The web of wizardry (4 page)

His successor, a pale-faced nobleman recently ordered to Nyald by royal decree, muffled his yawns and tensed whenever Yistar's attention swung his way.

Yistar was busy with last-moment instructions, disliking to leave his fort in the hands of such an inexperienced steward. But like all who swore the oath, he must obey the King.

He halted before the cavalry escort, nodding to Troop Leaders Shaartre and Danaer. "It will do," he said by way of compliment. The Captain sighed heavily and cast a sidelong glance at the new commandant, then winced.

Near the palisades, a gathering of veterans waited to see their comrades off. Each man bore a wound that lamed him for arduous service, and in the muster they had been commanded to stay and defend Nyald. They waved and flung several last jibes at those who were leaving, a parting of warriors who had shared grief and joy.

Yistar saluted them with pride, a gesture they returned with pleasure, for he had made it plain he entrusted the fort, and the city, to them—not to the raw courtier who now wore the cloak of commandant.

Trumpets were sounded, a gaudy courtesy Yistar would have scorned, but which the young officer insisted upon. Those who now manned the fort stood watch as the caravan began to move. There were shouts and good wishes which Yistar did not quiet.

Shaartre and Danaer tidied the straggling lines, hurrying laggards along in smart order. As they passed the outer barricades, Shaartre loped up alongside Danaer*s roan and said with surprise, "It is first candle-mark, and we are well away. Yistar is ever prompt, in war or peace, eh? Which is it to be this time, I wonder?"

Like Shaartre, Danaer mulled those rumors of some distant conflict, tales only partly believed, carried from a place so far away the story had no menace. Yet a royal decree sent Yistar and the best of his troops trekking from the southern fort Yistar had used to tame the Destre-Y. Surely the army did not set such things in motion lest they had good reason to suspect trouble, even from a place beyond the sunrise.

"Did you accomplish your errand, youngling?"

Shaartre must ask that twice before Danaer came to awareness.

"Ai. It was ... the attending of an old kinswoman near death. I paid for her pyre and the priest's chants, and she gave me her blessing."

"That is good. They say the dying ones have the ears of the gods and can offer a man good fortune because of it."

To Danaer's relief, Yistar bellowed an order and he was forced to leave Shaartre unanswered, spurring to take the point of the caravan. They did not go to war yet, and the highway had been free of banditry for many a season, thanks to Yistar's vigilance. But he never rested on the past, trusting nothing. As scout, Danaer preceded the snaking line of wagons and foot troops and cavalry.

The route wound past the river fiats where the Zsed camped. Against a backdrop of the fortress cliffs, the Destre-Y gathered to stare. There were no cheers, not even of hope now that Straedanfi, victor over the plains people, was leaving. Sullenly, tribal mantles drawn to hide plague-scarred faces and broken pride, they followed the caravan with their eyes.

Danaer was riding well ahead of the train, now and then turning to look back and gauge its speed. Once he gazed toward the Zsed, his keen sight picking Osyta's tent from among the other tattered hovels. He could see two thin female forms huddled by an almost dead fire. He would never see the herb-healer again. Indeed, it might be that he would never see the Zsed of his birth again, either.

Unbidden, Osyta's prophecy filled his mind.

Andaru — the terrible sacrifice which would buy a new destiny for all Krantin and all the Destre-Y, Wizardry — both good and evil. Danger and beauty — closely mixed with glory, blood, and death.

Danaer sucked in a deep breath and turned his face to the east, toward Siank of the White Walls and the fort that was to be Captain Yistar's new garrison. The old woman's words could not be escaped. Whatever lay ahead, this prophecy spoke the will of the goddess

and fate. He must confront it with courage, as befitted a warrior.

Ill

The Wizard Web of Ulodovol

It was late when Danaer rode at a lope up the western road from Siank back to the fort. The evening in the town had been a disappointment, but that was the way of it and nothing could be done. This ride of his had been intended as a small jaunt. But a pious attendance at Siank's temple and a bowl of Destre fare had not been worth the risks involved.

It was common knowledge—marked by orders of the fort's commandant—that Siank's older sections were forbidden to the soldiers. Danaer had thought his Destre blood would keep him safe there, and had been shown his mistake. At least Shaartre and Danaer's unit mates might enjoy the tale of his adventure.

