The Spirit Stone (63 page)

Salamander hurried back towards camp, but Gerran met him half-way.

‘Now who’s that?’ Gerran said. ‘More dweomermen?’

‘They are, and they want to surrender.’

Gerran sighed with all the weariness in the world. ‘More dweomermen,’ he said eventually. ‘And?’

‘Will they be safe, Gerro? Or will the tieryn order them killed?’

‘If he does, I’ll bring him to his senses quick enough. Do you really think Cadryc would murder helpless prisoners or that I’d let him dishonour himself that way?’

‘From the way you talked the other day—’

‘Killing a man in battle is one thing. I’m ready enough to do that any time they offer me a fight. But killing someone who’s given himself up?’ Gerran’s hand went to his sword-hilt. ‘What do you think I am?’

‘An honourable man, sure enough.’ Salamander flung up both hands and stepped back fast.

Gerran laughed, the flare of temper gone. ‘I’ll go speak to them,’ Gerran said.

‘Good. There’s fifteen of them—his folk, this fellow called them—still to come, but they don’t all have dweomer.’

‘Very well. Here, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Has the battle at the Braemel road begun yet?’

‘Why do you think I’d know?’

Gerran looked at him with a sour twist to his mouth.

‘Um, well, truly,’ Salamander said. ‘It has, and it appears that the army of the two princes is winning handily.’

‘Well and good, then. I expected an easy victory. Those poor bastards had no idea of what they were riding into.’

They walked on and joined Pir and the lad. Nearby their horses grazed. Salamander noticed that both mounts wore rope halters rather than bridles. Gerran seemed to be studying them, and he had a sharp look for Pir’s odd mane of hair, too.

‘This is Lord Gerran of the Gold Falcon,’ Salamander said.

‘Morrow, milord,’ Pir said. ‘Be it that you be able to promise my people sanctuary in your camp?’

Gerran struggled briefly with the unfamiliar dialect. ‘I can and I will,’ he said at last. ‘Salamander here told me there’s more of you.’

‘There be that, my woman among them.’

‘How soon can you fetch them?’

‘Before sunset, easily.’

‘Done, then.’ Gerran held out his hand. ‘You have my word of honour that none of you will be harmed unless someone gives me cause.’

‘I’ll be leaving behind any of them that might give you cause, milord. The rest—I’ll stand surety for them.’

Pir took the proffered hand and clasped it. Since Salamander felt not the slightest trace of omen warning, he considered the matter settled. He and Gerran watched the men mount up and ride off, heading for the plateau and the forest. Neither of them used any sort of rein.

‘I’ve heard old tales about men like that,’ Gerran said. ‘Horse mages, aren’t they called?’

‘They are. We’re about to learn more about them, I suspect.’

‘Good. I wonder if he can teach our horses not to fear the dragons. It would be a handy thing, if he could.’

‘Ye gods! I’d not thought of that. Very handy indeed.’

‘We may be able to hold our own against these savages after all.’ Gerran turned cheerful. ‘In the long run, I mean.’

‘Mayhap we will, then.’

At least until the Alshandra people finish converting all the savage tribes,
Salamander thought, but that was a thought he kept to himself.

Dallandra had spent much of the day waiting for Westfolk wounded, but her only patient turned out to be an archer who had been accidentally pierced in the fatty part of the thigh by the man standing behind him. Rather than a flood, the wounded Deverry men arrived in a trickle that the chirurgeons could easily handle.

‘The Meradan ran like rats, Wise One,’ the wounded archer told her. ‘The dragons did most of the fighting for us, especially the silver wyrm. You would have sworn he went berserk, dipping and swooping and killing the hairy swine right and left.’

‘He does go berserk,’ Dallandra said. ‘Now hold still!’

She was just finishing up her work when Calonderiel joined her. The commanders had decided what to do with the Gel da’ Thae priestess and those few prisoners of war who had survived their wounds.

‘I suppose Ridvar wanted to kill the lot,’ Dallandra said.

‘Not the women,’ Calonderiel said. ‘Let’s try to be fair to the lad. He heartily agreed that the women should be given horses and food for their journey back to Braemel.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘They’ll take care of the wounded Gel da’ Thae on the way. Voran’s going to give them letters to take to Braemel’s bunch of rabid priestesses and Alshandra rakzanir.’

‘Letters? What for?’

‘To give them our demands, of course. If they build this fortress again, we’ll burn it again. It’s as simple as that.’

‘I see. Let’s hope they see, too.’

