifice.”

“You mean human beings?”

“I mean any life.” The wizard stretched his legs out. Woodsinger, halfway through a feeding, burped the baby. “I am no newcomer to strife, Gil. I have laid more than one man low in open battle. But I will not use up life as an ingredient in conjuration.”

“But Gabe’s a sorceress. She has?”

“Of that you must ask her. I will only say there are times when the life of an enemy, a malefactor, can be used to save the life of a friend, by mystic procedure. It has been known for such an exchange to be made, and for the person who did it to be acclaimed. Few object to the loss of an evil life if it saves a good one. Yet that operation is sorcery, and there is no disguising it. Beyond this, you will have to query Gabrielle.”

Angorman spoke, firelight shadowing his face under his big slouch hat. “You will hear it said that Andre deCourteney is too meek for transcendent magics, not hardhearted enough to cope with them. It is not so; he never swayed from any trial or test, nor failed any. If you want the long and short of it, Gil MacDonald, there are boundaries over which a wizard will not step, things he will not do, to make enchantments work, however puissant he is. But if man or woman overstep, it is sorcery, however slight the trespass.”

The talk was getting to Andre. “There is little more to the topic than that.” Throwing another piece of wood on their fire, he huddled down in his cloak.

The baby was full. Woodsinger inserted her finger gently at the side of the child’s mouth to break suction. She laved her nipple with a cloth, closed her voluminous robes and retired to her cramped tent.

The first watch was Gil’s. He stared into the fire, the Mauser under his hand. It was all well and good that Andre was principled, but what if that meant Bey had him outclassed? It would be best, the American decided, if the wizard finally faced his age-old enemy with his sister by his side. No one could afford to grant any advantage to the Hand of Salamá.


They were in a country of fields and vineyards. Though the nights had been cold the days were warm here. Jeb Stuart’s breath would shoot jets of steam from his nostrils when he was being saddled, but later he’d be in danger of overheating, and Gil would feel sweat trickling under his byrnie.

One afternoon a wind came up, an angry storm on its heels. Andre had some weather cantations but didn’t want to use them, to avoid attracting any notice. The land was fairly flat, with few trees and no apparent shelter. Angorman left the road, carefully examining the face of a low rock wall, the only prominent feature in the area. He announced that they could sit out the storm in the lee of the cliff. It looked just like more ground to Gil, but Andre and Ferrian accepted the Saint-Commander’s word. They moved rubble and crowded a close little camp against the rock wall.

The storm broke. Just as Angorman had promised, they huddled, riders and animals, in a dry margin six feet wide, while rain soaked the ground just beyond.

The rain stopped and started all night, refusing to go or break. But it had slackened by the time they were breaking camp. Andre said they’d reach the border of Glyffa in two days.

The companions rode stretching, working their muscles to drive out the chill. Woodsinger held the baby inside her robes, as she sometimes did to warm her. Gil took the rack from her and slipped it on his back. They made no effort to hurry, watching droplets make their way down leaves and grasses. The pitched Tangent, already drained, was drying slowly.

Gil was swaying along, fitting himself unconsciously to Jeb Stuart’s gait. He had nothing in particular in mind, even the distance to Death’s Hold and Bey.

An unexpected blow to his back sent him against his saddle bow as his head was buffeted on either side. There was less pain than astonishment; he thought for a moment that Andre or Ferrian had ridden by to slap him, but he’d heard no hoofbeats. He pushed himself upright as Jeb gave a disturbed whicker. A screech sounded overhead and a shadow crossed quickly, alarmingly, in semaphore on the edge of his vision.

Gil spotted his attacker looping in the air for another pass. He had difficulty telling what it was—some large hawk or eagle, or something else. His immediate impulse was to let it go; it had done him no damage. But a note of unmixed hatred in its call warned him.

He yanked the Mauser out, led his target and squeezed off a round. The other horses jumped at the shot; Jeb took it stolidly.

It was a miss; the flier had selected that instant to wheel in midair for another run. Gil cursed. Sumbitch can turn like he has one wingtip nailed down.

It veered at him. His aim wavered overhastily. There was a hiss of fletching in heavy air, and an eerie piping. The bird spun toward the ground, the tension of its flight changing to helpless fluttering, feathers gyrating free.

