The web of wizardry (22 page)

Then his head snapped back as a fist struck his jaw. The knife was coming again, dimly seen through the lights sparkling in Danaer's vision.

Suddenly he was no longer pinned. Danaer sat up, wiping dirt from his face as Gordyan held the would-be assassin—hfting the man over his head.

"Fair challenge!" the warrior yelled.

Effortlessly, Gordyan set him on his feet, then waited, arms akimbo.

"Fair challenge," Danaer's erstwhile foe demanded, less loudly.

"No man who comes at my back deserves a fair challenge. But I will give you one," Gordyan answered.

Paling, the man exclaimed, "Not you! I will fight him." His knife was clutched in a tooth-marked, bleeding hand, and he used it to point at Danaer, who started to draw his boot knife. Gordyan stopped him with a curt gesture.

"This is a Destre challenge. So my size bothers you, eh? But only when I face you." Gordyan took out his belt knife and his attacker shrank m dismay. "Hyidu," Gordyan said, tossing the dagger, and Danaer deftly caught first that, then his friend's boot knife. "Now. Does that even it sufficiently for you, devil spawn?"

Danaer dared not protest such rashness; that would insult Gordyan's courage. He waved back gawking soldiers as the assassin rushed at the big man. Gordyan avoided the murderous slash, laughed, and dehvered a blow on the neck as his challenger lunged past. Stumbling and shaking his head, the man regained his balance just short of a headlong fall.

He eyed Gordyan with new caution. He had assumed, as many did, that Gordyan's size would make him awkward, easy prey. The truth was a distinct surprise.

There was a flurry of feints, a rapid shuffling to one side, then the other. This time the attacker parried Gordyan's large hands well enough to cut the giant's thigh.

"Two!" Gordyan's lips drew back in an awful grin. "You get one more."

Cocky after his little victory, the man struck at Gordyan's belly. But those powerful hands shot out with astonishing quickness, seizing wrist and throat. The challenger fought to free himself, beating at Gordyan with his free hand. He attempted to reach over to his knife, held uselessly in his left, but could not.

Gordyan's grin was terrifying. His fingers tightened and the bloodied knife fell to the dust. A gray pallor covered the man's features, and Gordyan's eyes narrowed.

His opponent went limp, and Gordyan let the body fall. "I should save your carcass and throw it in Hablit's face, once I run him to earth. You were a poor Azsed, but an Azsed still. I will sing you to the gates, and you may hope Keth does not remember your nanie. Kant, prodra Argan, ai, te prodra graat . . . receive his soul, goddess, and judge him as he deserves."

Danaer chased away the soldiers and their women, then handed back Gordyan's weapons. As his friend sheathed the knives, he bellowed at the Destre-Y who had lingered. "Out, all of you. If another warrior starts a fight this night, you may expect the same as this bejit got. Make this carrion's pyre far from my

tent. I will not abide his stench polluting my nostrils." Several men bundled the body into a blanket and toted it off while the others melted into the darkness, glad to escape Gordyan's anger.

"Best tie that up," Danaer suggested, indicating the dripping cut along Gordyan's thigh.

"Bah! It is not deep. He could not possibly have done more than scratch me, coming in at that angle."

Two more of Gordyan's guards hurried up to join the man who had summoned their leader. "You should not have troubled yourself, Gordyan. We could settle filth like that while you enjoyed ..."

"You cannot be everywhere." Gordyan patted their shoulders, brushing aside their words. "I have something else for you to do now. Get to Lasiimte Wyaela, in Vidik. Take this with you." Danaer was startled to see Gordyan give them a fragment of the dead .man's mantle. Not even his keen eyes had observed the taking of the trophy. "Tell her I shall meet with her later and we will talk of this, and of Hablit."

As they left on their errand, Gordyan turned to Danaer and asked, "Did that cur hurt you much?"

Danaer gingerly pressed his groin, deciding he had been fortunate. "Nothing of concern."

"Then get you back to your qedra. I must attend to other matters."

Danaer studied him anxiously. "Hablit meant to kill, through that assassin. Stay here in the camp, where I can continue to guard your back."

Gordyan smiled, touched by Danaer's worrying. "I will be cautious, no fear. And I must warn Wyaela so that she too can take measures against Hablit's treachery. The man must be mad, a victim of the lash of Kidu."

