The web of wizardry (23 page)

Gradually the revelry died, and the early morning was punctuated only occasionally by an annoyed complaint as someone stepped on another's foot or hand or interrupted lovers in their blankets. Picketing blacks

nickered to the rest of their herd and to the roans tethered near Gordyan's Zsed.

Still Lira's chanting continued, and Danaer held sleep at bay. He would pay a hard price, once day arrived. And with little to show for it save a dark memory! Not even the pleasure of being drunk. Ruefully, amused by his dilemma, he grinned. While his troops sported with women, he sat guard, chaste and all too sober, keeping watch over a sorkra.

Osyta had prophesied he should be part of things undreamed of by most Destre-Y. Again the crone had foreseen rightly. He sighed and acknowledged his dead kinswoman had told him the truth.

Then he tensed, hand on knife, peering into the approaching dawn. Seeing would have been easier had it still been full night. But his scout's vision probed movement where none should have been, past the pickets, coming toward Lira's tent.

Quietly he got to his feet, cocking his head. There was a moving shadow out there, and he would know how it was shod. Boots? Sandals? It was no animal, and it was not a thing of magic, but had weight and substance.

He kept his back to the tent, letting the flickering torchlight fall over his shoulder and catch the glint of his blade. As he did, the movement in the darkness stopped, frozen.

For many minutes Danaer waited patiently, watching. The unknown stalker waited also. Then, as furtively as the light seeping through purpling clouds in the east, the figure withdrew. Danaer did not lessen his vigilance until it was gone. The horses stamped nervously and whinnied, apparently reacting as the stranger crept by their pickets. Whoever he was, he had successfully evaded sentries of both army and Des'tre.

Daring at last to lower his guard, Danaer eased himself down beside Lira's tent once more. He scanned the area, looking for other forms lurking in the twilight, finding none.

Had it been one of Hablit's men? Or was this an

agent of that mysterious cloaked figure, the traitor from The Interior?

No matter. It was too late. They did not like the day, and now the sun was Lira's ally, forestalling the enemy. The sky was coloring to pink and gold. Soon the trumpets would blare the call to muster. Lira's web was safe, and so was she, and Danaer prided himself that his diUgence had served her well.

XIII

Bogotana's Sink

There had been little conversation among the troops this day. At first that had been the result of too much merriment and drunkenness the night before; and Danaer too had been silent, held by memories of magic and lurking assassins, though he had not shared his unit mates' revelry. The caravan moved deep into the blasted wasteland east of Vidik. Dullness left by drink and lack of sleep were forgotten, for now the column entered Bogotana's Sink.

Since midmorning they had been passing bleached bones of humans and animals and the wreckage of countless carts and wagons. Sulfurous pits boiled and bubbled, emitting a poisonous stench which made men choke and sickened the horses that strayed into the fumes. The scant vegetation was encrusted with a peculiar white exudation. If man or beast touched that material by accident, skin burned and seeped agonizingly, and after a few such occurrences, all took great care to avoid the stuff. The trail grew serpentine, winding around great rifts and fissures torn through the earth. Some ancient cataclysm had rent this place, and the legends said it was then that Bogotana climbed from his realm and took possession of the Sink. The tortured waste stretched far to north and south, nearly

to the borders of Krantin. There was no swifter way to Deki than through its fiery width.

Not only the land assaulted the caravan, but the sky as well. The heavens were leaden, and a sun which had seemed comfortingly warm at Siank and Vidik now shone with merciless fury. The sandy ground gave the heat back again, redoubled. Men trudged listlessly and the animals' tongues began to loll. At Vidik, Gordyan and Yistar had taken good care to see that every water wagon and vessel was filled to the brim. Now they exhorted their commands to hurry through the worst of the Sink, fearing to lose both time and lives.

But trouble afresh had come from a quarter no one could have expected. The sky lowered and filled with terrible black clouds. Men had only moments to appreciate the blotting out of the burning sun. Then rain poured down in long, sleeting streamers, a dark loom set against the horizon, the warp threads thundering down on the column.