‘Grallezar did the translating. She told us she’d embellished them a bit, too.’

‘With a few nasty remarks, you mean?’

‘Just that. Not even Ridvar dared argue about it.’

Towards sunset Dallandra scryed for Ebañy. When she saw him sitting alone at the edge of camp, apparently studying the distant northern horizon, she sent her mind out to his. He responded immediately.

‘There you are, oh princess of powers perilous! Is all well there?’

‘As well as it can be,’ Dallandra said. ‘What about in your camp?’

‘Uh, well, I’ve got something to tell you.’

Salamander’s tale came across as garbled. His mind jumped back and forth from the lost obsidian showstone to Pir the horse mage and Sidro, with a fair bit of worry about the growing number of Gel da’ Thae prisoners mixed in. Finally Dallandra interrupted him, as much to get a moment to think as for any other reason.

‘If this Pir’s surrendered to you,’ Dallandra told him, ‘then he’s not precisely a prisoner. No, I don’t think he’ll lead some sort of revolt, so please stop worrying about that. Grallezar’s made it clear to me that once a Gel da’ Thae surrenders, he’ll wait patiently to see what his wyrd may be—it’s a point of honour with them. As for the showstone, somehow I can’t say that I’m surprised you lost it. It’s been ill-omened from the beginning.’

‘Here! I didn’t precisely lose it. The raven stole it from me.’

‘It amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? It’s gone.’

‘Um, well, yes, I suppose it does.’

‘The army’s marching tomorrow for the ford. We should reach it easily, Cal tells me. The day after, we should join up with you. Please try to stay out of trouble until we do. As for today, one of the dragons will be carrying messages to Tieryn Cadryc—’ Dallandra stopped, caught by a dangeromen. ‘It’s going to be Rori, and I only hope he’s on his way back here before Sidro rides into your camp.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Sidro said.

‘Stay in camp,’ Faharn said, ‘until Laz comes back.’

Although he was facing her, he was looking past her, his head held high, chin up, his blue eyes focused on some far-off thing.

‘And if he doesn’t?’ she said.

‘He will. Maybe you don’t have any faith in him, but I do.’

‘I’ll hope you’re right.’

He continued staring over her head. With a sigh Sidro walked away and rejoined Pir. He helped her mount the black mare, then collected the twelve men who’d accepted him as their new leader.

In a ragged line they rode to the edge of the forest, where they would wait while Pir and Vek rode down to the Ancients’ camp. Pir left the men back at the camp a horse apiece, but he’d taken all the rest and the pack mule as well. Sidro had collected the few things she now owned—the books, the red pottery plate, the kitchen knife, the blankets, and the length of stolen linen—as much out of a desire to have some small reminders of Laz than because she valued them in themselves.

While they waited, Sidro kept to herself as much as possible. She found a fallen log a little ways from the clearing where the others waited, kicked it hard a number of times to drive out snakes and spiders, then sat down in the forest silence. At moments she scried for Pir; she saw him speaking with Evan. A second man appeared, but since she’d never seen him on the physical plane, his image blurred and wavered. He had red hair—that was the only detail clear enough for her to see. Her mind kept wandering away from the visions. She’d been attempting to scry for Laz ever since she’d woken, but she picked up not a trace of him beyond her untrustworthy dream.

Finally, when the sun hung low in the sky, Pir and Vek returned, waving and calling out in triumph.

‘The surrender’s arranged,’ Pir said. ‘Very well, men. If you have any doubts about this, leave now and go back to camp.’

None did. Sidro felt a last stab of doubt, but she realized that she had no real choice. Zakh Gral destroyed, Lakanza a prisoner, Laz disappeared, most likely forever—the fates had left her Pir and her life, naught else. When he strode over to her, she managed to smile at him, but she knew she was trembling. He caught her hand and helped her up.

‘Can you really do this?’ Pir said.

‘Of course. We can’t stay in the forest forever.’

‘That’s true. All we can do is hope for the best.’

With their ragged troop behind them, they led their horses down the cliff path, then mounted up when they reached the grasslands. Ahead of them the encampment rose out of the grass, like a billow of grey clouds among the green. When she glanced up at the sky, she saw a white bird, circling high above them—an omen. During the rest of their ride to the enemy camp, she felt danger pricking at her mind, but she thought she understood the sensation. Of course the situation was dangerous, turning themselves over to the Lijik Ganda! Some hundreds of yards away from the tents, Pir called a halt. Everyone dismounted and led their horses towards their surrender.

