These were prowler-cavalry,
an elite even among Bonesteel’s crack Legion. Horsemen nearly as adroit as the
Horseblooded themselves, the prowlers were skilled trackers, adept at scouting
and deep-penetration patrols. They could live off the land indefinitely, find
their way over strange terrain almost instinctively, go undetected in hostile
territory and outride pursuit on swift, sure-footed horses. The six here were a
quarter of all the prowlers in Bonesteel’s command.
The girl was something else
again. She was winding her waist-length, honey-streaked hair up to pull on her
conical helmet. She fitted it on and he studied the beautiful, deep-gray eyes
behind her helm’s nasal piece. She was no older than eighteen or so, and wore a
mail byrnie and baggy pants tucked into high boots altogether like those of the
prowlers; she bore a slender, unadorned sword at her side. He didn’t know if
she had slept with it close to hand, and it occurred to him that it could be
dangerous to find out, especially since the others treated her so respectfully
and would be inclined to feel protective.
She considered
him frankly for a moment and he found himself uncomfortable. “I am Duskwind,”
she said, “and to me has been entrusted the task of bringing you back to
Freegate.”
“Gil MacDonald.
I guess Springbuck and Van Duyn and the others got to whatsisname, Reacher?”
“The
Wolf-Brother has rallied many of the steppes tribes to him and some of the
forces of Coramonde have defected to our side. Things are more heartening now
than formerly.”
“The Wolf-Brother?”
“Reacher is
known by diverse names in many places. Wolf-Brother is one.”
She gestured
over her shoulder and their horses were led up. They mounted, and the six
prowlers took to their horses. Gil was about to sling his carbine when he
noticed an empty quiver at the side of his saddle, fixed there to carry an,
unstrung bow or short javelins. He found that it held his light weapon
satisfactorily, even with the thirty-round banana clip in it.
They set off
again, as rapidly as the night before; but this time it was much easier, since
they had light. Within moments they passed one of the places remnant of the
time antedating the Great Blow, a collection of tall columns of some black
stone overgrown with vines sprouting orange orchids. Gil wanted to ask more
questions but withheld them. The course was winding, but not as difficult as
last night’s. He calculated that they were making respectable progress due
east. Once, as they rode through a tight dell, a noise to his left drew his
glance and he saw a figure duck back out of sight on the ridge line.
“Outlaw,
maybe,” Duskwind said without being asked or looking around. “Or a peasant
hiding from the levies, or possibly just some curious, careful hunter.”
They ate in the
saddle, quick bites of salted meat and gulps from water skins. By now, Gil had
concluded that they were testing him, seeing how well he’d stand up to being
led along, waiting for him to give in and start demanding they pause, like some
raw recruit. Instead, he kept a sharp eye on their route for ambush and
concentrated on improving his riding.
They paused to
rest their horses and he took the occasion to stand next to Duskwind. He
thought to offer her a Lifesaver—butterscotch, and much the worse for being in
his pocket for two days—and she accepted it and was delighted with the taste.
He found it difficult to begin a conversation; even with the trail dust on her
face she was a very attractive girl.
“Er, are all
the squad leaders here good-looking, or are you the exception?”
A weak gambit,
but she allowed it a smile, showing deep dimples. “I am no combat leader,
indeed. But I’ve been through this country in the past and I’ve familiarized
myself with the maps at Earthfast, and none of Bonesteel’s scouts had been here
ere now. What’s more, I was growing tired of Freegate. Palace life is boring,
and when I tried for a commission in one of the new units, I found my martial
skills were insufficient—for the nonce. Still, I can learn.”
He found much
of the answer obscure, but didn’t want to bog down now. “Why would you want to
learn? I mean, it’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Truly. I’ve
always been impatient with woman’s traditional lot. When the Wolf-Brother, my
cousin King Reacher I mean, offered the assignment of spying for him at
Earthfast, I took it right away. I’d long admired his sister her freedom and
activity. But I’d never had the chance to practice the soldier’s arts as much
as I would have liked. Not for me to sit around a Court cooing, my friend.”
He sympathized. It would be
awfully rough for a woman to get ahead in a culture where muscles and reflexes
settled most of the issues of the day. He supposed he’d better get acquainted
with local weapons as soon as he could.
