A Man Rides Through (108 page)

"Do your best, Joyse," growled Master Gilbur. "Withdraw your men. Rally them if you can. Then it will be Festten's power that actually destroys you, rather than ours."

Terisa and Geraden had slowed, almost stopped. He raised a finger to his mouth, urging silence; she nodded. They crept forward behind the Imagers, into the ring of mirrors.

The first mirror they saw from the front showed the side of a rocky mountain. The slope had a dark scar across it, as if a landslide had recently taken place. This was the source of the avalanches Eremis had used against Vale House and the Congery's chasm.

Grinning like Artagel, Geraden issued his challenge to his enemies by swinging his cot leg at the glass.

The mirror shattered like a cry; glass sprayed singing to the stone.

At the sound, the three Imagers spun.

Only Master Eremis showed any surprise. He may have had a secret liking for surprises: they tested him, gave him new chances to exercise his abilities. His expression when he saw Terisa and Geraden bore an unmistakable resemblance to joy.

"Astonishing," he murmured. "I did not believe that such talent existed in all the world."

Unlike Eremis, Master Gilbur had only one reaction to the unexpected. Clenched like his back, his features brandished their old scowl, their black and unalterable fury. One powerful fist dove into his robe, brought out a dagger as long as Terisa's forearm; the dagger which had killed Master Quillon. Deep in his contorted chest, he snarled curses like a hunting lion.

The arch-Imager's mouth hung open, but he didn't look surprised. He looked hungry, avid for some bloody sustenance he had been too long denied, insatiably destructive. His chin was wet with drool, and his eyes smoldered like the eyes of a lover lost in cruelty.

Before any of the Imagers had time to move, Terisa pushed the nearest mirror onto its back. As it fell, she saw a bitter landscape running with lava. Then the scene broke into splinters and ruin.

"If you do that again, my lady," Master Eremis said amiably, "I swear I will rip Geraden's balls off and make you eat them."

"Try it," retorted Geraden. He sprang to the next glass, clubbed it to shards.

Roaring, Master Gilbur charged at him.

Geraden dodged behind another mirror, pulled it over. Unfortunately, that left him open to Gilbur's attack. The dagger stabbed for his heart.

He saved himself by staggering to the side, slipping on chips of glass, crashing to the floor in a splash of slivers. Master Gilbur sprang after him, hammered the dagger at him. He rolled away, scrambled his legs under him, scuttled toward the wall—just out of reach. He had lost his club; he was weaponless against Gilbur's tremendous strength, the Imager's long blade.

"Stand still and die, dogshit!" Master Gilbur panted.

He drove Geraden backward.

Terisa faced Eremis and the arch-Imager alone.

She knew how to fight them: without thinking about it, without planning anything, she
knew.
She could never break enough of their mirrors to save King Joyse. They would kill her long before she did that much damage. And she would accomplish nothing if she shifted the Image which showed the King's peril. Nevertheless she had glass to oppose Eremis and Vagel with, mirrors at her disposal which they couldn't see. All she had to do was stay alive.

And concentrate—

I
want you to trust me.

—
concentrate on the flat glass in Havelock's rooms, the mirror with the Image of the sand dune. If she put this scene, this room, into that glass, the Adept could see it. He would see it, if he hadn't fallen completely victim to his insanity. And then he could translate both Eremis and Vagel to Orison.

Trust me.

Eremis would lose his mind. And Vagel would be in Orison, with no way back here. He might use one of Havelock's mirrors to avoid capture, but he would cease to be a threat.

All she had to do was
concentrate.

She stood still. Instinctively, she raised her hands as if to show Master Eremis she was no longer a threat to his mirrors.

The way he looked at her made her blood labor like sludge in her veins.

To keep himself from being pinned to the wall, Geraden had to retreat toward one of the exits. Apparently hoping to draw Master Gilbur after him, he turned suddenly and fled, running hard down the corridor.

Cunning despite his rage, Master Gilbur stopped. There was no harm Geraden could do anywhere except in this room.

Clutching his dagger, Gilbur returned to the ring.

To the Image in Terisa's mind.

She held it steady, hoping now that Havelock would wait until Master Gilbur came within reach, within range of Eremis' destruction. She had no pity of any kind left in her.

At that moment,
a touch of cold as thin as a feather and as sharp as steel slid straight through the center of her abdomen.

"Hee-hee!" a thin voice cackled. "Wait for me, Vagel! I'm coming."

Adept Havelock burst out of the air at a run.

"I'm
coming!"

Oh,
no!

He was a madman full of glee. His feet seemed to find the stone without any possibility of misstep, as if losing his mind made him immune to all the other hazards of translation. His apron flapped about his ankles as he ran.

As swift as joy, he sped for the arch-Imager.

In both fists he clutched his featherduster as if it made him mighty: a sword or scepter no one could oppose.

That
surprised Vagel; it took him too suddenly for any reaction except panic. Once, in the past, Havelock had cost him everything but his life: now the mad Adept wanted his life as well..