"And probably there are other conspirators, some traitors within The Interior, Lira has said."

They commiserated over the shame of this thing. Then Gordyan nodded and gave Danaer a gentle nudge. "Go now. Do not keep Lira waiting. And be certain you guard your back, hyidu, while I am not here to defend it."

By the time Danaer returned to the wagon, the

crowd had become even more boisterous. He could barely make himself heard when he repUed to Lira's questions, explaining briefly w]iat had happened at the pens. He brushed over much of the danger, presenting the deadly encounter as no more than a rough argument. Reassured, Lira relaxed, and she and Danaer again enjoyed the dancing and music.

Two of the minstrels performed in the circle, wheeling and jumping dramatically, acting out a story. Both wielded the pecuharly curved Nortea swords, swinging the blades about wildly. It was a dance done to the glitter of hammered steel, a mock battle scene, in rhythm to the drum. Their fellow minstrels chanted a disonant tale which carried the listeners far away to the barren Nortean high desert.

Swords tore the air mere fingers'-breadths from bodies. The song became one of sexual conquest, veiled in terms of warfare. The onlookers cheered and offered suggestions to the dancers.

With a cry of pretended defeat, the woman let her sword be struck out of her hand. Her partner capered victoriously and then swung her up to his shoulder, bearing her out of the circle amid drunken, congratulatory shouts.

Couples moved into the circle again as the music grew less violent. Lira sighed and said with regret, "I wish I could stay the night, but I must go."

Danaer helped her down from the wagon and escorted her toward Yistar's staff area. Many times he was forced to step to one side or another to fend off the weavings of some sotted soldier or junior ofl&cer. Now and then Danaer saw an Azsed warrior. But wine had been working on these, too, and they had become too befuddled to be a menace.

Women were never alone. The carnal sisterhood indulged little in drink, too intent on plying their calling with as many men as possible. They lay with one, left him to drunken sleep, then sought out another. As they went by such scenes, Danaer again and again glanced at Lira. But she said nothing.

Near the officers' tents the crowds began to thin a trifle. From here Danaer could see beyond the oasis.

Twinkling watch fires studded the night beyond. Were some of those torches in Gordyan's Zsed? His warriors, unlike most, seemed fairly sober. They would be on the prowl, seeking out HabUt's minions lest there be more trouble.

Lira had a tiny private tent in the comer of the command section, close to Yistar's own, but at one side, nearly at the edge of the camp. Campfires cast an unsteady glow and threw shadows along the tent walls. In such soft light. Lira took on an ahen loveliness that held Danaer's gaze.

Then he was aware her mood had become very morose. She had been happy, watching the dancers. "Lira?" he asked tentatively, scarcely knowing what he intended to say when she responded.

"Ah!" Was she in pain? A frown tightened her high forehead. Danaer tried to enfold her in an embrace, but Lira pulled away from him, her eyes very wide in sudden fright.

She was cold to the touch.

Cold!

Her body might have been encased in snow brought from Irico and farther north, from the region of Eternal Night.

"No, you must . . . must . . ." Lira's hands were icy, and she whimpered. "You must control . . . Hab-lit . . . cannot locate him . . . somewhere! Find him!"

She looked at him, but did not see Danaer. He had hoped, once she left Siank and Ulodovol's daunting influence, this Web would not bind her, torturing a lovely young woman made for joy and a man's love. Angered, Danaer longed to deal directly with Ulodovol's magic and end Lira's servitude.

And then he too was cold—cold beyond bearing. An awful spasm shook him, worse than any shiver in winter's blasts.

The torches were growing dim! Their light faded, and though the night had seemed black a moment earlier, now it was pitch, the inside of a demon's maw. Utter darkness, raging with the terrifying cold.

A wind was rushing upon them—a bitter storm from the bowels of Bogotana's realm, stinking with

the very breath of sorcery. But there was nothing there! No ice, no wind! The pennants at the officers' tents hung limp in the hot spring night. He should not have been able to see them in the icy blackness—yet he could!

He was being swallowed, though he could look out at Ufe, at the world that was. All about him and Lira was a rustling, a murmuring, as from a number of presences, gathering close, shutting him off from warmth.

HabUt's face swam before him—or was it only an illusion? Danaer saw a lust for vengeance in Habht's eyes, saw his lips moving soundlessly, as if he were speaking of that vengeance to someone.

