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PART IV
Proprieties of the
Apocalypse

Chapter Twenty-three


And when fate summons, monarchs must obey.

John Dryden
MacFlecknoe


There was no elation to be had from this rallying of blazonries, clan totems and banners of war at Seaguard. Coramonde, generations’ labor of the Ku-Mor-Mai, was coming undone in rebellion and civil strife.

Springbuck had been working toward a time when, his realm secure, he could gather a host here and sail for Shardishku-Salamá. But he hadn’t envisioned it this way, a desperate rush to gather what troops he could and confront the Masters while it still was possible. He’d left trusted Honuin Granite Oath in command, yet even Earthfast was no longer secure.

Springbuck’s decision to cast all his strength southward, and not stand fast in a wasted effort to subdue Coramonde, had come hard. His every instinct had told him to hold on, as his ancestors had done, to grip the suzerainty with the martial fist. But, from what he knew of Bey and of Salamá, Coramonde couldn’t be saved if the Five worked uninterrupted.

“Can I expect further loyal contingents?” he asked his Warlord.

Hightower sighed, raising frosty-white eyebrows. “Communication has fallen apart. Some have sent you knights and scutage and men at arms, and posted the call along to those they trust. The strike force that was Bonesteel’s own before his death stayed true, made a forced march here, flying the crimson tiger and your own stag’s head.

“We may expect no more from Honuin Granite Oath either, than that he hold Earthfast and some of the suzerainty. So, we have a quiltwork. There are archers from Rugor, Clansmen from Teebra, four of the war-drays of Matloo dispatched by loyalist septs, and your personal guardsmen who number less than two companies. Oh, and members of the Constabulary of the Way continue to drift in. There is also Balagon and his One Hundred, the Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, along with a good part of the Order of the Axe. Strange, to see them more in comradeship now than enmity. But those are all you have, and a goodly part of Coramonde in chaos.”

“As it would be,” informed Gabrielle deCourteney, “whether you stay or go. Salamá has many intrigues incubating in Coramonde, and cares not which ones hatch, so long as there is discord and confusion.” Her wide mouth smiled, dimpling, sardonic. “Put aside any idea that you two could have held on here, my desperadoes; that is what the Five would most have liked to see.”

Springbuck’s chin was against his chest. “But our roster here is short. Militarily speaking, this is farce.”

“Practically speaking, it is inescapable,” she parried. “You not only lack the means to shore up your throne. You lack the time.”

He resettled himself in his plush chair, considering that. The three were met in the palace of the King of Seaguard, who’d kept fealty to the Ku-Mor-Mai. Though the drapes were fastened against night airs, the conferees could hear the gulls mourning over Boldhaven Bay. “The Mariners are waging war on the sea, and winning against the Southwastelanders. The King of Seaguard would give the ships needed.”

“Few as we are, we have small hope to conquer the Southwastelands,” Hightower reminded him, “much less lay siege to the Masters.”

Gabrielle, exasperated, tapped her toe. They knew it was a danger signal, and listened. “You do not understand yet, nor does Springbuck; your goal is to penetrate through to the Necropolis, and not in order to mount some crude siege.

“I told you of the séance with Gil MacDonald, when I gave him the Ace of Swords. Since that night I’ve had my busy ear to the half-world and the tidings its creatures carry. I have read auguries and scrutinized the stars, deciphered the fall of the knucklebones, and taken the meanings of entrails.” Where she was usually light-spirited, even in the gravest matters, she was somber. “This upheavel is conceived to fend us off from the Five and their pursuits; it is the sort of thing about which Andre warned. The Masters think you two can launch no offensive, all in your disarray. Before we can act, they are confident, their real labors will bear fruit.”

Springbuck played with the basket hilt of his sabre, Bar. No more ceremonial trappings for him; he’d chosen to wear his old attire of an Alebowrenian bravo on his excursion to Seaguard. He’d undoubtedly have more use for vamhraces and war mask than brocade and silk.

“What would be their crop?” he wondered.

“Ultimate spellbinding. It could wipe away the world.”

“Can it be stopped?”

“Everything can be stopped, even time itself, Ku-Mor-Mai. But this endeavor cannot be foiled from here. Shardishku-Salamá is like some smelting furnace of magic; it cannot be extinguished by half-measures, or from afar. We may go to it and do what arms and enchantments can, but from Coramonde we can achieve nothing.”