The night air was not so cool as at Nyald, and his horse was puflBng a bit as Danaer turned into the stony outer defenses of the fort. He slacked the reins, letting the animal walk through the tortuous staked barricades and pitfall-strewn field leading to the palisades. Like Nyald Fort, this stronghold was built upon the rock of the foothills, girt well in man-made defenses of wood and stone and earth. Danaer had ridden over its length two days past, when first he had arrived at Siank garrison. He had been impressed with the height of the palisades beyond the compound and the bastions which overlooked the highway from The Interior. Great heaps of deadly boulders could be dropped across the road, the better to guard from any incursion by the Destre tribes. General Nurdanth was as cautious in his practices as Captain Yistar had been when

he commanded Nyald Fort. As a Destre-Y, Danaer would have been discouraged to learn of such clever fortifications. As a troop leader sworn to Yistar's service, he admired their building and the General who had ordered them.

Torches marked the watchtowers along the palisades, but Danaer did not need their faint light to guide him. Absently, he touched his roan with knee and rein, avoiding traps and stakes.

"Stand and call!"

Danaer jerked his mount to a sudden stop. He swallowed the retort he wished to fling back at the sentries hning the catwalks. Archers would be behind the loopholes, and Danaer knew their arrows were aimed at him and his horse.

"Scout Danaer, in the service of Captam Yistar!" Danaer shouted.

Wood scraped heavily against wood, and the gate opened enough to permit the exit of a mounted sentry and an infantryman carrying a lantern. They moved slowly away from the fort, the one man holding the lantern high and the other riding alongside, his lance at the ready.

As the soldiers came near enough for the lantern to shine on Danaer's face, his horse tossed its head nervously and shied. He curbed the animal sharply, cursing, while the sentries peered at him. Then they seemed disappointed at being cheated of prey. "It is only the scout. You had best take off that Destre cloak. Troop Leader. Less careful men might have filled you with arrows before they challenged you . . ."

"I served at Nyald Fort full eight years," Danaer said irritably. "The sentries there learned to know me well enough."

"This is not Nyald Fort. The Destre tribes here are not so well tamed as those dust-Uckers back where you came from."

Swallowing his resentment, Danaer followed inside. It was the first time he had ventured outside Siank Fort after sunset, but not the only distrust and taunting he had endured. When the train from Nyald had arrived two days ago, the regular troops had been wel-

corned as brothers in arms. However, despite Danaer's badges of rank and his acceptance among his own units, the soldiers of this garrison had viewed him with suspicion and had muttered a few insults. Danaer thought he was hardened against such scorn, for he had suffered it long ago when he first entered Yistar's service. Here the animosity of soldiers from The Interior was intact. In this region the Destre-Y were still a most formidable enemy.

The massive gate bars groaned shut and the sentries returned to their watch posts. Danaer rode toward the stabling pens. Several large fires burned cheerily, Ught-ing the compound, offering the greeting the sentries had not.

Shaartre and a few idlers from Danaer's units had been sitting near the quartermaster's cave and gossiping. But now the Troop Leader left the others and ran toward Danaer, waving. "La! You took your time getting back here."

When Danaer stopped, the horse protested the delay, wanting to get to the grain of the stabling pens. Danaer knocked the brute's head away and made a protest of his own to Shaartre. "My pass was clear, was it not? I could have stayed the night, if I wished."

"Dallying in the old section," Shaartre said with a low laugh. "I knew it was a mistake to bring you along. Down in Siank those pretty women of ease will no doubt sell their favors readily to a Destre Hke you, even if they disdain the rest of us ..."

"No, not that." Danaer was forced to smile, though ruefully. "I did find a good inn, and no small problem getting there. The innkeeper Hked my money, but not my uniform. I had barely settled to enjoy myself when a threesome of drunken recruits staggered in, ripe for fighting. I escaped that only by the hem of my mantle. Then I met a pair of Destre warriors even more eager for battle. I bought my way clear with a bottle I had planned to save for myself . . . and when I reached the fort, the sentries saw my colors and took me for a Destre-Y."

"Enough!" Shaartre's gray eyes had twinkled as Danaer ticked off the evening on his fingers. "Why not

put aside that Destre mantle whenever you approach this fort?"

