StarMan (8 page)

but he did not intend that the breeding should continue.

"But the breeding
has
continued," Gorgrael hissed, and he felt the Dark Man twitch under his hand.

"Already I have seven hundred and twenty-nine. And soon they will whelp. Each will whelp nine pregnant pups. Do you know how many that will be, Dear, Dear Man?"

The Dark Man was silent, almost overcome with horror. "Over six and a half thousand. And in another four months those six and a half thousand will whelp - almost sixty thousand pups. And in four months those sixty thousand will -" "Stop!" the Dark Man cried, and jerked his arm from Gorgrael's grasp.

"And not to forget, of course, the
second
Gryphon I created. She and hers have generated eighty-one Gryphon. In just over a month those eighty-one will become seven hundred and -"

"Yes, yes!" the Dark Man spat. "I understand!" "No," Gorgrael said very, very softly. "I do not think you do. I am the Destroyer, Dear Man, and I
plan
to destroy. Whatever pretty enchantments Axis can throw my way, I will still destroy Tencendor. With the Gryphon- breeding as they do, in less than a year there will be five-hundred thousand of them in the skies of Tencendor, Dear Man. Think of it.

Five-hundred thousand. So what if my comely brother can stab one or two here or there? Or his army forty or fifty thousand? Even if one escapes,
one,
that one will breed nine, and those nine will whelp nine each, and...I need not continue. Even if
one
escapes, within two years at least sixty thousand will repopulate the skies of Tencendor."

Behind his hood the Dark Man stared at Gorgrael, appalled.

"So you see," Gorgrael said, "even if Axis destroyed me in battle, I have planned that he shall have nothing left to enjoy. Not even Axis can counter the virulence of the Gryphon. Eventually there will be nothing left of this green and pleasant land except the shadows of Gryphon wheeling and shrieking through the sky. They will blot out the sun and they will destroy and destroy and destroy until there is nothing -
nothing -
left!"

Oh Stars, thought the Dark Man, and felt the plans of three thousand years crumble to dust about him.

Gorgrael grinned triumphantly. At
last
he had bested the Dark Man. And if he could do that, then Gorgrael knew that he would best Axis.

A Holy Crusade

Gilbert had known from the moment the Corolean transports disgorged their traitorous pirates into the seething mass that was the Battle of Bedwyr Fort that Borneheld was all but dead. Borneheld and his armies had failed to protect the Seneschal, and had failed in their supreme duty to Artor.

Not only would the beautiful Tower of the Seneschal now be overrun by Axis and the Forbidden, but Gilbert had realised that Carlon itself was lost. Sooner or later, Axis would seize the capital of Achar as well.

Gilbert had understood very clearly that his future lay as far away from Jayme, Borneheld and Carlon as he could get. He also knew that the future of the Seneschal and the Way of the Plough probably rested with him. Jayme had proved useless in massing the not inconsiderable resources of the Seneschal against Axis' forces; now the Brotherhood lay scattered among the ruins of Achar.

So Gilbert had backed silently away from Jayme and Moryson as they stood atop the parapets of Carlon, and sped down back stairs and corridors until he reached the home of one of his many cousins within the city. There he had begged a horse, clothes, supplies and a purse of gold coins and had ridden out of Carlon not five minutes before Borneheld and Gautier, fleeing from the battlefield, had ordered the gates sealed.

He rode hard and fast south, turning east after two days (fording the Nordra late one night and almost drowning in the process) to begin his long trek across the southern plains of Tare. He was not completely sure where he was going; he had a vague compulsion to travel east, perhaps to Arcness, maybe then north to Skarabost.

Each night Gilbert would pray to Artor for guidance. Surely Artor would not desert him or the Seneschal in this, its hour of greatest need?

It was now the third week of DeadLeaf-month, almost a month after the Battle of Bedwyr Fort, and Gilbert sat morosely by his tiny campfire, considering his future. It did not look very promising. From what he had heard from the occasional passing trader, many of whom had been returning to Nor from Carlon, Axis had destroyed the throne of Achar and had proclaimed himself StarMan of Tencendor.

Gilbert snorted. StarMan of Tencendor? A gaudy title for the rebirth of an evil world.