Springbuck clicked his tongue and tapped Bar’s pommel. “Then you prevail, Gabrielle. I’d hoped to avoid this war for a time.”

Hightower was on his feet. “As easy to reject the flood or deny the avalanche. Spare us your regrets; you know little enough of what awaits you.”

His tone dropped. “We may yet see a time of cataclysm like no other. Drums tell the world to march. Cast out your wise men, Ku-Mor-Mai! Drive them from you and listen to the epistles of your flesh; the gales of war speak your name tonight! Take the rede your hackles send you; study the writ of your bowels. There’s where verity resides now.”

“My Lord Hightower.” The sorceress stopped him. “Cast no more shadows. Salamá has thrown quite enough of those.”

He subsided, going to monotone. “Preparation may prove futile, and forethought will be no protection; I did but warn him.” To Springbuck he added, “There will only be the guidance that lives in the marrow.”

The younger man rose. “If that’s the shape of things, well do as best we may, to stop this thing unknown by thaumaturgy or hand-strokes. But first we must look upon it.”

She whirled on him, enraged. “Unknown to you!” In a temper she was capable of anything, and a Protector-Suzerain was no safer than any other man. Springbuck held himself carefully.

“We have had our glimpse at it, your Warlord and I,” she continued, her hand to the old man’s cheek. Hightower’s chain-mailed arm encircled her. Springbuck left, closing the door behind.

His name was called. Captain Brodur caught up, breathing hard, his bared sword in his hand. It was he who’d brought the first warning of revolt, because his home fief had been first to be lost. Brodur, visiting his family, had risen from bed to enter the fray in breeches and shirt, without bothering to take up armor or arming girdle. He and his family had been driven out though, their land taken. Brodur had made the painful recognition of his duty and carried the news. He was carefree no more; men called him “Brodur-Scabbardless” for, having begun with a bared blade, he’d vowed not to cover it until his family had their lands returned.

Now he gasped his message to come and see what Omen had appeared. They found a hallway window. Moonlight and starlight over Boldhaven Bay was outdone by a new illumination. Seeing the Sign hanging in the southern sky, Springbuck shouted for Hightower and Gabrielle. They came running, the Warlord with his two-handed blade half drawn.

Gabrielle confirmed that it was the Trailingsword. “My brother and the rest discharged their commission. Now you have a higher edict, Springbuck; the men left to you will go with you southward. Reacher will have seen it in Freegate, as will any who hate the Masters. Whether those will be enough or not, we shall learn, in seven times seven days.”

Springbuck drew Brodur-Scabbardless aside.

“Call together all leaders of the diverse elements. Have the King of Seaguard invited. You may pass my word: Soon many swords, like yours, shall leave behind them the estate of the scabbard.”

Every scrap of their patience, stamina and imagination was subject to test, those next three days.


“Your Grace, the septs of Matloo refuse to embark without their war-drays. I ask you, where have we room for those oversized wagons and horses?”

“Hmm. Fill each dray with cargo, captain; they are capacious enough. Pack more in around them once they’re secure. Thus, we sacrifice little space. We may need those fearsome wagons. The horses will fit somewhere aboard the vessels designated for mounts. Some men of Matloo may accompany them.”


“My Lord Hightower, the Ku-Mor-Mai directed me to you on a subject. A special tax is levied on profits of those buying goods from the departing Lords and soldiers. Where can be the justice in this? I am an honest man, seeking to aid our great cause, and take due earnings from that. The Protector-Suzerain would lack funds, had not we merchants opened our coffers, converting goods and deeds of land to hard specie.”

Hightower’s reply blew the userer’s hair back. “Slight good will your monies do you, coin-caresser, if we fail! When before this have you bought bullocks so cheaply? When has land been rented or sold to you outright at such low sums? Bah! Better men than you are sailing in one more day while you, squealing piglet, are best gone from my sight, else I hang you by the heel at the ramparts.”


“The problem is as follows, Ku-Mor-Mai,” said Brodur-Scabbardless. “The men of Teebra object that the volunteers from the Fens of Hinn are allowed to fly their flag. They say rebellious Hinn is rightfully theirs, and this should not be permitted.”

“The men of Hinn promised they would be first to the gates of Salamá if they could fly their standard. Besides, the Grand Council of Teebra had grown hardhearted to them, for in their shared religion, Hinn is more orthodox, making Teebra uneasy. See what you can do to soothe the Teebrans, but do not let them forget their fealty to me.”