It hit the Tangent with a limp roll, eyes still lit with the intensity of the unalloyed hunter. It was no species they’d ever seen. Andre’s arrow stood from its breast, a Horseblooded shaft that had made its piping moan by a trick of carving the Wild Riders used. Gil bolstered the handgun, musing that reflexes and coordination were more important than instrumentality.

He shrugged off the carrying rack to check it. Diamond-hard talons had scored long, deep tears in the tough hide and torn splinters from the wooden frame. An extra blanket, rolled and stored inside, had been slashed in strips.

“The bird’s target was the rack.” Andre surmised. They looked to Woodsinger, who drew her cloak more closely around herself and her charge.

Hearing a wave of trilling sound, they craned their heads upward. Then they were surrounded by small birds who rushed past and hovered around them, a multicolored tempest of feathers, a gale of small wings. Tiny beaks ripped at them in passing; wings stung their faces.

Gil yelped and slapped at them, his hand coming away bloody. Woodsinger swatted with her crop, pulling her head down among the folds of her collar. They all fought to master their horses, realizing they were under no natural attack. Gil fired two rounds into the air, not counting on hitting anything, to scatter the tiny furies. They exploded away in every direction, but circled and swarmed like bees, and drew closer again.

Ferrian let the packhorse’s rein fall. He pulled Woodsinger’s hood down close to her face and swirled her cloak around her tightly. Taking her mount’s reins in his teeth, the Horseblooded drew his scimitar, guiding his horse with his knees.

Andre had put away his bow. He, too, pulled his sword. With no time for spellcasting, they had to get out of the open.

Gil, the Browning Hi-Power in his right hand now, also took his reins in his teeth, as Dunstan the Berserker had taught him. He peered around for any sort of cover, a cave, trees, anything. There was none. It was the perfect spot for ambush.

The flock swept around in unison and came back in their direction. More birds were joining them every moment. “The cliff face,” Ferrian called. “ ’Tis better protection than none!”

They galloped back, knowing they couldn’t outrun their pursuers. The birds ignored the riderless pack-horse and were on them in seconds, many species commingled. Streaking by, they blotted all sounds with their calls and wounded men and horses. Gil fired twice from each handgun. The birds peeled off from the blasts, then gathered again, more rapidly this time.

In the shelter of the cliff face, they fastened up their cloaks for what little protection it meant. The horses whinnied, tossing their heads and showing the whites of their rolling eyes. Ferrian pinned Woodsinger’s mount up against the rock with his own and waited, light racing up and down his scimitar. “Is there a conjuration that would help?” he shouted.

Andre’s brow creased. “It is difficult to say. These are no supernatural foes, only living creatures following some imposed will. I have no ready spell for it. It must be a thorough enchantment.” Given time, he could disperse it, but he had no time.

Gil watched the flock come in again. “Andre, it’s with you now. This cliff won’t protect us from anything but rain.”

“Rain!” echoed Ferrian. “Andre, bring a downpour!”

The squat mage looked up dubiously. The clouds were still overburdened with moisture, but he wasn’t sure mere rain would stop the attackers.

He dismounted, as Angorman took his horse’s bridle. His mystic passes began; the sky rumbled.

The birds hit them again, landing and clinging to whatever skin or clothing they could grasp. Even Woodsinger was hurt, as beaks found her legs and feet. Another salvo drove some off, but the rest hovered and pecked and clung. The companions slapped at themselves and each other. Faces and hands were wounded, and the plunging horses were near insanity.

Ducking and thrashing, Andre completed his spell with a syllable of Command. Rain came in sheets, battering the fliers but not deterring them, though it struck with driving force.

Covered with them, Andre opened his palm. A brilliant flash of light broke forth, scattering them. It was a spell of sight more than substance; they sensed it, and resumed.

Andre was reduced to despair. Harnessing his arts, he might fell individual birds in large numbers, but they would eliminate him long before he could finish them.

Woodsinger screamed and began slapping at a starling that had fixed its claws near an opening in her cloak, stabbing its beak at the child’s struggling arm. Wincing in pain, the baby began to bawl. The nurse brushed the starling away and covered her charge again, but the wails continued.