No rain had fallen in this part of Bogotana's Sink in generations. Yet it fell now, in torrents that tore away the trail and made the road a sodden trap. Dry sand sucked up the rain, and wheels sank axle-deep. Cart horses mired and bleated piteously as they tried to get free. Drivers flogged their brutes; soldiers, soaked to the skin, put shoulders to the wheel, pushing the wagons out of the new-made ruts. Some animals burst their hearts in the struggle; a few men slipped and were crushed under the wheels when the wagons came free too suddenly for them to step out of the way. Curses and wails rose into the steaming air, and many prayed to any god who would succor them.

Then, almost in an instant, the rain vanished. In its place was the normal climate of Bogotana's Sink— the cloudless sky and a sun so brilliant it leeched juice from man and beast. Damp fairly boiled from clothes and hair as the caravan doggedly staggered forward again. Yistar set his jaw and ordered the advance, no matter what supernatural form the weather would take. Far on the fringes of the army column,

Gordyan's warriors suffered the same astonishments and discomfort. And like Yistar, Gordyan would not be bested by these strange events.

Within a thousand lengths, the rains closed in upon them again. No! Upon part of the caravan. This time some drivers baked while four wagons ahead men were drenched and their teams floundered.

Once more, as quickly as it had begun, the storm dissipated, moving to strike at another section of the afficted column.

Uneasy whispers ran through the lines. Men spoke of witchcraft, when they had wit and strength to speak at all. Danaer felt the same dread, and he knew his young apprentices must share his fear of magic. Xashe and Rorluk made no complaint, though. Perhaps they were too wearied after their night's carousal. If they spoke at all, it was a terse comment on landmarks, a question about the route.

That was a sore point, and an embarrassing one, for Danaer. Twice he had led the caravan a hundred lengths astray, for the mirages had come back in full force. These were so real he had not doubted them.

Once Gordyan, more familiar with the trail, had ridden close and warned Danaer before the caravan had gone too far in the wrong direction. The second time he caught the mistake before Gordyan had to come to advise him. But his chagrin was growing. He was a Destre, a scout, and he should not let himself be tricked by the overheated air and lying images in the sand.

Even as Danaer had sought to steel his resolve and be fooled no more, the accursed rain had rushed over him once more. He thought of Lira, remembering how she had turned back the magical storm which had attacked the Destre council. Was she even now waging a similar war against this furious torrent? That was her calling, and she would try to combat that sorcery with her own. But she was so far from Ulodovol, and she was so young. Had she sufficient art? It was a heavy responsibility, worse than Danaer had first realized.

He ignored regulations and took off his helmet. He

shook out his mantle and used the cloak against the sun, kicking up his tired roan. Gordyan and his warriors had likewise taken out their full cloaks, and Danaer wished he still owned that Destre garment. But the army traveled these sun-baked regions seldom, and they had brought little equipment to cope with Peluva's blazing orb.

Burned and drenched in rapid succession, the column crawled through the miasmic wasteland. In the distance, tantalizing, a dark line seemed to dance above the dry plains. It was the Dekan ridge, marking the end of the Sink. But Danaer knew the landmark was farther away than it appeared.

For now, he wanted only to reach the Wells of Ylami, the only safe campsite between Vidik and Deki, the only water that would not be tainted with sulfur and poison. With Gordyan's help and the Destre map Yistar possessed, Danaer would guide the column safely there. He forced himself to sit up in the saddle, pretending an energy he no longer owned. His eyes burned both from sand and sleeplessness, but he concentrated on the route ahead, beyond the mirages and noxious pits.

Shortly after center-stand—^which Yistar had not allowed for rest, fearing they would never reach the wells if they tarried in the Sink a moment too long— Rorluk fell from his horse. Danaer hurriedly dismounted and examined the young soldier, finding no broken bones. He and Xashe rolled Rorluk onto his back. An unhealthy flush suffused his face. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and he did not react to Xashe's voice or fussing over him. The peasant herdsman stood between his friend and the sun, hoping a bit of shadow would give Rorluk ease. Danaer fanned his stuporous apprentice with his helmet.

Thirty lengths behind them, the caravan again was at a stop, but not because the scouts had halted. Rain again lashed at the wagons, and the foremost drivers had bogged down completely. Officers shouted and troopmen swore; even as Danaer looked, wind and water closed about the column like a dark curtain.

Eerily, the very world seemed to still. He heard his

own blood coursing. The streamers of rain parted a fraction, and Lasiimte Kandra rode out of the storm, coming toward Danaer.

