Yardiff Bey
stood, face cold and awful to see. He said, “I see that you have both forgotten
your places.” He made a quick pass with his hand and the room was dark and
chill, and Fania and Strongblade felt a sudden terror clutching their hearts.
The sorcerer stepped forward and calmly pulled Flarecore from his son’s weak,
quivering grasp. He moved back and whirled the big blade one-handed over his
head as if it were a feather. With the other hand, he formed a Sign of potency
which left a glowing red trail suspended in the air behind it. Thunders filled
the room and he called out in an unnatural language and was answered as from
afar by howlings and shrieks. Flarecore’s blade began to glow, then abruptly
went white-hot, throwing off flame and spark.
Fania screamed
and buried her face in her hands. Strongblade had gone dead-pale with fear. The
wizard came close to them again. “Down!” he roared in a voice terrible to hear.
“Down before your Master for the peril of your lives and souls!”
They instantly
threw themselves down at his feet as Strongblade began to froth with madness
and plead while Fania wept and kissed the hem of his robe, begging incoherently
for mercy. He let them go on so for some moments more, until he saw that they
might be permanently impaired if he continued their punishment. Then he spoke a
Dismissal, whereat the room was light once again and the thunder and other
sounds died away, as did the light along Flarecore’s blade.
When they were
able, the two staggered to their feet and helped one another to the door,
sobbing and leaning on each other, and were permitted to leave.
Bey was left
holding Flarecore, satisfied that they would give him no more inconvenience for
some time to come. Still, it had been rather sharp of
Fania—uncharacteristically so—to scheme thus. With Strongblade gone warring,
she would naturally reassume the authority she had been forced to yield at his
coronation. Perhaps he’d better ease the
Ku-Mor-Mai’s
dependency on his
mother to inhibit further plottings. It might even be a good idea to teach his
son the spell which caused Flarecore to burn. That would look impressive, add
some legitimacy to his reign and infuse him with a measure of independence from
Fania.
The little
hunting party wound its way up the easy slope leading away north from Boldhaven
Bay and the city of Seaguard, Coramonde’s primary trading outlet on the Central
Sea. The city harbor falling behind was divided by a long, fortified
promontory, effectively separating the small fishing craft and common commerce
ships from the luxury barges and military vessels.
Seaguard itself
was protected from land by a high, thick, well-fortified wall along which
watchtowers were spaced, each virtually an independent fortress. To the east
were the salt marshes.
The party was
small but illustrious, and so had taken precautions to make an inconspicuous
departure. It included five members; a tracker-guide, two military men of high
ability and rank who wore no insignia of command and two of even higher
station. These were the emissaries of the Prince of the Waves, Lord Paramount
of the Mariners, and the King of Seaguard, whose title in the salutations of
Coramonde was Seashield, though in truth he was more inclined to sharp
bargaining and profit than war on the deeps.
They wended
their way through the low foothills of greenery and bright flowers, giving no
attention at all to tracking other than to see if any other riders had preceded
them, for they were not hunting the beasts of the forests; they hunted
coconspirators. Two days they spent riding, though it pleased the emissary of
the Prince of the Waves little, for he was more used to the roll of a deck
under his feet in a following wind, not liking having to ride this
uncertain-tempered creature with its disturbing gait. Still, he forebore to
complain, since he was there at the direction of his liege, He who Sails
Forever.
He had been
selected for this mission of conspiracy because he possessed in good measure
the ability in suave dissembling and courteous haggling so prized by landsmen,
although he was known on his own ship as a martinet. For this reason, too, he
did not bewail sleeping on the ground or hearing the howls of wolves and the
roars of lions in the night; he controlled himself when, once, they were
menaced by a giant bear whom they had surprised on the narrow track they
traveled.
On the night of
the third day they found—thanks to the guide’s almost magical sense of
direction—a small lodge built into the side of a hill at the foot of
Drear-spike, that bleak needle of rock which thrust itself up in a forest
shunned by most men. A warm fire awaited them in the hidden and guarded covert,
together with five more men.