Havelock was oblivious to everyone else. He didn't see Terisa. He didn't seem to notice that Master Eremis had stretched out a casual foot to trip him; he was only after the arch-Imager. Vagel, however, had flinched away; he headed for one of the exits with all the speed his old legs could produce.

Veering to follow, the Adept unconsciously avoided Eremis' foot.

"I'm
coming!"

One after the other, they disappeared down the corridor, taking Terisa's only hope with them, her only way to fight.

"Ballocks and bull-puke!" rasped Master Gilbur. "Does every Imager left in the world now do these impossible translations?"

"I think not," Eremis replied, grinning ferally. "I think that was our lady Terisa's doing. I doubt, however, that she intended to bring the Adept here.
Her
thought was that he would translate us away— to Orison and madness." Rage and joy mounted in him as he spoke. "We are fortunate that Havelock is himself already mad, inaccessible to such cleverness."

Spitting obscenities, Gilbur started toward Terisa.

"No!" Master Eremis snapped at once. "The lady Terisa is mine. I will attend to her."

Gilbur stopped, facing Eremis.

"The destruction of King Joyse," Master Eremis continued, nonchalant and brutal, "I leave to you." He gestured around the mirrors. "Enjoy it as much as you wish. For me, there is more pleasure"—he showed his teeth—"in
undoing
an Imager with her unprecedented capacities than in slaughtering a mere King.

"When Gart returns with Nyle, use them as you think best.

"My lady." Raising one long arm, he pointed at a passageway behind her. "Go there."

Because she had nothing left, Terisa turned and did as she was told.

Out in the valley, the destruction of King Joyse was proceeding as planned.

He had no weapon to combat the monster his enemies had unleashed. It finished eating its way through the rubble of the avalanche, then came on into the valley, hungry for other prey. The last time someone—Eremis?—had translated this beast, it had been considerably less ravenous. And noticeably less irate. Master Eremis must have found the means to make it very angry.

How old would he have been at the time of that previous translation? Fifteen?
Ten?

Was it possible for a boy so young to be that good an Imager? Or that full of malice?

King Joyse didn't know. And the answers didn't matter. What mattered was the army, his men and Prince Kragen's. They were going to die quickly and horribly if he couldn't wrestle them back under control, quench their panic. And they were going to die anyway, unless someone found a defense against this creature.

One thing at a time. Death later was preferable to death now. During the interval between now and later, anything might happen. Someone might think of a way to hurt the beast. Or it might accidentally get hit by a throw from the catapult, might change direction. Or it might die of old age and indigestion.

The army had to be saved
now.

So he drove his charger as close to the monster as he dared; so close that his mount snorted foam and quivered; so close that he could feel the beast's breath sweep over him, could smell its intense, rank stink. And there he raised his voice like a trumpet against the hoarse screaming and the panic, the white-eyed and unreasoning dread.

"Retreat!
Retreat,
I say!" Retreat wasn't rout. "Find your captains! Rally to your captains! This beast can't outrun you!" It cannot silence
me,
and I am nearer to it than you are.

Behind him, the creature lifted its maw and howled. Somehow, he sent his call through the roar, demanding and clarion.

"You must retreat in order!"

The scene in front of him still looked like chaos. The shouting went on, full of fear. But he had an experienced eye: he could see the state of the army changing. Some of the captains held their ground and yelled for their men; more and more men began struggling through the press toward their captains. The army was like an augury in reverse, an Image resolving toward coherence out of a swirl of prescient bits.

Then riders came toward the King, goading their horses hard.

Prince Kragen. Castellan Norge.

Almost under the teeth of the creature, they met, reined their mounts. Norge's horse was frantic: it wheeled in fright, snorting as if it were deranged. A moment later, however, he fought it under control.

King Joyse held his sword high, in salute and defiance.

The sight of the three leaders there as if they were impervious to Imagery and horror seemed to have a palpable impact. Suddenly, the surge of men was transformed: no longer a rout interrupted by islands of order, it became an army vigorously quelling its own chaos.

"Well done, my lord King!" panted the Alend Contender. "I thought we had lost them."

"What now?" put in the Castellan. "How can we fight that thing?"

"We must not lose them again!" King Joyse returned. "Keep them to the center of the valley. Keep them moving steadily. We are bottled in this valley, but if we are pushed far enough we will attempt to win through the neck."

Howling again, the monster heaved itself forward.

In a group, King Joyse, Prince Kragen, and the Castellan spurred thirty yards up the valley, then stopped once more.

"Retreating won't save us!" cried Norge. "We can't get out the defile! Festten wouldn't do this if he didn't have an ambush ready. As soon as you try, we're lost." As if as an afterthought, he added, "My lord King."

The King restrained a sarcastic retort. "Then we must not let ourselves be pushed so far," he said with more mildness than he felt. The flash in his blue eyes may have been urgency—or it may have been a wild love of risk. "Get archers up the walls, as many as you can. If that beast has eyes, perhaps we can put them out."