Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men.
John Donne,
“Death, Be Not Proud”
On his way to Springbuck’s study the next day Gil met VanDuyn.
“MacDonald, I, ah—”
“You craved my presence?”
The scholar agreed wryly. “There’re things you and I should clear up; it may be awhile before we see one another again.”
They found a window seat. Gil sat gingerly, protecting his shoulder. His occult contact with Dunstan, and the belief that he was on the right track, had calmed him. He’d been able to sleep, a dreamless rest that had refreshed him. The lacerating feeling of futility was gone.
Van Duyn rubbed his hands. He wasn’t sure he credited his countryman’s alleged samadhi-experience, his Enlightenment. “Katya is going back to Freegate. With her country on a wartime footing she has little option. I’ve decided to go with her. The Highlands Province will be untenable so long as Shardishku-Salamá engages in Fabian policies. I will do what I can for Katya and Reacher. I am taking the contiguity device. I was separated from it once, to my sorrow. I won’t risk leaving it here. But before we part, it’s only fair to offer you one last opportunity to leave the Crescent Lands.”
Van Duyn’s machine was the only certain way back to their home Reality. The deCourteneys’ spells might suffice, but would be hazardous. Gil considered for a moment.
“I can’t, just now. I’ll have to take a raincheck.”
“The choice is yours.”
“Thanks for asking though. I remember, before I returned to Coramonde, I threw together the stuff I was bringing here with me. My brother Ralph wandered in when I had it all laid out, the traveling gear, guns and all. Right away he flashed on it that I was heading ’way out into the tall timber someplace. I almost told him how far short that fell, but he’d never have bought it. He knew me though; I had nothing to keep me back there. Oh, I’ll go back one day, but there’s no rush.”
“I see. By the way, you shouldn’t have gone off so quickly the other day. Not all Reacher’s news was so unfortunate. He brought General Stuart back from Freegate with him.”
“Jeb? Outstanding!” Jeb Stuart was the name Gil had given the war-horse assigned him from the stables of Freegate. Jeb had borne up well under travails of the thronal war.
“The King thought you’d want him. Now, I suggest we join the others.”
They assembled in Springbuck’s airy, high-windowed study, where long slants of sunlight irradiated the stained-glass scenes and breathed life into the tapestries and selected pieces of sculpture.
Hightower and the deCourteneys were present, with the Ku-Mor-Mai, Katya and Reacher. Gil settled into a chair, making his shoulder comfortable, and Van Duyn sat and riddled with his glasses. The last participant arrived, Angorman, Saint-Commander of the Order of the Axe.
Gil had been introduced to him earlier. The Order was one of two rival sects of warrior-priests sworn in worship and errantry to the female deity called the Bright Lady. The Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, the other sect, was an older organization whose Divine Vicar Balagon was at odds with Angorman on a running basis. Outright violence between the two groups was absolutely prohibited, and so occurred only rarely. But there was an ongoing, pious antagonism.
Angorman greeted them all and eased himself with a grunt into the last vacant seat. He was dressed in his usual brown forager’s cloak, an old man bald as an egg except for thick, flaring white eyebrows. He retained his wide-brimmed slouch hat with the brassard of the Order on its high crown, an axehead superimposed on a crescent moon, worked in heavy silver. The Saint-Commander rested his famous greataxe against his chair. Gil recalled its name, Red Pilgrim. Six feet of wooden haft, braced with iron langets, held a double-flanged bit, gracefully curved to lend cutting power and leverage.
Springbuck had shucked the hated robes of state. Barefoot among the furs and pelts, he wore loose, soft trousers and sash, and a wraparound jacket. The hilt of the Hibben bowie nosed from his waistband.
Gabrielle sat at the Ku-Mor-Mai’s right, in deep conversation with Andre. Seeing her, Gil unconsciously put a finger to the chain around his neck. After the tarot seance, she’d taken the Ace of Swords from the deck, put it on a fine chain and given it to him, saying it was truly his. He’d accepted it reluctantly, committing himself to something he didn’t understand. It was not made of paper or parchment, but a flexible material he couldn’t identify.
Andre was sitting tailor-fashion on Springbuck’s tall writing table. Gil saw that the protector-suzerain had been working again on The Antechamber Ballads, a collection of poetry, essays and autobiographical writings.
Angorman spoke. “Blazetongue is our subject first, is it not? It belongs in Veganá, we know. It is therefore an object of the Bright Lady, for they follow the Blessed Way down there. It is hence of interest to my Order to see the sword—and the child—safely back where they belong.”
Gil sat up. “Child? You mean you want the kid to go? How can I—”
“We!” Angorman interjected. “We will accomplish this. The baby did conjure the fire of Blazetongue. By that we know she must be of the royal house of Veganá; only they command the sword’s enchantment by inherent right.”