Men left the clustered tents and walked out to meet them—a lean fellow with thin grey hair and a thick grey mustache, the red-haired fellow she’d seen talking with Pir, and a man, who seemed to have both Ancients and Lijik blood, carrying a herald’s staff. A gaggle of poorly dressed men she took for servants trailed after them. Sidro hung back behind Pir at first, then decided she was acting like a frightened child and hurried to walk next to him. He caught her hand in his but said nothing.

The herald trotted forward, staff in hand. ‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘You know that Lord Gerran’s sworn that he’ll stand surety for your safety, but Tieryn Cadryc adds his pledge as well. In return, they ask you to give up your weapons, except of course for table daggers and the like.’

‘Well and good, then.’ Pir turned and repeated the request in the Gel da’ Thae tongue. Some of the men grumbled, but Pir glared them into silence.

Slowly, reluctantly, the men unbuckled their baldrics and stepped forward to lay their falcatas or the older curved sabres down at the herald’s feet. A few carried short swords and iron spear points in their saddlebags; they brought those out as well and added them to the growing pile. When they were done, the servants hurried forward and scooped them up. With the herald leading the way, they resumed their slow walk to the camp. Sidro let Pir go on ahead. She lingered behind for one last moment alone, one last look at the forest where, for that brief while, she and Laz had been so happy.

That lingering look back proved more dangerous than a thousand weapons. She heard a sound like an enormous drum, beating high above her, then the hiss of huge wings gliding from the sky. She looked up just as the silver dragon came plummeting down. Sidro screamed, unable to run, unable to think as he landed some twenty feet in front of her. With a roar that made her head ring with terror he folded his wings, then strode towards her.

‘You!’ he hissed. ‘Raena, Merodda, you howling bitch!’

‘Who?’ Sidro stammered. ‘I’m not! Why do you hate me? Please don’t kill me!’

She fell to her knees and stretched out her arms in supplication. The vinegar smell of wyrm hung so thick in the air that she could barely breathe, much less think clearly. She heard Pir shout, heard men running towards her, but she knew that they could never prevent the dragon from striking. Sidro drew a deep breath and stopped trembling. She would face death bravely, she decided, the only dignity left to her. The dragon took another step towards her, lowered his head, and growled with a sound like an avalanche rumbling down a distant mountain.

‘Get back!’ Sword in hand, Lord Gerran charged in between them. ‘You may not kill her.’

‘What’s it to you if I do or not?’

‘I gave my word of honour that no one would harm her.’

‘Do you think you can stop me?’ The dragon’s words turned into a long hiss.

‘Of course not.’ Gerran’s voice sounded perfectly calm. ‘But you’ll have to kill me first to get hold of her.’

The silver wyrm raised his massive head and opened his mouth to reveal fangs the size of sword blades. Gerran waited, his sword held in front of him, the point touching the ground as if he were completely indifferent to the malevolence that faced him. In the sunlight, Gerran’s red hair flamed. The dragon’s scales glittered, as silver as a murderer’s moon. Sidro waited, wondering if she’d find Laz in the Deathworld, for a moment that seemed to stretch to touch eternity. Suddenly the dragon sighed with so human a sound that she yelped in surprise.

‘I could never harm you.’ The dragon said to Gerran, then laid his head upon the ground. ‘Well and good then. I shan’t kill her, if it means that much to you.’

‘Do I have your sworn word on that?’ Gerran said.

‘You do.’ The dragon’s voice turned into something very soft, very human. ‘I swear it on a dragon’s honour, Cullyn, since the man I was had none left.’

‘Done, then!’ Gerran sheathed his sword, then looked up, puzzled. ‘What did you call me?’

The dragon rumbled with laughter. ‘My apologies! He was another man I knew once, that’s all. Before a fight, he held his sword much as you held yours, and so you reminded me of him just now. You have my sworn word, Lord Gerran, that I’ll let the woman live. I’ll take my oath on the fire mountain I call home.’

‘My thanks,’ Gerran said. ‘And you have mine that she won’t be doing you any harm—as if she could!’

The dragon bobbed his head in deference, then swung his massive self around and waddled away, as clumsy on the ground as he was deadly in the sky. His huge tail flicked from side to side. Sidro staggered to her feet, surprised that she could stand on legs that had all the strength of snow under a hot sun. Gerran was watching her with a slight smile. She could smell not so much as a trace of fear. He might have merely swatted away a fly who’d been circling around her.