The soldiers
were sent outside on watch with others who had come there earlier as bodyguards
for those conspirators who had already arrived. The guide was sent to another
room to occupy himself with thoughts of his payment, in the company of others
who had served a similar function; all were careful to show no curiosity at
what might transpire in the main hall. As the light of hearth and candles
illuminated the low, smoke-dyed rafters of the place, the gathered men sat and
conferred, after introductions were made for those not known to one another.
In addition to
the King and the emissary there were these:
Roguespur, son to
Fim the Northwatcher, who had escaped the death of his father and nation, being
a boy in training in the south during the attack of the druids and wildmen of
the Cold Isles. He was light of skin but dark of hair, eye and expression, and
there was the gleam of vengeance hunger in his countenance as he sat wrapped in
his long scarlet cloak. Around his neck was a chain of thick links and from it
a heavy key dangled against his mailed breast. This was the key to the throne
hall at his father’s castle, and he had dared much to take it from that place
when he went alone to scout his foes as they made merry in the stolen castle
that should have been his. He was Roguespur, who would never know peace until
he had exacted payment for his father’s death.
And there was
Honuin Granite Oath, Factotum of a large province in the southwest of
Coramonde, in former times one of Surehand’s closest friends and a renowned
warrior and outdoorsman. Though he was now gone fat and much white had crept
into his walrus mustache, he was still a man to deal death, as canny as any at
warcraft.
Two more sat
across from each other at the board, and the most remarkable thing about them
was that they were not at death strokes, for these were Angorman,
self-proclaimed Saint Commander of the Order of the Axe, and Balagon, Divine
Vicar of the Brotherhood of the Bright Lady; they and their respective
followers of warrior-priests had been at odds for over fifty years.
For two hundred
years the Brotherhood of the Bright Lady had been devoted to deeds of bravery
and justice, and had been priests of that noble Celestial Goddess, while at the
same time being warriors errant, committed to her to the exclusion of all other
women. Their number never stood higher than one hundred, for such was their
rule, though they often numbered fewer, it being their habit to seek out the
most arduous trials and challenges to exhibit their faith and conviction. To be
accepted to the Brotherhood, a man must be a proven fighting man of the first
rank and accept religious schooling to earn a priestly vestment; or
alternatively, but much less frequently, he might be a priest of the Bright
Lady who proved himself at arms on her behalf to the satisfaction of the Divine
Vicar. If he had not done so already, he must forswear worldly pleasures,
particularly those of the flesh.
Then, nearly
fifty-three years before, Balagon rose to Vicarship of that fine and honored
Brotherhood although he was but twenty, for his piety was as unquestionable as
his moral fibre, and there were none who could stand against him in combat. At
that time, from the northernmost isles which even the wildmen did not often
visit, there came Angorman, a salty young roughneck who had heard of the deeds
of the Brotherhood, seen an image of the Celestial Goddess carved on the
bowsprit of a wrecked ship and decided on the spot to join them. He brought
with him little but his impudence, his lofty ideals, a sense of destiny and his
great axe.
But the roster
of the Brotherhood stood at one hundred and he was denied the membership he’d
endured so much to achieve. He was put off for a time, made to prove himself,
which he did with a martial vigor which impressed even the vaunted fighters of
the judging board. But at last he would accept no more forestalling and angrily
demanded admittance. This Balagon refused; the Brotherhood might stand at one
hundred but no more, and his sense of moral rectitude would never permit
Balagon to violate this technicality. Angorman, on the other hand, would not
content himself to wait until an opening occurred; thus, hotheaded and heedless
to the other brothers’ counselings of patience, he set off to found his own
circle of warrior-priests, naming himself a Saint. The Order of the Axe swelled
with men ready to follow charismatic Angorman for the Celestial Goddess. The
years brought hard feelings, and even battle between the two groups, but out of
commitment to the Perfect Mistress and a grudging respect for each other,
Balagon and Angorman had done their best to abate such friction.