So, Angorman was in the party. Gil turned to Springbuck. “What d’you say? How’d you like to pack a kid around with you?”
“Have you forgotten? I have already traveled with her.”
“Oh. Yeah, but that was ’way before, when there was no choice. This is now, and this is me.”
“I shall be responsible for the infant,” Angorman declared, “and so you need not fear for her.” His gnarled, sinewy hands played along the length of Red Pilgrim like some musician exercising before concert. “She shall be safe.”
Gil slumped. If he backed out now he’d lose his best crack at finding Bey and Dunstan. It was a simple go/no-go.
He lost the floor to Andre. “Gil, is it not clear, after all she has been through, held captive along with Gabrielle in Amon’s halls, that she will never be safe anywhere but with her own people? There are impetuses at work here that are not to be questioned. Attempts to harm or recapture her may be foiled simply by dint of quick, quiet departure. Does that alter your attitude?”
“Dunno.” He thought of Dunstan. He couldn’t afford to debate, or delay. “I suppose so.”
Angorman said, “Andre and I envision a small party, several members and no more. Going quickly, inconspicuously, we go safest.”
“That would be okay.” Without enough men to insure safety, there was no point overburdening themselves.
“Then,” Gabrielle cut in with her lovely, mocking smile, “you have accepted your first two-bard commission.”
“My what? My too-what?”
Angorman cracked a vestigial smile of his own. “A ‘two-bard commission’ is something of an insider’s jest in my Order. It denotes an errand of service so arduous that one poet alone could never recount it all. But of course, the Lady deCourteney was speaking humorously.”
Gil let it pass. “Who would be in charge? There’s only one Walking Boss.”
“Andre,” Springbuck answered, before Angorman could speak. The Saint-Commander considered the Ku-Mor-Mai from beneath bushy brows, then the American, then concurred.
The wizard coughed. “Well of course, I should be happy for both Gil’s advice and the counsel of Lord Angorman.”
Gil looked glum, but knew he would have made even more concessions.
Andre was tolling the fingers of his left hand. “We shall need maps and extra clothing, since we won’t be far enough south soon enough to avoid cold weather. Food, weapons, medicines and general provisions. My Lord Angorman, how does this sound: Gil, yourself, me, the child and one or two others, with two pack-horses besides our own mounts?”
“Quite sufficient. Gil?”
“Okay. What about the rest of you?”
The Snow Leopardess responded, “Coramonde and Freegate may still have to go to war against Salamá, in two lines of advance. We of the Free City would thrust south along the eastern coast of the Central Sea, while Coramonde takes to the ocean, perhaps in league with the Mariners.”
“When?”
“We are not certain,” Springbuck admitted. “Soon, we think. Every day the writ of Earthfast erodes a little more. Preparations have already begun.” He tugged a bell cord.
A servant entered, bearing a Faith Cup. The Ku-Mor-Mai took the deep, ornamented chalice with two hands, drank, and passed it to Gabrielle. She sipped and passed it to her brother, her green eyes never leaving Springbuck’s.
Gil watched the Faith Cup make its ritualistic way around their circle. Andre was earnest and sober in drinking, but Katya took a flamboyant hoist. Reacher contemplated for a moment, then drank. Van Duyn took his draught indifferently, and handed it to Gil.
For a moment, the former sergeant had the daunting image of Wintereye before him. He’d come too far, though; swallowing the traditionally thick, bitter wine, he made himself a part of this Faith Cup. He gave it to Angorman, and his hand went again to the Ace of Swords lying against his chest. He suddenly felt optimistic.
Angorman, eyes closed, moved his lips in prayer before taking his part. Hightower, the last, raised the bulky chalice in one hand. “Confusion and death to Salamá!” He drained it as Angorman and Katya echoed him. Upturning the Faith Cup. he licked the last droplets from its rim and gave it to the servant.
Gil soon left, to find some time alone. He was intercepted in the corridor by Gale-Baiter. With the Mariner captain were his two crew members whose names Gil caught this time. The hulking redbeard was Wavewatcher the Harpooner, the smaller one Skewerskean the Chanteyman, whatever that meant.
Gale-Baiter began, “I have heard it privily that you wish to go to Death’s Hold.”
“What if I do?”
“Then you may come there with me, if you wish it. Our course should take us that way.”
“Are you sure you’ll be going there?”
“Not positive, but in prosecuting war on the seas against Salamá, we will in all likelihood come to it at last. Some vassals of the Masters are still said to linger there.”
“And better a full sail above you,” Wavewatcher rumbled, “than a stinking horse beneath.” Skewerskean snickered. But Gil saw that any number of things could happen to screw up the sea voyage. He had no desire to be involved in an ocean battle, or get sidetracked on blockade duty or some such. Besides, he’d drunk the Faith Cup. He shook his head.
“Sorry, no. Thanks anyway for thinking of me.”
