The web of wizardry (15 page)

with. The regions of the Evil God are preferable to their Uves now ..."

Gasps of outrage shook her audience. Among the plains people, the will of the goddess was supreme, and the delights of the flesh were worship of Argan. If a man were worthy and took warrior woman in honest battle, she might deem him her true conqueror and accept him. If she resisted, he must relish the challenge of proving his valor until she was persuaded. In time of content, a freebom Destre woman bestowed her favors as she chose, or perhaps pledged herself to that man who won her loyalty. The goddess blessed those who took joy in her, and rape was a crime associated with the lit, not with the easy favors and lusty customs of the Zseds. This story of the Clarique women, and what they had suffered at the hands of the Markuand, shocked the council. Unthinkable!

Kandra found the courage to ask, "And where are these ... these monsters now?"

In answer, Malol te Eldri unroUed a map he had brought. "They advance on Laril-Quil, the greatest city of Clarique, that place that once was Traecheus. It is not hoped Laril-Quil can withstand Markuand long."

Gordt te Raa mentioned the news received in his original message from General Nurdanth. "You say the best soldier of the Clarique was defeated by magic..."

Lira nodded. Danaer watched her worriedly, alarmed by her pallor. "That is true. General Thaerl was enchanted by evil spells. He ran witless from the field of battle, bested by the sorcery of Markuand."

"He had somewhere to run," Malol said. "Krantin does not. Beyond the Plains of Barjokt lies the end of the world. If we survive, we must deny Markuand our country— all of Krantin."

Gordt te Raa glanced at Lira. "Wise little sorkra, what of that woman warrior, that she-devil Ti-Mori?" The Royal Commander stiffened at this insulting reference to the herome, the daughter of a lord of The

Interior. Danaer shook his head, warning him to contain his anger.

"Ti-Mori?" Lira blinked several times, seeming disoriented. The folds of her gown stirred, but no breath of breeze had come through the tent. Visibly, she shivered away the phenomenon. "Ti-Mori gathers her scattered forces. South, south of Jlandla, southward of the Markuand advance. She intends to march around them and rejoin the army of Krantin, and her warriors are still many in number. We may count on her aid ..."

"And the Markuand? What of their numbers?"

"To our Web they appeared past counting—twenty legions, thirty, or forty. Row upon row of white-clad hordes, and more arriving daily over the Great Sea Beyond the Islands..."

Gordt te Raa and his Destre-Y winced at this recital. One of the chieftains stood up, and the mutter-ings around the circle hushed. The Siim was of paler complexion than most Destre-Y and his hair was streaked with gold. Plainly there was much of Clarique in his ancestry. "I would add my words to those of the sorkra."

"Lorzosh-Fila," Danaer prompted Malol as the Royal Commander furtively searched his parchment for the man's name. "He is Siim of Deki on the River."

"This army leader speaks truth," Lorzosh-Fila said. "The Markuand face us squarely. My spies bring me bad news every candle-mark now. Many of the Clarique are crossing the river to us, seeking sanctuary. We take them in if we can, but our food supplies are dwindling. Deki and her granaries cannot continue this charity for long. The Markuand are beginning to press hard, to north and south, and against the coast of Clarique. Few boats now come down our river, and no ships come up from the Clarique seas. I plead for all your help. I would, on my faith, that I had both an lit army and a band of Destre warriors to guard Deki's walls. Deki is a fortress, but it will fall to Markuand if you do not come to our aid. We will starve, and then we will die."

Often Destre-Y would hide their innermost thoughts at council. But the faces of the chieftains revealed their dismay, so shocked were they. Questions came at Lira and Malol te Eldri, and at General Nurdanth, who was well known among the Siank clans. The voices were less and less belligerent with each new answer. Many of the chieftains knew only the Azsed tongue, and often Danaer had to translate for Lira and the officers. Some questions were repeated again and again, a probing of details in search for truth, no longer doubting the greater story.

Danaer detected the altered attitude and exulted. Malol's gamble was winning. Danaer had sat on the fringes of smaller gatherings such as this, when he was a youth in Nyald Zsed. He knew the directions questions would take, and when the shift in the wind would mark growing agreement. Success was surely very near.