Still, there
was no amity between them, and so they sat and eyed each other. Balagon wore
his black ring-mail, covered with the white robe of his office, and at his side
was the broadsword
Ke-Wa-Coe,
which in the Old Tongue means Consecrated
of the Goddess. His thin white hair was held back with a simple circlet of
leather, and on his finger was the heavy seal ring of his station.
Angorman was
dressed all in brown, with his forager’s cloak pulled tight against him for the
chill. He still wore his hat, for his head was hairless save for the thick,
flaring white eyebrows. On that slouch hat, a wide-brimmed and high-crowned
trademark, was the brassard of his order, a crescent moon with a great axe
superimposed, thick and wrought of silver. Angorman’s legendary axe, Red Pilgrim,
rested against the back of his chair; it had been agreed that no weapon should
be put between any of them met there, and Red Pilgrim was impressive to see—a
six-foot handle of ash ending in a flanged double-bit of heroic size.
The last one of
them met there was the man who had called them, maybe the only man of
sufficient repute to draw them together under one roof, Andre deCourteney. He
had come in quickest time, by methods taxing and dangerous—not available to
anyone but his sister and a few other adepts.
He was in
vestments now, red, stiff-collared robes worked with occult designs, seated in
a high-backed chair at the head of the table. When the Seashield and the
emissary had made themselves comfortable, he began.
“I welcome you,
my lords, and thank you for your attendance on behalf of the true heir to the
throne, Prince Springbuck.”
The Seashield
grunted. “It was gladsome hearing, this word that the Prince lives; I’d gotten
rumors to the contrary. There’s hope now of getting Strongblade’s boot off our
necks and ridding ourselves of Yardiff Bey.”
Honuin Granite
Oath
wuffed
out his mustache and said, “Aye, levies and tithes increase
daily and now we have royal proctors peering over our shoulders at every turn
so that I look about for them even when I answer nature’s calls.”
“It isn’t the
Prince’s plan to let this continue unchecked,” Andre said.
Roguespur
nodded. “But that’s not the worst. As our people muster for needless war with
Freegate, the wild-men grow stronger in the land of my father. Bey sees to it
that they get no interference and the day may soon come when, having spent
itself against Reacher, Coramonde will find herself prey to them.”
Andre said
smoothly, “The Prince is moving his will and arm to curtail this brewing war by
denying Strongblade the wherewithal to wage it.”
“How?” asked
the emissary, doubt in his eyes. Of all there, he least wanted to be drawn into
plots and covenants, and so was the most dubious.
The wizard
folded hairy hands over his plump paunch and replied, “The Prince has aligned
himself with King Reacher, rallied various loyal units of Coramonde behind him
and obtained the help of the Horse-blooded. Containing Strongblade at the Keel
of Heaven, he’ll send agents to raise the flag of revolt throughout the suzerainty.”
“But,” said
Honuin Granite Oath, “we’ve few enough regular troops left, and the levies are
under leaders loyal to Strongblade.”
“Springbuck
knows that, and has developed a plan to use the citizenry of the realm. They
will rise to shake Strongblade from his throne and put out Yardiff Bey.”
There were
laughs of disbelief and roars of rage then. Some half rose from their chairs,
speaking their opinion of this speech while the emissary listened silently. But
above all, Honuin could be heard. “Arm the riffraff? Useless and foolish and
worse! It wouldn’t stiffen their spines, it would only put thoughts of banditry
and disloyalty in their heads.”
“What fighting
man will face a battle,” queried Roguespur, “when the man who stands next to
him is an untrained woodcutter quaking in his boots and aching to break and
run? Military engagements are decided by armored, mounted men who know the ways
of war. Are you mad, to put this word before us?” And others seconded his
remarks.
At this Andre,
brows knitted in anger, raised one plump-strong hand; from it a blinding light
filled the room and a wind swept through it. They were thrown back into their
chairs, even those servants of the Bright Lady, cowed by Andre’s magic. Hands
went to hilt and haft but the wizard said, “Do not think because I have invited
you here that I will tolerate such effronteries; no man speaks so to me!”