Gale-Baiter waved his hand. “Not at all. We leave this evening for Boldhaven and our ship. If our courses ever cross again, you’ve always the offer of passage aboard the Long-Dock Gal.”
Gil said good-bye to him, and to Wavewatcher and Skewerskean. “Fair winds to you,” the harpooner boomed. “Until our courses cross again,” added the chanteyman.
Springbuck had traveling arrangements quietly completed by morning. His seneschal made life miserable for many people in Earthfast that night. No one, aside from partakers in the Faith Cup, knew what it all meant. Springbuck’s orders included a good deal of misdirection. He’d taken to wearing Bar once more.
The rising sun found them in a deserted corner of the bailey, puttering with the last-minute incidentals preceding any trip. Reacher, Katya and Van Duyn had come out to see them off. The three would depart a day later.
Gil had decided to abandon his suit of woven mesh armor. It had an insignia on its breast, copied from the 32d’s crest, that Duskwind had put there; he preferred not to see it again. Instead, he wore a light, short-sleeved bymie under his shirt. The sword of Dunstan the Berserker knocked at his left hip, the Mauser pistol at his right in a canvas holster. The Browning was in its shoulder holster. He’d prudently worn a steel cap, but had tucked the hat given him by Captain Brodur into his saddlebag. At the back of his belt was the trench knife he’d carried from home, with brass knuckles on its grip. He patted the neck of the waiting Jeb Stuart, a sturdy chestnut he trusted as much as he could anything with hooves. He had Dirge cased and slung at the side of his saddle, partly hidden by the chapelets, hoping Yardiff Bey’s sword would be of use in tracing the sorcerer. Andre had agreed it might be so.
Angorman, wrapped against the cold, moved stiffly. Blazetongue, concealed in wrappings, was fastened to Andre’s other gear. The wizard had his own ancient sword, sheathed, in hand, and another belted on over his coarse clothing. He also carried a powerful Horseblooded composite bow and quiver of arrows.
He opened the pommel-knob of his old sword. Removing Calundronius from around his neck, he dropped it into the compartment there. Gil knew that the mystic jewel’s influence was confined in that manner. The wizard was leaving it in Gabrielle’s care, deeming that she might have greater need of it if war erupted.
Another companion appeared, whom Gil greeted with mixed reactions. It was Ferrian. The Horseblooded had a scimitar secured to his cantle, by his left hand, his cloak covering the pinned-up right sleeve. Gil wasn’t so sure he was a good choice. The American couldn’t very well object, however, and assumed Andre had reasons for picking him.
Gil was about to ask where the baby was when a last traveler rode up. The newcomer was a woman in conservative road clothes, riding sidesaddle on a speckled mare whose trappings were decorated with swatches of bright red bunting. She was erect in a way suggesting discipline, bearing harness supporting some burden on her back. She had a kindly, rounded face, so fair that her eyebrows and lashes were nearly invisible. Her hair, free of its hood, was touched with much gray.
Gil, curious, walked to one side to see what cargo she carried. He cursed when he saw the infant there, in a sort of papoose rig.
He spun on Andre. “What the hell’s she doing here with that?”
She answered for herself. “My name is Woodsinger, young man; I am to carry the child. Did you expect me to bear her on my hip for our entire journey?”
“Our journey? No way; that’s out, hear? Out!”
“Ahem,” Springbuck intervened. “Gil, there is the matter of the baby’s care and feeding.”
“Then,” the American roared, pointing at Andre, “let him do it. It’s all his idea anyway.”
“Not mine entirely,” protested the wizard.
“And,” added Woodsinger, “can he lactate?”
Gil spat on the cobbles and glared at the Ku-Mor-Mai. At last he said, “We’re wasting time.”
“I am sure things will work out well,” Springbuck soothed. “She brought the child from Freegate.”
“First it was the kid, now a nursie. This is giving me a lot of grief, pal.”
With injured dignity, Woodsinger proclaimed, “I have been on farings to wear down better men than you, with the heirs of Kings at my paps! Furthermore, I—”
Gil stopped her with a forefinger. “Save it! Just pull your own weight.”
He left her gaping, outraged, and said farewell to Springbuck, who obviously envied him a bit, tired of being chanceried at Court.
Suddenly there came a furor of growling, barking and baying. A pack of dogs burst from the distant kennels and swarmed toward them, bristling in hatred, bellies low to the ground. The dogs were big, wolfish-looking hounds, giving a confused impression of glinting eyes, red tongues behind white, killing teeth and salivary foam.
The pack, eleven in all, threw themselves at Woodsinger’s mount. The leader sprang for the nurse while the others caught the terrified horse’s legs and flanks, sinking fangs in deep. Woodsinger kept the presence of mind to yank on her rein, though, and spoiled the lead dog’s first attack, slashing at it with her riding crop as her horse fought madly to break free. She twisted her body to shield the child from the dog’s jaws, fighting the horse at the same time.