“We must move
quickly yet for some time,” she said, “even though it’s hard on the horses. We
shouldn’t run into any of Strongblade’s troops, since they’ve mustered at one
central Keep, but it’s just as well to avoid main roads. We don’t want to risk
losing your books or you.”
“I think that’s a terrific
attitude,” said Gil MacDonald sincerely.
That evening
they stopped and made proper camp, unsaddling their horses and rubbing them
down. They even lit a tiny fire, since no outlaw or refugee was likely to go
against so many well-armed men. The prowlers were inclined to leave Duskwind
and Gil alone. He welcomed the situation. He let her fill him in on the
background of the war and the Crescent Lands in general, at the same time
availing himself of long looks at her. He was rather shy and a bit clumsy at
this unfamiliar, agreeable predicament of being thrown together in the wilds
with a delectable female. But he persevered, and found it all captivating.
They went with
minimal provisions, moving hard and as long as conditions permitted, the
limiting factor usually being the horses. Often, a prowler would shoot some
small game during the day for the night’s meal. Gil was astounded at their
proficiency with the bow while ahorse.
He enjoyed
Duskwind’s company thoroughly, more so as he became used to the constant
riding. Though younger than he, she had a self-reliant, confident air
appropriate to an older woman. She was an enigma, at times speaking to him of
the intricate etiquette and elaborate ceremony of Court and possessed of dainty
bearing in jest; at others, joining in the rough joking of the prowlers, who
fairly worshiped her. She plainly savored the unpolished life they shared. She
often looked tired and he knew that she wasn’t used to crude living conditions,
but exhausted as she was, she was evidently thriving on it all.
During their talks
he learned that war might begin any day now. Bulf, the brother of the late
Rolph Hightower, had proclaimed defiance of Strongblade’s reign and resolved to
have vengeance. Springbuck, Andre deCourteney and their allies were irked by
the premature move, but Bulf was a man of conviction, not discretion, and it
was generally conceded that a punitive expedition would not be long in coming.
During one
campfire dialogue Gil confessed that he was still vague about the origins of
the situation in Coramonde. Duskwind, lying on her stomach with chin on hands,
came at the subject obliquely.
“What are good
and evil in your world?” she queried.
“Uh-uh Babe.
I’m not biting on that one.”
“Well, I’ll
tell you what they are here. They’re two classes of forces that have been
tottering the world back and forth throughout history.
“Good? Oh, you
could say it’s a grouping with emphasis on the benign. Peace. Human weal. A
constellation of attitudes that, in sum, are beneficent. Evil—and this is handy
terminology only, my friend—lusts for dominance, hungers for serf-indulgence
regardless of others, wallows in violence, revels in pain.”
He was lying on
his back surveying unfamiliar stars, listening and cracking his knuckles.
“Are you
interested in this or not?” she snapped sharply, convinced she was being
ignored.
He chuckled.
“Go ahead,” he said without looking around. “Please excuse my musical joints.”
She giggled.
“Now, labels sometimes obscure more than they clarify. Good has often
masqueraded as evil and vice versa. Not all participants in the struggle are
human, either. There’s constant warfare between transcendent personalities:
demons, elementals, even gods. Humans who participate on those levels are
called witches, enchanters, and so forth.
“At any pass,
two centuries ago saw a pivotal battle, when the sorcerers of Shardishku-Salamá
tried to liberate the hosts of the Inferno into the real world.”
His mind flew
to that place. Beads of moisture started at his forehead.
“They were
prevented,” she continued, “but not before they did grave damage. We’ll never
know how many heroes rose to heights of glory only to fall in sanguine battle.
“This was the
Great Blow and it altered the world. Altered, did I say? Bent, twisted, turned
topsy-turvy is better but still understatement. The fabric of reality was rent
and many strange things entered the world, and many others left it forever.
“To jump
intervening years, Gil MacDonald, Shardishku-Salamá tried its penultimate
attack again thirty years ago. This time they were struck down almost at once,
and what I’ve called evil fell back on all fronts.
“In the north,
Fim—Lord Roguespur’s father—drove the druids out to exile with the island
wildmen. In the south, Thom, the Land’s Friend and the Sisterhood of Glyffa
solicited the help of the men of Veganá to break and raze Death’s Hold, a
stupendous coastal fortress that threw its shadow across the Outer Sea and
harbored foulness. The Prince of the Waves even sent Mariners to help that
final assault. Quite unprecedented.
