Read The web of wizardry Online

Authors: Juanita Coulson

The web of wizardry (7 page)

had promised, one of the best Danaer had ever seen. The staUion pawed the dirt and jangled its bits, disliking inaction.

Taking the reins, Danaer swung up, pleased to find the roan did not try to fight him. Though roans were restive and spirited, the blending of the stolid black horses' temperament had cooled the roans' natural wildness. Without conscious thought, Danaer flipped wide his mantle, and the cloak settled gracefully behind the cantle, spreading over the mottled rump. The stalUon answered to a faint touch of rein and knee and the shift of Danaer's weight.

Danaer rode out into the compound. As he had expected, the StaUion was perfectly gaited in Destre fashion. He felt a true warrior, on a steed a Siirn would envy. Sentries and idlers gawked as Danaer nudged the roan, making it curvet and frisk, scattering a few troopmen who had strayed into its path.

Yistar and the General were standing at the gates, and Danaer hastily quieted the horse, approaching them sedately. As he endured their inspection, both looked him over carefully, staring for a long moment at his boots. Yistar swallowed a smile, saying nothing, and Danaer's attention shifted anxiously to the commandant.

"It is well," Nurdanth said. "Most well. A fine appearance. Excellent! Do not grow too fond of this animal, however. It is to be a gift ... to our noble adversary, with my compliments."

"I understand, my Lord General."

"Then away with you, and the goddess guard you this night." Yistar bellowed to the gatekeepers, and the men cursed and sweated at the bars. There was a final exchange of salutes and Danaer leaned forward. Alert and responsive, the roan trotted out briskly, leaving the firelit courtyard and moving into the blackness beyond.

SlIRN GORDT TE RaA

The night engulfed Danaer. Though most men would have been lost in such blackness, he found starlight and the dim glow of fort and city sufficient to show the way. Now and then he touched the reins and avoided barricade or pitfall, finally rounding the last of the stoneworks of the garrison's outer defenses. Siank spread out below him, a vista of painted walls and myriad lamps and lofty towers.

Danaer let the roan canter downhill, lured by Siank, the sacred city of the goddess. At sundown, on a much poorer mount, he had ridden this same road. Then his mood had been far different, as he intended to seek the temple and a good inn. That was before he had encountered those hard reminders of his status here. Since leaving Nyald, he had become more than ever suspended between the two peoples, a target for their distrust.

He tried to imagine Siank's walls broken and her Destre pride shattered, and though she had not welcomed him, the prospect brought him deep pain.

The torchlit towers slid past on his right as the stallion followed a beaten trail. Danaer looked again and again at Siank. Like many a youth of the tribes, he once had yearned to make this pilgrimage. Siank—of the green trees and brush nourished by numerous sweet water springs, the life source of the city's security and wealth. Siank shimmered in the night, the legends painted on her white daubed walls softened by wavering lamp light. Limbs of trees tossed above those walls, and Danaer could see clearly the delicate spire of Argan's holy temple and the dome of the Guild of the Caravan Routes .. .

The city of the Destre-Y, and he was shut away from it by his oath. A chasm yawned between him

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and Siank—a chasm a thousand king's-lengths wide and eight years deep.

He goaded the roan and it sprang forward Hke a steed from the hero myths, plunging into the darkness, leaving Siank farther and farther to the rear. Within a few long strides distance blurred torchlight into mist-dimmed rainbows, pale candles against the night.

Danaer had scouted the area thoroughly when he had arrived at the garrison^ and now he bore unerringly for the Zsed. It was not entombed in the foothills, like the fort, nor yet behind walls, like the Destre brothers who dwelt in Siank. With the turn of the seasons, Siank Zsed would follow the numberless herds of the Vrastre and stalk those caravans which had not paid for enough escort. But now, in the spring, hard on the heels of the goddess's festival, the Zsed was tented near the wells and streams northeast of the city. There was little pressure for the Destre encampment to move elsewhere. For three moons. General Nurdanth had let the Zsed remain quiet, as he might a sleeping den of ravenous prey-seekers.

Danaer twisted in the saddle again, focusing on a particular star. From his vantage, the Eye of Sarlos hung directly over Siank's mountain gate. Given that guidance, he knew he must begin to turn and head out onto the open Vrastre Plains.