Gil heard. He slid from Jeb and lurched to Andre’s horse, hoping the wrapped Blazetongue would show signs of its fire. He couldn’t get to it; the bucking, terrified animal wouldn’t allow it, though Angorman held its bridle. The American heard Ferrian shout for him to beware. Batting at the unavoidable birds, he got out of the way. The Horseblooded leaned over, slicing with his scimitar. Thongs parted as one; Blazetongue dropped to the ground.

Another round, fired into the air, won Gil more space and time. He snatched the sword and sprinted to Andre. The wizard was stumbling toward the cliff, covered with feathered attackers. One of his wounds, over his temple, had blinded his left eye with his own blood. Gil helped him beat himself free.

“Andre, the baby’s scared. Can you get the sword working?”

The wizard shielded his face and tore the coverings from the weapon, while birds whirled, pecking. “I know not; its fire is not nigh, so far as I can detect.”

He unsheathed the greatsword and tried to hold it up in both hands, the phrases of a conjuration tumbling from his lips. He was soon buried under the fliers, his spell stopped cold. He jabbed the blade’s point into the ground and stumbled back.

Gil dropped to his knees. Together they punched and pounded at maddened jackdaws, sparrows, linnets and jays. There was a crackle from Blazetongue. Blue effulgence whooshed up its blade like smoke up a flue, leaping off its pommel, disappearing.

The splashing rain threw up a curtain of steam. As if poured from a kettle it came, boiling hot. The flock’s wrath became mortal pain. Humans and horses cowered against the cliff. Birds dropped, slaughtered in thousands. Those that found clear space by the cliff rebounded from the rock, blundering back to their deaths.

Gil pressed his face to the cool stone, fearing his lungs would be cooked. White steam filled the world, but the birds’ cacophony dropped away. Only the hissing of superheated rain remained.

Andre gasped his foremost spell of Dismissal. Within seconds the torrent subsided. The horses began to quiet. The travelers uncovered their red, glistening faces.

Hot curls of vapor rose from soaked ground. Remains of plants and fallen birds floated in a muddy, foul-smelling soup. Dazed, the party hunkered in the lee of the cliff, staring at the scalded landscape.

“Andre, you far surpassed my expectations,” Angorman confessed.

The wizard, watching the ground drain, waved the remark away. “I called the rain down, but our survival may be laid to Blazetongue. I did not release its force.”

“The kid, then?” Gil asked.

“You saw the weapon’s energies fly up out of it. Blazetongue itself is responsible; I did not activate it, and neither did the child.”

He picked himself up, dabbing at his wounds, and rummaged through his saddlebags. “I have ointments somewhere, albeit none of us seems too badly burned or injured.”

“But what about the rain?” Angorman persisted.

Andre stopped. “My Lord, I informed you in Earthfast; there are more than mere nations in opposition. Blazetongue is the Bright Lady’s instrument. Those birds, bloodlusting on the wing, reeked of Amon, and the Five. The sword put forth its energies to advance its ends. Two primal forces clashed on this heath; the Perfect Mistress carried the day.”

The Saint-Commander made a sign of thanksgiving. Andre observed, “This party is of enormous consequence, we have seen. I profess to understand little, just now.” He scanned the steamy distance. “Our packhorse is gone, or dead perhaps; her burden was nothing we cannot replace, if needs be.”

Gil blew his breath out wearily. “You mean you want to go on? What if we’re walking into another ambush?”

“Going on is safer than going back. Ahead, in Glyffa, where the Divine Mistress’ sway is greatest. Behind, it is less.”

Gil, hand to his eyes, shook his head slowly. “How much longer will we have the option?”

Angorman’s chin came up, harshly. “When one accepts a commission of service, one is past the point of no return. Or have you forgotten the Faith Cup?”

Instead of answering, the American got up to make sure Jeb was all right. A cool breeze was carrying away wreaths of steam and stench. The water had receded and the ground had cooled considerably.

Gil concluded that his only hope was that pressure would be off the party once they’d delivered the child. They rapidly prepared to leave this area, blighted by the confrontation of the gods.



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