He stepped away from Xashe and Rorluk, staring incredulously. The Destre princess was untouched by the rain. Exquisite, flawless, her hair and mantle gently stirred by a kind breeze, she drew rein and looked down at him. "Yaen, stander, Danaer of the clan of Aejzad's woman, I seek your favor, Azsed." Her accent was pure, dulcet, seductive.

"Lasiimte?" He had not thought he could find his voice, so parched was his throat and so rattled his wits. "I... I give you greeting, Lasiimte."

"The priests say you will die in Bogotana's Sink, you and this army which fights a war it cannot win." The heavy scent of musk radiated from Kandra, overcoming the wasteland's odors. Her green eiphren sparkled in the sun, and golden chains softly clashed their links together at her waist as she moved in the saddle.

Somewhere, a thousand king's-measures away, Xashe was speaking his name. Danaer could not take his eyes from Kandra. She was the Lasiimte, the most beauteous woman of the plains people, the adored consort of the Siim Rena. She was Destre-Y. The language of the tribes came sweetly from her lips.

"Why should you die to no purpose? In days to come we will need every Azsed. It is a sin to throw away your life and leave your bones to bleach in the Sink."

She was breathtakingly lovely, sitting the roan like a tme Destre princess. Even the animal befitted her. Its costly saddle was studded in gold and green gems, mates for Kandra's eiphren.

"Troop Leader ... ?"

Faintly Danaer heard his apprentice and tried to reply. A frown creased Lasiimte Kandra's brow. "Hear me, warrior, Azsed needs you. / need you. I will give you everything that you desire. Leave this place. Come with me ..."

"Gordyan?" Danaer said at last, shakily, puzzlement

beginning. "Does Gordyan know you are here? He will want to see you."

"It is of no matter," Kandra said impatiently. At her back, the black storm clouds ravaged the column. His column. And his duty was to guide it to safety. Danaer's head was spinning. The beautiful vision said, "Come with me. Mount your roan and come with me. The wells are not far away. These lit will not hinder us. We will leave them to wander about blindly. Are they not the enemy? Why should we share Destre waterholes with the likes of these unbelievers?"

"The alliance," Danaer said, and resistance rose within him. It was reversal of that peculiar sensation he had known when he drowsed beside the fire and saw Kandra's face superimposed upon Lira's. For a space, Lira's younger, more rounded features formed where Kandra's had been. Confusion ripped at Danaer. But before he could react to Lira's dimly glimpsed image, the image shifted again. Kandra's sharp cheekbones and fine nose and arched brows melted in the air, like a mirage, and in their place was ... a cloak!

A hooded cloak, shrouding the face and body inside. A hand was bared and a brightly painted fingernail stabbed at him; a shrill voice commanded, "Come with me! At once! Ask no more questions!"

As if he moved against that drenched sand which bogged the wagons, Danaer reached for the talisman.

Kandra's form mingled with the traitor's. The voice, though still feminine, lost its allure, becoming menacing. "Ride, or you will rot here and the leather-wings will pick your flesh and gnaw your bones! You will die, warrior, unhonored and unsung, forever lost to your goddess ..."

Suddenly Danaer broke free of the spell, staggering back from this thing which was not Kandra. He clutched the obsidian charm and cried, "Begone! You were never Kandra! She would not flaunt the alliance and break her lord's pledge!"

And then she was gone—woman and bright jewels and horse and the heady scent of musk, gone!

Gone with her was the rain which plagued the

caravan. Officers and men gaped at the sky. Clouds shattered like pots and dribbled into nothing. The heavens were clear, almost in the blinking of an eye. Sodden puddles seeped into, the thirsty sand. This time, the whole caravan was left under the sun. Not a spot of storm remained.

"Troop Leader!" Xashe grasped Danaer's arm and shook him hard.

Danaer swayed, closing his eyes, trying to shake off the evil spell. When he looked at Xashe, he saw that the young soldier was as worried about him as he had been for his heat-stricken friend.

"You spoke to the ak. Troop Leader. I feared the heat had addled your mind."

"Perhaps it has." Danaer gazed around the horizon. There was no trace of storm clouds, or of the beautiful illusion the rain had birthed. Despite the sun, Danaer shivered, and Xashe took his arm more firmly, as if to prevent a fall. "No, it is all right, soldier. Let us tend Rorluk."