The captain made a note. Looking him over, Springbuck asked, “What device is that you bear upon your shoulder?”

It was a stylized emblem, a longsword picked out in white, beaming hilt uppermost, on a field of stars. “Everyone seems to wear the Trailingsword now.” He made to go.

“Just a moment, Captain; there is one matter the more. Lord Hightower will command the expedition under my lead, but will also general our regular legions. He needs a good man over all his cavalry elements. He selected you.”

Brodur was evasive. “Lord, I have never even commanded a squadron, let alone regiments!”

“You avoided it. It was permitted until now, but that is no longer tenable. Oh, I know you would rather keep peace of mind, but you’ll learn to live without it, as I have. Surely after the war you can go your own way once more.”

Brodur, ruffled, denied that “There will be no peace, once my fine aptitudes are disclosed.” The Ku-Mor-Mai barked with laughter, but wondered how the captain would react when he was in charge.


“Lord Hightower, many men take exception to these new rules. Being told to boil drinking water, and how and where a man may take his relievements, and the things they must do with their rubbish, and how they must bathe with soaps the apothecaries concocted, those lay much against their pride.”

“You are a brave and able man, Lord Bantam. I remember your volunteering to stay behind and command my family’s garrison against siege during the retreat to Freegate last summer. But what happened? Half the men who remained with you took ill. The Hightower and its defenders would have fallen if Yardiff Bey’s general had had more time to spend on you. Attend me; these rules, as strange to me as to you, were given to Springbuck by the outlanders Van Duyn and Gil MacDonald. We will be careful about our drinking water and our—our sanitation, as they put it, and no man will stop short of our goal for sickness if I can help it. If you must, tell them it has arcane meaning. Or again, provoke their honor; this is part of their service.

“And pass along my warrant that these rules are holy doctrine hereafter. The man who ignores them and his superior will both hear from me in strongest terms, clear? My gratitude, Lord Bantam.”


Men grew sick, stomachs emptied their contents into the sea, and the leeward side of any troop vessel was a noxious, crowded place to be.

The sailors of Seaguard’s flotilla were hugely entertained by so many landlubbers coming to grips with the sea at once. There would have been fights, Springbuck was sure, except that few of his soldiers wanted to do anything but lie or sit in their misery. On advice from older officers, he ordered that everyone was to stay topside whenever weather permitted during the day. Lingering below invited disease and apathy, and dampened morale worse than salt spray ever would.

Hightower and Gabrielle spoke to him with more ease now that their renascent love was open fact, but usually preferred one another’s company to the Ku-Mor-Mai’s. Springbuck either talked to Brodur or the officers of his flagship, a ponderous fighting-carrack, or stood on the aft fighting castle.

Though Brodur-Scabbardless had ample opportunity to gamble, he had little time, worrying about his new command and fretting about their horses’ well-being. A part of his outgoing spirit returned, but he still carried a bared blade.

Nearly two weeks out, they sighted the Inner Hub. They asked one another what could possibly have made those immense breaches in the sea wall, and torn the harbor gates away so completely as to leave no trace of them. This was the older, the first of the Mariners’ citadels, and had boasted walls of marble and of beryl, gardens, halls and libraries and temples. Now there was smeared ruin. Mast trucks poked blackened pennants out of the surface of the harbor, grave markers. Ash and wreckage drifted restlessly on the water. Springbuck could only hope that, as Gabrielle had predicted, the Mariner vengeance would occupy the attention of whatever Southwastelander ships plied the sea.

He was on the rear tower of the carrack, named Oakengrip. Hightower and the sorceress were on the forward castle, she sheltered under the long, warm sweep of his cloak. A gulf of loneliness yawned, even as a cold, analytical side of Springbuck came forth, telling him it would strengthen the expedition’s resolve to see this devastation and think what it meant in terms of home.

Pulling his own cloak tighter, he paced to the other side of the deck and peered forward, toward the southern horizon. Unsteady in the unfamiliar rhythm of the sea, he’d been on deck most of the day, letting men know he shared “the ship, the weather, the situation altogether,” as the Mariner rhyme had it.

The next day the sea became rough again, sporting whitecaps, and all landsmen who’d missed the agony of seasickness the first time coped with it now. Those who’d already dealt with it refamiliarized themselves. No ships were lost, and only a handful of careless men. The Ku-Mor-Mai, was thankful he’d gotten off so easily. A day came, just short of three weeks after the Trailingsword’s appearance, when land hove into view.



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