At that moment, alarm spread over Lira's round face. Her garments were stirring again, but now the cold wind that assaulted her could be felt by everyone in the tent. Winter's ice, stinging the skin, shcing into marrow, came without warning, carried on a howling wind.

Buffeted cruelly by the worst of the sleet. Lira raised her arms. Her voice was shrill as she chanted a magical phrase. In sudden horror, Danaer understood. Wizardry! Attacking the sorkra—and the council!

Even as that comprehension rushed upon him, the wind strengthened to a fierce roaring, ripping at the canopy and shredding it, exposing the council to the open sky and fields. And a new astonishment fell upon the gathering.

The storm existed only in this spot! On the field of contest and among the dwellings of the Zsed there was calm. The chieftains and Malol's party were cut off from the rest of the world, caged in by witchcraft!

Warriors cowered and some left their places, trying to flee this magical storm—only to be knocked to the earth by that merciless, ahen wind. The priests among them mouthed prayers, invoking Argan's protection. Their words were torn from their lips, lost in

the roaring sleet. Hair and beards thickened with icy coatings, fingers turned blue with cold, and men and women choked on fear.

A blinding sheet of lightning broke overhead. Every face was lit brilliantly, and when vision cleared, all saw that they were bathed in blue-white radiance. They braced for the deafening thunderclap which must follow—but it did not. Lightnings walked the tent poles, those which had stood against the wind. The eerie glow danced through the rags of the pa-vihon, and never a crack of thunder. Warriors who could confront the most murderous human foe had no stomach for this terrible wizardry.

Amid the chaos. Lira fought to keep her position, her arms still lifted in some countersorcery. It seemed the little Sarli must be picked up and devoured by the storm wind. Danaer gulped down his dread, concentrating on Lira, realizing the sorkra was their one hope against this thing. Her lips moved, forming the name "Ulodovol." She was summoning her Web to help her! Indeed, one tiny woman should not wage such a battle alone.

Till her fellow wizards came to her aid, Danaer must champion Lira. Crawling against the sleet, he groped toward her. Another figure approached from the opposite direction with the same intent. Danaer and Lasiimte Kandra reached the sorkra simultaneously. Resisting the furious wind, they rose to their knees, locking their hands about Lira Nalu. Army scout and Destre princess supported the pretty Sarli wizard. When her strength failed, they helped her lift her hands skyward once more—for only her spell-casting held off the evil storm from slaying them all. "Power . . . you of the Web ... to me!" Lira was screaming, very close to Danaer's ear, or he would not have heard her. Kandra's exquisite face was contorted by the wind and her honest fear. But she maintained her grip on the sorkra, as did Danaer. If Lira did not win, this Markuand magic might strike them all, destroying the council!

Their alliance bolstered Lna as she continued to chant. Ulodovol must be at Siank garrison, some dis-

tance away. And the other wizards of this Web? If they could reach out to far Clarique, surely they could rally to Lira's aid ...

But they had not been able to save their fellow wizard in Clarique.

Kandra bent her sleek head, bracing Lira's with her own, steadying the smaller woman. Danaer felt a man's hands upon his, adding to the ring of bodies protecting Lira. It was Gordt te Raa, side by side with his consort, fathoming her purpose and Danaer's. They sheltered the wizard woman all around, giving Lira space to breathe—and to weave magic—amid the raging storm.

All at once, as suddenly as it had fallen upon them, the wind died. A cloud beast might have sucked up the darkness and silent lightning into itself, then melted away as mist in the sunlight.

And there was sunlight. Peluva's golden burden poured warmth and comfort down on the shattered ruins. Men and women picked themselves out of the rubble. They had braved death in clan wars and caravan raids, but now many edged away, as if to flee the knoll where wizardry had seized them.

"Destre! Do you forget? We are a council." Gordt te Raa proved his right to be Siirn Rena, his courage, and that of his woman, an example to his chieftains. "Resume your places. We are not done."

Gordyan was wide-eyed, but unlike many others, he had made no attempt to escape the knoll. He came to Lasiirnte Kandra, anxiously asking after her welfare, then, belatedly, after the sorkra's. Encouraged by their rephes, he looked at Danaer and said fervently, "The goddess will honor you for your courage, warrior."