"Why not cut out my heart as well?" Danaer countered.

Shaartre snapped his fingers, remembering what had first spurred him to accost Danaer. "The commandant wants you."

"Yistar?"

"No, no. General Nurdanth. And now. There is no time to go to barracks and seek better dress. The summons was most urgent, some candle-marks past."

Danaer dismounted and made an effort to straighten his dusty uniform. He was accustomed to being summoned by Captain Yistar on Uttle prior warning; but until now he had only seen the commandant of Siank garrison in parade, when the Nyald caravan had arrived.

"You had best hurry," Shaartre said, buJBBLUg Dan-aer's helmet along his sleeve, then clapping it down over Danaer's ears. He roared at a passing troopman, "You, take the scout's horse to the pens. Move lively!"

Danaer himself made haste, heading for the headquarters building, a timbered, two-storeyed structure reared close against the rocky overhang which dominated the fort. As he entered the lampUt interior, a soft, feminine laugh greeted him. After a moment, when his vision had adjusted to the hght, Danaer saw that the only person in the entryway was the woman from Sarlos. She had been sorting through some parchments and drawings scattered on a table. Now she looked at him and said with a teasing smile, "You are much of the night. Scout Danaer."

Her voice had a Sarli lilt, very charming, and well suited to her appearance. Like all the women of Sarlos, she was tiny, though nicely fleshed, much to Danaer's taste. Her complexion was not so brown as many of her people; her face was pert and attractive, with rather rounded cheeks and hps. A yellow scarf the same color as her simple gown was bound about her curly dark hair.

"How do you know my name, my lady?" Danaer asked.

"Oh, you are quite worth remembering." Her eyes were unusually large and a warm brown shade, and now they sparkled with promises of mischief.

Yet those were promises Danaer dared not respond to. When he had first seen her, he had watched her with much interest, as had many another soldier in his units. There had been speculation that perhaps she was the commandant's mistress. But the soldiers who had been longer at the fort told them the truth, one which cooled desires and made the newcomers awed. The lovely Sarli was the companion of a white-bearded elder, a man who wore the dark robes of a sorkra. It was apparent the woman was his apprentice, an attendant to magic.

Osyta's prophecies were strong in Danaer's memory, and he had no wish to become better acquainted with any sorkra. He tried to avoid admiring the curve of her breasts and the enticing flow of the soft gown molding against small waist and thighs. "My fellow Troop Leader informed me that I am wanted by Lord General Nurdanth, and I have come to report."

She studied him, and there was an unnerving coquetry in her expression. Then she sighed and led the way through cramped halls to the officers' sector. At the indicated door, Danaer hesitated briefly before he rapped on the wood. But his knuckles had barely struck when Yistar's familiar bellow ordered, "In! Plague! Come in, and be quick about it!"

Yistar continued to grumble as Danaer and the woman entered. At the first break in his superior's tirade, Danaer said, "Your pardon, Captain. I have only just returned . . ."

"Of no moment, no moment. Here we are. General; my scout, as I promised you."

General Nurdanth was of noble birth, and his quarters reflected his station. Expensive tapers burned in a brazen fixture suspended from ceiling rafters. The golden illumination fell over several artfully carved chairs and a cluttering of documents on shelves and tables lining the walls. A curtain in a far corner shielded the General's bed from rude stares. A table was placed in the center of the room, surrounded by

cushions in the fashion of the plains people. Two men sat there, poring over some dispatches. Neither of them seemed to take notice of the new arrivals.

Yistar shook back his shaggy red forelock, disgruntled at being ignored. Then General Nurdanth glanced up and came to his feet. He nodded most courteously and bade them welcome.

Reflexively, Danaer's arm snapped back stiffly at his side in salute. "Maen Gra Siirn," he began, then caught himself before he lapsed further into the Azsed tongue. The woman cocked her head and looked at him thoughtfully, adding to his embarrassment.

Nurdanth was unoffended, nodding understandingly. He was a man of middle years and common height, with iron-gray hair. His features were sharp and intelligent, and his eyes were those of a healer. In a -gentle tone he said, "Come, Troop Leader, take wine with us. And you also. Lira, my child."