He shivered in the cool night air and pulled his cloak tightly about him. Since he had escaped from Carlon he had not been able to travel very far; currently he was, at his best estimation, somewhere in the northern regions of Nor, or perhaps western Tarantaise.

He fingered his purse. He had carefully hoarded his coins, bargaining fiercely in the markets of the small towns he had passed through for food and supplies. He travelled as a minor nobleman - an easy disguise to assume since Gilbert had originally come from one of the nobler families of Carlon - because in these eastern territories, where Axis' armies and the Forbidden who travelled with him had already passed, it would not be very wise to be seen to be a Brother. Gilbert had also heard from the few merchants he had encountered that the names of old gods were now mouthed with increasing confidence across eastern Achar.

He leaned forward and prodded the bread he had baking in the coals. He had no life but that he had built for himself in the Seneschal. A young man, not yet thirty, Gilbert had risen quickly through the ranks of the Brotherhood. Six years ago Jayme had appointed him as his junior adviser, and Gilbert was not ashamed to admit to himself that his eye rested on the throne of the Brother-Leader itself. Jayme was old, as was Moryson, and who better to succeed Jayme than the talented younger adviser?

Of course, this possibility had been blown awry when this Destroyer had invaded from the north, and the BattleAxe had revealed his true colours and set about destroying both Achar and the Seneschal.

Now Gilbert was left with little more than his broken ambitions to comfort him.

So Gilbert sat, desolately prodding the bread that seemed determined not to rise, until he gradually became aware that he was being watched.

For some time he continued to sit, absolutely still, his eyes on the now blackening bread, his ears straining. After long minutes of silence, Gilbert could stand it no longer.

"Who's there?" he called, injecting as much bravado into his voice as he could.

Silence still then a small scratching noise as someone shifted a foot.

"Gilbert?" a thin, reedy voice quavered. "Gilbert?"

"Artor's arse!" Gilbert swore, so completely forgetting himself that he used an obscenity which until now he'd only heard soldiers mouth. "Moryson?"

"Aye, 'tis I," Moryson said, then shuffled into the light of the fire.

Gilbert's mouth dropped as he stared at the man who had been Jayme's senior adviser. Moryson looked even thinner and more fragile than usual, his clothes hanging tattered and dirty from his spare frame. A week-old stubble covered his cheeks, and his right hand trembled spasmodically as if he had damaged a nerve in his arm or neck.

"May I join you?" Moryson asked, looking as if he was about to fall, and Gilbert gestured to a spot by the fire.

Moryson sank down gratefully. "You are a hard man to catch, Gilbert."

Gilbert continued to stare. Moryson was the last person he would have expected to appear in this lonely night. "Why aren't you with - ?"

"With Jayme?" Moryson's voice was stronger now that he'd taken the weight off his legs. "Why not?

Because Jayme was ultimately a fool, Gilbert, and a loser. I may be old but I am not yet prepared to die."

Slowly Gilbert closed his mouth. Moryson was the last one he would have thought to desert Jayme.

For perhaps forty years the pair had been inseparable, the friendship between them so deep and so strong - and so exclusive, Gilbert thought resentfully - that he would have wagered his own immortal soul on the fact that Moryson would elect to stay and share Jayme's fate.

"How did you escape Carlon?" Gilbert asked.

And why are you here, now?

Moryson coughed, a harsh guttural sound, and Gilbert passed across a waterskin.

Moryson took a deep draught, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Thank you. I have not drunk in over a day. Well now, how did I escape? I saw you flee down the stairs as it became evident that Borneheld, the fool, had lost the battle with Axis. I knew why you left. There was nothing protecting Carlon now, and Axis would have little sympathy for you - nor for Jayme or myself.

"I tried to follow you down the stairs, but my legs are old and weak, and I lost you within minutes."

Gilbert frowned; surely he would have heard if Moryson had stumbled down the stairs after him?

"Jayme might choose to stay and confront his former BattleAxe, but I chose to leave and risk my life elsewhere," Moryson continued. "After I had lost you I fled to a small door I knew of, which opens onto Grail Lake. There I found a small

boat moored. Exhausted, but frightened by the thought that soon Axis himself might come riding into Carlon, I rowed my way across the lake to a spot well north of the Tower of the Seneschal, then began my tedious flight."