The vision enlarged, and there was another figure, hidden in shadow, form and face concealed by a cloak. About this second person there was an aura of wizardry and evil. A small, gloved hand cast down a pouch before Hablit, and much gold spilled forth. Gold—to buy death and betrayal, to keep Hablit safe from his pursuers while he carried out the will of his conspirators. There was a seal on the pouch, and though Danaer did not know its specifics, he marked it well as one belonging to some lord of The Interior.

Cold! Too much cold for mortal form to endure! It covered Danaer and searched along his veins and sinews.

Somehow he found will to speak, trying to shout, though he could only whisper. "Lira . . . Lira . . ." It seemed to break away some of the ice, and he grabbed the sorkra and shook her, driven by fear for them both.

Lira shuddered, and more of the ice vanished. Danaer released her, at last able to raise his hand and clutch the obsidian talisman. As he did, cold and darkness fled. Slowly, Lira's abstract gaze focused squarely upon him, losing that wild fixation. "Oh, Danaer! I did not mean to involve you!" She wept, clinging to him.

"Argan protect us! What was that?"

Superstitious terror raked at him, but in honor he could not run away. He had sworn to protect her, and

now Danaer looked down at Lira in fear and pity. She was trembling like a woman taken deathly ill, only bit by bit calming herself. She said between chattering teeth, "Qedra, you must not stay with me—near me. These things ... they are ..."

"I will guard you, as I told you I would." Danaer spoke with more courage, by far, than he felt. *'You are in danger."

"Danger?" Lira's trembling grew less and she managed a bitter smile. "No, no danger, not as you think of it. No swords, no knives, no blood is shed in these undertakings. This is something far worse."

"I will lend you my strength," he said in grim determination.

Lira brushed his cheek with cool fingers. Cool, not that supernatural cold which had imprisoned them earlier. She was trying to dismiss him, like a beloved but unknowing child. Resentment flared, wiping out ardor.

Then that too was gone. He remembered nis panic, and its cause, and that Lira, for all her desirability, was a sorkra.

Wizardry seemed to be a path that led in many directions. Lira could reach out with her enchantments, touching her Web in distant places. And in return, she could be reached, and not always by wizards friendly to her kind.

He had been near her, and that hostile magic had made him its target as well, forcing him to share what she experienced. Though he wanted to flee, murmuring prayers, invoking Argan's protection, Danaer said, "I will stay. I will guard your sleep."

Lira's pretty face was upturned, and for a delicious minute her lips were warm and inviting beneath his. Then she was gone, with no further word. Frustrated and confused, Danaer stood rooted. The flap of her tent was shut tightly, and a lamp was being lighted within.

Danaer stared at the tent. If she were Azsed, there would have been teasing banter between them and more kisses filled with promises, some veiled in sweet phrases, some most frank. And if he had pleased an

Azsed woman, she would bid him enter the tent and take joy with her, worshipping the goddess in that ritual as ancient as earth and fire.

But a sorkra? If he acted so with Lira, would her fire, like a tenderly nursed ember, burst into ardent flame? Or would her alien nature be repelled, affection become loathing, not love? He could not tell.

Her lissome form was outlined against the cloth by the lamplight. Lira was bent as if in prayer. Then she straightened, her head thrown back, her body rigid. He heard a mewling as she called to her Web across space a man could not ride in a three-day or more.

She must contact them, he knew, for Ulodovol must be informed of Hablit's activities, that the conspiracy was wider than they had known. Danaer's own fire was quenched by that sight. He could not leave and keep honor. So he loosened his knife and sat beside the tent. The blast of cold evil had robbed him of both lust and sleepiness.

Lira said she was not in danger from ordinary weapons, but she might have spoken in womanly innocence. The cloaked traitor in the vision and Markuand's wizards dealt in incantations and icy winds from nether regions. Hablit would prefer a more direct method. Lira had not broken that spell until Danaer had cried out to her and touched the talisman, he remembered. She had needed him. Perhaps her powers were somewhat diminished here, so far from her master.

Very well, he would guard her with steel and bronze, companioning her magic with his soldier's skills. Danaer sat, ignoring the dewing grass and the raucous shouts and music from elsewhere in the camp. Within her tent, Lira communicated with those unseen —Ulodovol and other wizards called by strange names and dwelling in stranger places. Danaer had not heard them before, nor did he wish to now.