The night thickened perceptibly, and then an eerie fog, seemingly lit from within, rose out of nowhere. Danaer had never encountered its like. The horse felt his uneasiness and snorted and shook its mane. Danaer gentled the animal and rode on, though at a slower gait.

He told himself he was no child, to be frightened of fog and dark. Yet he murmured a prayer to the walkers-of-the-night and damp-breathers, those things of legends. Now Danaer sensed a presence—no; many presences, all around him. If he turned and glanced over his shoulder, would he catch a glimpse of some nameless demon hovering there?

The roan stumbled and Danaer tightened the reins, using all his skill to control the nervous animal. Before him, the fog swirled and climbed, filling his sight.

Vapor became grotesque faces and gaping, fanged jaws, and sharp talons raked at Danaer and the horse.

Instinctively, Danaer jerked the roan back violently as one of the fog paws grazed his leg. Icy fire seemed to lance through his bones and sinew, and the roan danced aside in terror.

Danaer's heart thundered as he fought the brute, at war with both these supernatural vapors and the horse's panic.

Wizardry! It could be nothing else!

This was no fog of the plains, nor was it his mind playing tricks. The well-trained horse lunged and grew wild-eyed, as it never would be confronting mortal predators, no matter how fearsome.

Now Danaer knew the same horror that must have seized the hapless general of the Clarique. Magic— again working to the Markuand will!

Danaer set his jaw, vowing not to succumb to sorcery. He had sworn to deliver the General's message, and he would not be bested by creatures of the mist. With a snarled warning, he drew sword, though wondering if the army's steel would pierce his foes. Knotting the reins in his right fist, he held the roan against its urge to bolt. "Steady, Sure-Foot, and show them no weakness, lest they take strength from it! Steady! Argan banish you, demons!"

He slashed at the nearest of the fog apparitions, dividing the ugly form in halves, sending the vapor spinning to either side. Another rose to take its place and Danaer struck with desperation, severing slavering muzzle from the head, cutting off the clawed feet.

Other melting and re-forming demons appeared, closing in behind and around and above Danaer while he continued to fight. There could be no parrying and a shield would not avail him much, even had he brought one.

A new presence came upon this unreal battle, an invisible but very palpable force. Had Danaer wished for a shield? A shield was in his hand, not a thing he could touch but as potent as this unseen ally who had joined his cause, setting itself between Danaer and the abominations in the fog.

"Argan hurl you to Bogotana's Realm!" Danaer roared, taking heart and wielding the sword savagely. This time the demon he slashed dissolved away completely. The roan's antics were lessened, as if the brute also sensed that help was with them.

Leaves rustled, though there were no trees close by, and a warm wind swept across the scene, overwhelming the cold fog. Yet more demons broke, bursting into air. Did Danaer imagine a faint howling, a disappointed gibbering boiling from the departing mist? He could not be certain, but knew the creatures were being bested—were gone!

"Kant, prodra Argan," he said with gratitude, giving the goddess her due. As he gulped for breath, that sound of leaves came once more and with it a tantalizing jingle, like jewels and coins brushing one against another. With that, the last of the evil fog disappeared. He was in familiar darkness.

Danaer gazed around, quieting the roan, listening intently. The rustling leaves and the jewel-music were stilled. But he had not dreamed them. He had been well supported in the struggle, and those sweet sounds had been some manifestation of his unseen ally.

Wizardry! More wizardry to counter the magical evil that had barred his way to the Zsed!

Ulodovol had said the Markuand wizard was mighty, and Danaer had felt the proof.

He had dealt with it, through no choice of his own. No, not alone. He was a warrior, but no fit adversary for creatures made of mist. Danaer did not enjoy owing a debt to magic, but he acknowledged what had happened. "The goddess I thank—and I thank you, my mysterious companion."

For a heartbeat, he captured a sensation of sparkling, large, dark eyes and triumphant, feminine laughter. There was no reply from the darkness, nor had he expected one.

Danaer chirruped to the stallion and coaxed it to take up the trail again. With each minute the awful fight with demons lessened its hold upon him. Soon he was on the fringes of the Zsed, and a more straightforward menace claimed his attention. Rolling grass-

land brushed against his stirrups as the roan trotted down a knoll, then splashed through one of the many streams which fed Siank's springs and wells.