Moryson's voice strengthened as he warmed to his tale. "For days I stumbled east, then south-east, desperate to avoid Axis and the Forbidden, snatching food where I could, rest where I dared. After a week I heard tell from a passing merchant, Dru-Beorh by name, that he had encountered you further south in Nor. I wondered if perhaps my future lay with you. Alone I could do nothing, but Gilbert, I thought, Gilbert must have a plan. I shall find Gilbert. So, here I am."

Gilbert just stared at the old man. Deprivation and fright have driven him senseless, he thought. How had he managed to survive this long?

"And what sort of plan did you think I might have in mind?" he asked. "What did you think I would be able to do for you?"

"I thought that you might know somewhere to hide," Moryson said, his voice slipping back into fragility. "I won't survive on my own, but, I thought, my old friend Gilbert will help me."

Old friend indeed, Gilbert thought angrily. Moryson and Jayme kept me at arm's length for years, never trusting me with their secret confidences, never truly thinking I was worthy of their regard. Yet now Moryson, frightened and directionless, dares to sit here and tell me that he is and has always been my friend.

"I thought perhaps we could find some of our scattered brethren," Moryson said. "Axis must have dispossessed dozens of Plough-Keepers as he rode through eastern Achar towards Carlon."

Gilbert finally noticed the blackened remains of the bread and busied himself pulling the loaf clear of the coals, thinking carefully as he did so. Moryson's vague words had given him the germ of an idea. He was right. There
must
be many Brothers of the Seneschal, scholars as well as the local Plough-Keepers -the Brothers who ministered within the villages - wandering as vaguely and with as little direction as he and Moryson. Singly they could do nothing, but together ...

"You have hit the matter on the head, Moryson," he said. "I intend to move eastwards and gather what remnants of the Brotherhood remain."

"And then?" Moryson asked. "What will we do then?" "It is best that I wait until we are a dozen or so, Moryson," Gilbert replied smoothly, "and then I shall inform you of my plan."

Moryson nodded, his shoulders hunched. Gilbert remembered Moryson as a strong and proud man, in spirit if not in body, but the man who now sat across the fire seemed shattered, almost servile.

Well, he thought, Moryson has had a bad few weeks, and has seen his life and his power destroyed.

No wonder the old man now appears to want nothing more than a blanket-wrapped chair by a fire.

Gilbert smiled as he realised that the relationship between himself and Moryson had altered dramatically.

Now he was the driving force, now he would say what was to be done and when, and Moryson would nod and agree and say that Gilbert knew best. Sitting about this fire were the two most senior members of the Seneschal remaining (for Axis had surely skewered Jayme by now), and of the two, Gilbert was the strongest. That makes me the leader of the Seneschal, he realised suddenly. am to all effects and purposes the Brother-Leader of the Seneschal!

After gloating to himself for some minutes, Gilbert finally thought to carve up what was left of the bread and pass some to Moryson with some beef and a wizened apple. That should keep the old man alive until morning.

Once they had finished eating and as the fire died down, Gilbert led the nightly prayers to Artor. Even during the most harried days of his escape, Gilbert had never neglected his evening and dawn prayers to Artor. Of all the things that could be said about Gilbert, lack of dedication to his beloved god was not one of them.

Moryson and Gilbert were startled from their observances by a strange rhythmic thumping. It surrounded them, and the men exchanged puzzled and fearful glances as the noise grew louder. "What is it?" Gilbert finally asked, not raising his voice above a whisper.

Moryson actually whimpered, and Gilbert glanced his way. If Moryson had seemed weak and fearful previously, now he was absolutely terrified. He had curled himself into as small a ball as possible, as if he could somehow burrow into the earth and escape whatever it was that came their way. "
What is it?"

Gilbert hissed.

"Ahhh!" Moryson moaned, and wriggled some more, actually scraping at the earth with his fingers.

"Moryson!"

"Artor!" Moryson cried. "It is Artor!" Gilbert stared at him wide-eyed. Artor? For an instant Gilbert's reaction vacillated between outright terror and transcendent ecstasy. Ecstasy won.

"Artor!"he screamed and leapt to his feet.
"Artor!
It is /! Gilbert! Your true servant! What must I do to serve you? What is your desire? "