“What happened
then we only know now. Yardiff Bey was privy to those who commanded the fight
for good, but he was a creature of Shardishku-Salamá—”
“A sleeper,”
Gil interjected.
“A what?”
“Sleeper. He
was huddling with you, but he was playing for them.”
“Hmm. I think I
see. Bey embarked on this grand scheme of his, using people and spirits,
bartering with his own soul and others’. He worked Fim’s downfall, and the
druids and wildmen hold the north. He had Thom tempted and destroyed. He
undermined the throne of Coramonde and set the desert hordes against the
Crescent Lands.
“So we’re at a
crux. Van Duyn tells me that issues of right and wrong aren’t as clear-cut in
your world. I envy you and pity you at the same time, but one thing’s certain;
this war coming at us with such speed could fix the destiny of the world.”
Gil rolled over
and stared at her across the campfire. “It is clear-cut, isn’t it?” He lay
back, head resting on his arm.
“That’s the
most jolting thing about this place,” he whispered. “Maybe that’s what drew me
back, but it scares me stiff; a showdown of total opposites. Can anything
survive a battle like that? Isn’t everyone tainted with at least a little bit
of both?”
She watched him
drift in thought, and had the fleeting impression that he was mad, or
Enlightened.
They crossed
the wide, bleak, rocky passage at Barren Ford, taking the moody Blackflood
River at its least treacherous point, and swung south to the Western Tangent,
eventually passing the giant merestone that Springbuck and the other renegades
had left behind them long weeks before.
The small
villages and towns he’d seen hadn’t prepared him for his first sight of
Freegate, and the tall spires on the far side of the forbidding chasm made him
gasp. Their escort was dismissed at the barbican after transferring the
precious cargo to the metropolitan Guardsmen, and Gil and Duskwind were ushered
without delay into a room adjacent to the throne room where yet another
consultation of war was under way. Bewilderingly hurried introductions were made
by Van Duyn, who seemed honestly pleased to have him back. Springbuck, sporting
the beginnings of a beard, clasped Gil’s arm warmly; and Andre pounded him on
the back. He discovered that the pudgy wizard was a good deal stronger than
he’d thought, just looking at the man. Even Gabrielle vouchsafed him a smile
and an inclination of her gorgeous head, sending a shimmer through the swirling
scarlet mass of her hair. She was arrayed in a long, close-clinging gown of
purest white, which bared her proud shoulders and haughty neck and the green
gemstone nestled in the cleft of her scented bosom. Springbuck was proprietary
toward her and Gil saw that she’d shifted her favors. Seeing her, he could only
pity the scholar.
As he eyeballed
the Snow Leopardess and Reacher, Van Duyn took him aside for a hasty
conference.
“We rolled
snakeyes on the books,” Gil said. “I can make out the diagrams and pictures,
but I don’t seem to be able to read ’em. Every time I try, it’s like I’ve got
whadayacallit. word-blindness?”
“Dyslexia,” Van
Duyn said absently, disappointed. “The translation effect.”
“Aw, well, no
sense getting bent out of shape about it. I can remember all the important
military stuff, I’m sure. You’re just going to have to reinvent the rest.”
Van Duyn
mumbled something. Gil grew indignant. “What’re you crying about, Ace? You’ve
got me, haven’t you? You know what contour plowing is, and the Bill of Rights.
And movable type and Mercator projections.”
The other
nodded reluctantly.
“I talked to
some of those prowlers on the way here,” Gil continued. “Want to know a good
bet we missed? Something that might’ve really given us an edge in a long
campaign?”
Van Duyn, the
problem solver, was curious in spite of himself.
“A couple of
crates of antibiotics. Or malaria pills. Seems that during a protracted war
around here, there’s almost always plenty of disease among the troops. Just as
many men get knocked down by dysentery as by arrows. It never occurred to me;
when you go into the U.S. Army, they inoculate you for everything but
horniness. I was thinking: maybe a few rules for field sanitation would mean as
much as an extra regiment. Be careful about food, water, rats and lice and it
might make quite a difference, no?”