Darksong Rising (58 page)

demands, those of the kids. Now... there were the demands of spoiled lords, the need to fight off

invaders, and endless demands for her time to deal with situations that shouldn’t have been

problems. Not to mention the worries— from the big ones like whether it had been stupid to go

into Ebra to the littler ones like whether she should have pushed Hanfor and Himar into

accepting Skent as an untried undercaptain.

That’s life anywhere. She took a deep breath, looking at the still-long road to Pamr, and beyond.

62

 
Once more, Anna found herself massaging her neck, trying to reduce the growing throbbing in

her skull, an ache that had increased with every dek she had ridden from almost the time she had

left the gates at Loiseau. Too much sorcery? Or had she used Darksong and not even known it?

But how? She glanced back along the column, past Kinor and Jimbob. She’d left with two

hundred lancers—tenscore— and eight players. Now she had eight score, and that included the

score of newer lancers half-trained by Jerat at the Sand Pass fort and the cyan company under

Skent. Himar had put two veterans as senior lancers beside Skent and told the young man to heed

them.

Anna hoped Skent would. Then... that’s what he has to learn if he wants to get Cataryzna as a

consort…with your support.

She winced. Are you any better than Dieshr was in using people? The sorceress continued to

scan the column until her eyes came to rest on the red-and-white hair of the chief player. Not

looking up toward Anna, Liende rode slowly, apparently lost in her own thoughts. She’s doing

this for her children... not for you, not for Defalk.

On each side of the road, the bare and harvested fields stretched out until they merged with

twilight of what had turned into a gray day with dull low clouds. Ahead, off the right shoulder of

the road, was a squat stone column. Anna squinted to make out the numbers chiseled there,

finally reading the number and the single letter. Another two deks to Pamr…and perhaps another

two beyond that to reach Lady Gatrune’s holding.

The Regent and sorceress yawned, then absently massaged her neck again.

“You are tired,” said Jecks, easing his mount closer to her.

“I don’t know why. Riding isn’t that exhausting.”

“Riding and thinking, mayhap?” The bushy white eyebrows lifted. “And fretting about what may

come. You have not reckoned what the battles cost you, either.”

“It was a gamble to go to Ebra... but I wanted to settle things there without worrying about

Rabyn and the Liedfuhr.”

“Nothing is ever settled in Liedwabr,” suggested Jecks. “Had you not defeated those of Ebra

once, and those of Neserea?"

“Not really the Nesereans. I killed their leader and his consort.”

“Did you not spell some of them?”

“I did.” Anna wanted to shake her head, except she had to stifle a yawn. That could be why some

of Rabyn’s forces were standing siege duty in western Defalk. Before she’d fully understood—or

been forced to understand—the limits of Clearsong, she’d spelled the Neserean forces remaining

in Falcor to be loyal to her. Did Rabyn even know that? Nubara wouldn’t. He’d fled Falcor well

before that. “But how many of those are in the forces attacking Defalk... I don’t know.”

The sorceress looked through the dim twilight toward the indistinct shapes that had to be the

outlying dwellings of Pamr. She blinked. Surely, there should be some light, some torches or

lamps in some windows. The clouds made the early evening darker, although it would have been

dark enough, since Darksong was the only moon visible at dusk in the weeks after harvest.

A faint clanging or tinkling of a distant bell echoed through the night from somewhere up ahead,

going on and on.

She stiffened. What on earth—or Erde—was she thinking? They were entering Pamr, and she

was so tired that she was woolgathering. Lord!

“Himar!” Anna turned in the saddle and tried to fumble the lutar free from its straps.

“Yes, lady?”

"It’s Pamr, and that chandler! We need arms ready.”

“Arms ready!” snapped Jecks, belatedly understanding Anna’s concerns, and relaying her order.

“Arms ready!”

“Arms ready!” echoed Himar.

As Farinelli carried Anna past the first darkened dwelling, Anna heard a dull rumble and glanced

skyward toward the clouds that had been getting lower with every glass that had passed since

midday at the Sorprat ford. She glanced up to see if it had started to rain, but she could feel

nothing.