Then Reacher was in among the pack. He avoided the snapping hounds and tore their leader away from Woodsinger, closing his fierce grip on its neck. Katya was behind him, sword flashing in the morning light, downing a dog with her first stroke, driving the others back for an instant. Reacher flung the body of the leader at two of its fellows, but another landed on his shoulders from behind. He went down, rolling over and over while it bit at the chain-mail collar of his armor.
Springbuck had drawn Bar and leapt in after the royal siblings. Woodsinger’s horse was being dragged to the ground despite her efforts to keep it upright. Growls and shrill whinnies added to the total chaos.
Gil was afraid to risk a shot with Springbuck and the others intermingled with the pack. For the same reason Van Duyn held fire, and Angorman and Andre hesitated to strike. Gil took Jeb Stuart into the savagery. The war-horse, practiced combatant with hooves and teeth, instantly took a dog out of the fight, trampling it to bleeding shapelessness. Gil slipped his right hand from its sling.
Springbuck took another hound out of midair with Bar. The sword’s enchantment of unfailing keenness was as effective as ever; the canine head and body fell away in different directions. Reacher had grappled the dog that had knocked him down into a bear hug. He applied his remarkable strength; the dog howled as its spine splintered.
Katya had lost her sword and now had a long combat knife in each hand. She dropped to one knee to evade a leaping hound. Her right-hand knife darted up to gut it as it passed overhead.
Two dogs had Woodsinger’s horse by its nose and neck, another its tail, pulling it down. Ferrian’s left hand blurred. A whirling metal loop struck down the tail-end dog in a welter of blood.
Gil, gripping his saddle tightly, leaned far over with the Browning in his hand. One dog had stopped pulling the nurse’s horse, gathering itself to spring. The American stiffened his elbow and wrist, fired at a range of five feet. The dog somersaulted and fell dead.
Andre and Angorman had gotten to Woodsinger’s side, pulling her from her floundering horse, keeping her safe between broadsword and greataxe. Reacher had plucked up another dog and raised it above his head. Now he flung it down against the cobbles with all his strength. It lay in death spasms, many of its bones shattered.
The two remaining hounds were still at the horse, pulling its tack, chewing at the red bunting with maniacal hatred. Springbuck smote the first down, while Reacher wrestled the second to the ground and held it immobile, arms locked around its throat, legs around its body. Guards had come to investigate; at Springbuck’s command they took ropes and tied the dog, binding its muzzle.
“What the hell was all that about?” Gil demanded, shaken. Gabrielle, examining the baby, was satisfied she hadn’t been harmed.
“I cannot say,” the Ku-Mor-Mai answered, wiping Bar on a dog’s coat. “These animals were all trained, and none had ever set upon a human being.”
“They may not simply have attacked Woodsinger,” Andre countered. “They were at her horse too. When we pulled her from her mount, the pack did not pursue her.”
Katya, returning her cleaned knives to their sheaths strapped to her thighs, asked, “How now, then; did they go mad?”
“It is more to be suspected that they were driven to it.” The wizard tore a strip of the red bunting from Woodsinger’s saddle. He held it close to the bound dog; it growled, straining to tear into him.
“This, then, prompted the attack.”
Gabrielle examined it. “There are procedures,” she agreed, “spells of no difficulty to Bey or his more adept followers. Yes, the dogs would assail anyone bearing this cloth. From whence did it come?”
The nurse was mystified. “I became impatient at awaiting my mount, so I went and found it myself, saddled and decked out so. I do not know who draped it, and thought it some good-fortune wish or send-off decoration.”
Van Duyn had taken the bunting, sniffing it. “Your impatience saved you. The horse would probably have been brought around to the main steps, and the hounds released. You would have been killed before we could have gotten to you. Whoever planned this had no choice, after you’d taken your horse, but to set the dogs on you here.”
The Ku-Mor-Mai dispatched a detail to search the kennels and stables for the one responsible, but doubted the person would still be close by. Gil now held the strip of bunting. He wadded it up and tucked it down into his saddlebag, one more piece of the sorcerer’s trail.
Ferrian was holding the war-quoit he’d thrown, a Horseblooded weapon much like a Sikh chakram. Springbuck inquired whether Woodsinger would resume the trip or prefer to be relieved of her duty.
“We can switch her stuff to another horse and be on our way in a quarter of an hour,” Gil broke in. Woodsinger stared at him. “Uh, right?”
Her round face showed a small, lopsided smile. “Quite so. Are we to be deterred by a dogfight?”
Gabrielle chuckled, one hand on Ferrian’s shoulder, the other on Woodsinger’s. “So, the Ace of Swords goes forth in suit.”
“Gung ho,” commented Gil MacDonald sourly.