"Not that," Danaer said, aware of a shuddering in his belly, now that what had happened came full upon his mind. "It was only that she had to complete her magic." Lira was extremely pale, now and then a sob catching in her throat. At the moment she seemed very delicate and most ill-suited for her wizard profession. Danaer put an arm about Lira and slowly led her back to her place. She sat on the cushions, very erect as she smoothed her sleet-torn gown and broke

melting ice from her ribbons. Her pallor was fading, but Danaer continued to watch her. She must not be taxed, for the magic storm might come again—and again she would have to seek the distant powers of her wizard Web.

Gordyan bellowed at his guards and the servants, setting them to repairing the canopy. Not all of it could be found, but enough was roped together to form a roofless tent.

The contests on the meadows had stopped, for now the people of the Zsed at last could see that something had struck the pavilion. Much confused, they rushed toward the knoll, full of questions. Gordyan's guards held them back. "Tell them all is well in hand," Gordt te Raa commanded. He glanced at Lira and added, "Ai, it is well in hand, for now Azsed has enjoyed the power of the sorkra. Thanks to that, we still will have council."

A semblance of order was restored. Uneasily, warriors and priests and attendants formed a circle again. Gordt te Raa remained standing until all the mantles were properly in place. Then he addressed Malol and Nurdanth. "For this war agamst Markuand and its evil wizardry you will need Destre warriors, you say?"

There was a stirring around the council circle, but none challenged the Siim Rena. He behaved as if nothing had happened; an alliance was already struck.

"Indeed we shall," Malol said quickly. "Not merely the army needs your warriors, but all of Krantin, to guard our borders. Think not that the Markuand will spare the tribes of Destre-Y."

Gordt te Raa surveyed the flimsy makeshift canopy, his face darkening with anger. "As we have seen. They dare to strike at a council of Azsed, these Markuand! They have come against Destre-Y—and they shall pay a cost they have not prepared for."

Malol pressed his arguments. "The Clarique army is larger than that of Krantm—yet the Clarique were broken. There was treachery and evil magic, it is true. But in time the numbers of the Markuand alone might well have won victory, for they are most strong. I must be frank. The army of The Interior cannot hold

back Markuand, not unaided. Lorzosh-Fila is right, and the sorkra is right. We need warriors, Destre warriors, and we need them desperately. Without them, Krantin will fall to Markuand, and to the terrible wizards who guide them and plague us with magic storms."

''And you ask our help. I warn you, Commander, lancers we have aplenty, but few swordsmen," Gordt te Raa said.

''Excellent!" Malol exclauned. "We need lancers, and we have seen how superb the Destre are at such arts—^if we had any doubts after so long meeting your warriors in battle."

Gordt te Raa grinned nastily. "And we do not fight afoot."

"That is understood. The army will supply the necessary infantry."

The Siim Rena conferred with his consort with his eyes. Kandra nodded encouragingly. Obviously the beautiful Lasiimte had a profound influence over her lord. "Lancers ... and archers?"

Nurdanth was delighted to find the army's new ally so astute. "By all means!"

Gordt te Raa and Kandra and several of the more powerful chieftains studied the map Malol had brought. Gordyan used his height to see over their shoulders, curiously peering at the chart and his Siirn's gestures across the marked territories.

"How much time have we?" the Destre leader asked Malol.

"None at all! We have lost too much already."

"It is more than a ten-days' ride to the western clans, if my messengers go by the plains route. The Tradyans are widely scattered. It is the time of their great hunts. If you wish Tradyan archers for this war, how may I summon such quickly?"

"Perhaps we might use a special messenger," Lasiirnte Kandra suggested. Her dulcet voice made the men attend her instantly. "It may be that a Destre courier could cross the Mountains of the Mare in a few days—with your safe conduct, Royal Commander."

Malol was tempted, but he sighed and said, "That would not be wise, I fear. There are those in The Interior who oppose this alHance between our peoples. A Destre would be a target for their assassins. I propose that summoning the Tradyans to our battle ranks shall be the army's risk."

"But who of the army could ever reach Stethoj of the West?" Gordt te Raa wondered. "He abhors helmet and sword. He would never welcome the army's messenger, nor any representative of The Interior."

"I will send one of my ofi&cers who is well known to Stethoj—a man hated by the Tradyans, but one they trust, a man who keeps his vows to them. They respect him, even though he has slain many of their tribesmen." Malol took a heavy breath and spoke one word: "Branra."