She began to try to tune the lutar in the dimness, but her fingers were clumsy. Her eyes strained

to catch sight of the inn and the chandlery near the center of town. Yet all the buildings were

dark. Dark?

“That is not thunder,” Jecks said abruptly.

Anna swallowed. He was right. The sound was that of drums, and the pounding of those drums

rumbled through Anna like the thunder she had first thought the drums had been.

“Now! Men of Pamr! Strike!”

The words floated in Anna’s ears for a moment. Then, torches flared up beside the packed-clay

road, and arrows whistled past her guards.

A good score of bearded men wielding spears and axes and other odd weapons charged out of

the near darkness, directly toward Anna.

Shit! You’re so tired you didn’t even think… dumb!

“Blaz! Kerhor! Take them!” bellowed Rickel, as he and Lejun lifted the heavy shields, quickly,

despite the deks of travel, while Anna bent, turned in the saddle, and tried to wrestle the lutar

free.

Jecks had his blade free, as did Kinor, and a moment later, Jimbob. The three blades joined those

of Blaz and Kerhor.

The evening was filled with grunts, and the dull sounds of metal on metal, metal on wood, wood

on flesh and bone, but not a single yell or shout issued from the lips or throats of the attackers.

The only sound from the attackers and the town, the one that seemed to shiver both the air and

ground alike, was that of the deep triple-toned drums.

Anna’s fingers fumbled over the lutar strings, and she sang a few syllables, seeking a pitch. Any

pitch! Her voice cracked, and she attempted to clear her throat, trying somehow to force dust and

mucus out.

Somewhere in the darkness a horse screamed.

More arrows sleeted past, and there was a dull thunk and a gasp from one of the guards, and

Anna glimpsed an empty saddle even while she tried to sort out a spell, any spell.

You need a spell ... The thought pounded at her.

63

PAMR, DEFALK

 
A man races through the twilight and onto the porch of the chandlery. On the porch, one brown-

haired figure straightens from behind the largest of the drums arrayed there. The runner looks

past the drummer to the taller bearded figure of the chandler standing in the darker shadows.

“She returns, mighty Farsenn. And her players have not even their instruments out.”

“She returns to Pamr... but never to Falcor.” Farsenn laughs in his deep bass voice and looks to

Giersan. “Ready your drums." Then he turns back to the bearded messenger. “Summon our

mighty warriors. The archers go behind the hedges near the first trees—as we practiced. Keep

them in the shadows. Have no torches lit until you hear the drums. Then the torches and the

arrows.”

‘As you command, mighty Farsenn.” The man turns and hurries into the darkness, ringing the

handbell that he carries.

“Yes... yes ... Today and tonight will be long remembered in Pamr,” Farsenn says as he looks

along the main street,. toward the east and the approaching sorceress.

“Best we finish the task, or it will not be recalled as we wish,” suggests Giersan.

“Taking down the bitch Gatrune was scarce a task at all. None had seen the power of Darksong.”

Farsenn strains as he looks eastward.

Shutters close, and lights and lamps vanish. Seemingly within moments, the town of Pamr is

dark and silent, and even the ringing of the handbell is gone. Shadowy figures move toward the

eastern side of the town, arranging themselves in the dimness behind the hedges.

“Now?” asks Giersan.

“No. They have not reached the hedges.” Farsenn waits silently, then raises his hand. Finally, he

drops it. “Now!”

The drummer’s mallets caress the skins of the drum set, and a low rolling thunder rumbles out.

“The muddling song. Three, two... mark!” The rolling sound of thunder switches into an almost-

staccato beat to accompany Farsenn’s dark and deep voice.

Take their wits and hold them fast,

 
so their actions cannot last.

 
Take their eyes and make them slow,

 
so they know not where the time may go....

From somewhere to the east a torch flares, then another:

“Now! Men of Pamr! Strike!” With the command, the bearded figures surge from the hedges

toward the line of riders.

The triple-toned drums shake the ground around the chandlery, seemingly more intense than

thunder.

Against the clang of metal, the intermittent whir of arrows, and the grunts of men fighting, the

single scream of a mount pierces the night air.

“Now!” calls Farsenn. “Tbe death song.”

The big drums shift their rhythm again, and the tones form a simple melody that melds with the