Others were traveling this same path, the inhabitants of the Zsed returning from Siank or journeying on the Vrastre. These could be a danger, but one Danaer knew well and could accept. When the roan nickered to other horses in the Zsed's herds, he leaned on its neck and pinched its nostrils to shut off the exchange. Once he entered the heart of the Zsed, he must be the undisguised representative of Krantin's King. Until then he would act as a scout, penetrating the encampment with stealth.

There would have been Destre spies, watching the fort. But they were guarding against a large body of troops, moving to attack the Zsed. They would take little note of a single rider. The Zsed's outriders had not challenged him, either, thinking that one who wore a tribal mantle was a member of the camp.

The guard line was tenuous, and he slipped cautiously between each outpost. Now and then a challenge was called, but Danaer knew the tongue and gave proper answer, arousing no alarm. As he rode ever deeper into the Zsed, he began to wonder if Nurdanth was correct: a single unescorted courier was the only hope of success in this mission.

Close ahead now were clan fires, casting shadows on gaily striped tent walls and canopies. The women had taken down their looms for the night, and children slept or drowsed on their mothers' laps while the elders regaled any who would hear with Destre legends. Warrior men and women talked of weapons and roans and the movements of the Vrastre game, and they boasted of the raids they would make against the summer's caravans out of Siank.

It was a rich Zsed, well fed and well sheltered, and the contrast with Danaer's home encampment was great. Even the camp dogs were fat. Plainly the Zsed had not suffered in the season just ending. Clans fed on roast haunch of motge or woolback and dipped from steaming pots of simo grain. These were no beg-

gars, and their spirits had never been chastened by defeat.

"Smile, goddess, for all our peoples," Danaer said, sending the words winging to the holy ones.

He must not hesitate from this point forward. At a slow walk, he rode into the clan camp. It would be madness to move quickly. Tribesmen would think it an attack and rope him from the horse at once. He must convince them he was not hostile, and show them no fear.

Danaer drew a few careless glances which soon became hard stares as he passed the first line of tents. A dog barked, then lost interest, though his masters did not. The murmurings began among the people. Before anyone could react, Danaer was beyond them, heading for the next cluster of dwellings. He did not look back, but he knew most, if not all, of the clan he had just left were standing in the path and gawking after him.

He passed two more main camps, using the same method, not hurrying the roan. Word was running before him now, and on either side Danaer sensed the scurryings as people followed his progress. They darted between the tents and picketed animals as they carried the news of Danaer's coming to fellow tribes-folk.

When he rode into the glow of the fourth communal fire, the people were ready for him. A profound silence gripped them, even the youngest babe. If a dog yapped, it was kicked away, its tail between its legs. Rows of eyes watched Danaer. Warriors and dotards, women with sucklings at the breast, big-eyed children, lesser priests and priestesses and herb-healers stared at Danaer in fascination. As he moved by, the stillness broke at last into sharp whispers and angry growling.

At the next fire, a tribe leader waited out ahead of the circle of people. Arms akimbo and feet planted wide, he blocked Danaer's way. Danaer drew rein. The expression on the man's face was one of smothered fury. The cloak he wore proclaimed him a chieftain of a strong clan.

Danaer hoped they would give him a chance to be heard. Careful to use his heaviest Azsed dialect, he said, "Maen gra siray, ae may not ask so great a tribesman to step aside. But ae would beg your people move back that ae can ride through . . ."

"The speech is Destre, but that uniform is much hate to all of the plains." The Siank accent was very thick. "What do you here, Destre? If Destre you be."

"Destre-Y I am, and I bring message to Siirn Gordt te Raa."

"All the way from Nyald, and in that uniform?" Ugly laughter rang through the crowd and children clapped with glee, wanting to witness excitement.

"The message is from Nurdanth, the lit who keeps his vow, te Fael." Danaer gave the General the title the Destre would know. Words could be weapons as much as steel and lance and sling stone, now.

"An lit! As are you! You speak the tongue and wear the eiphren, but. . ."

"I will recite Argan's own sacred law if it will prove me a true Azsed," Danaer said. Too much doubt from too many sides was wearing thin his patience, and warning crept into his voice.

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