Читать книгу Sorcerer’s Moon: Part Three of the Boreal Moon Tale - Julian May - Страница 7

Ansel Pikan, Grand Shaman of Tarn, who lay dying from injuries suffered in the Battle of the Barren Lands, started up from his pillow with a loud groan. Sweat poured from his body and his heart thudded as though it would leap from his chest. ‘Thalassa…Wix…Come to me!’

The door to his chamber flew open. A buxom woman of impressive mien, wearing threadbare robes that had once been rich and costly, swept inside. She was followed by a sturdy little old man with eyes like jet beads and bushy white hair. The pair hurried to the bedside and ministered to the stricken shaman, assisting him to swallow two kinds of physick and a beaker of water. Then, working deftly together, the two of them changed Ansel’s damp nightgown and bed linen, and replaced his down comforter with another that hung warming at the hearth on a wooden rack. As they bent over him, checking the dressings on the terrible injuries to his hip and left side that would likely be the death of him, Ansel tried to relate what he’d dreamt. But his speech was nearly inaudible.

‘The Source…a dream of deep import…might endanger our great plan for Conrig.’

‘Wait until the medicines ease your pain and we have made you comfortable again,’ the sorceress Thalassa Dru urged him. ‘Be still for a few minutes, and you’ll make more sense.’

‘A strange thing,’ Ansel murmured, falling back onto the freshened pillow. ‘So strange.’

‘Your feet are like ice,’ said the man called Wix. ‘Let me put these wool booties on you. You should have a warming stone as well. I’ll get one from the kitchen.’

‘I’ll need you to bring something else.’ Thalassa fingered the pulse in Ansel’s emaciated neck for a few moments. ‘Fetch the phial of aqua mirabilis from my stillroom, along with a cup of warm milk.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ The old fellow trotted out, closing the door.

She found a chair, put it next to the bed, and took Ansel’s skeletal hand in her own warm, plump one. The candlelight showed her how sadly the Grand Shaman had declined since she had visited him earlier that evening. He would not live much longer. God only knew how he’d reached the Tarnian mainland after traveling from the Barrens in his small boat, finally finding help at Cold Harbor. The local magickers bespoke Thalassa when Ansel cried out her name, and she had spirited him away through subtle magical corridors to her secluded retreat in the western foothills of the White Rime Mountains.

‘Now, my old friend,’ she said to him, ‘save your breath. Use windspeech to tell me what the Source revealed in your dream.’

‘He conferred with the Likeminded Remnant of Lights, who told of a unique thing that happened this very day. A portentous thing. An unprecedented thing. On Demon Seat Mountain, no less!’

‘Well, well. How very curious. I’ve oft wondered about that place. Pray continue.’

‘The three young princes of Cathra ascended to the summit together. The Heritor, Orrion, begged a boon of the Sky Realm while touching the second Moon Crag formation, which lies on that very mountaintop. Who’d have thought it was there? And what a strange coincidence it was found by those lads, after our own fruitless windsearching.’

‘Most peculiar, I must agree. What happened to Prince Orrion? Did the Lights strike him dead for insolence?’

‘Nay. Fortunately, the Pain-Eaters completely ignored his irregular attempt at conjuring. And so the Likeminded ventured to answer the boy themselves, almost without volition. In some way, they channeled their power to the Ground Realm through the crag, and thence to Orrion. It was little more than an experimental exercise to the Likeminded, and they were much surprised that it succeeded.’

‘God of the Heights and Depths,’ Thalassa whispered. ‘Then the Likeminded Remnant are no longer impotent! The scales of fate may be tipping in our direction at long last.’

Ansel Pikan’s cracked lips widened in a smile. His windvoice was as clear and incisive as ever, although it would not have reached beyond the bedchamber had he tried to project it.

‘Our dear Source’s chains of blue ice have weakened slowly over the years, as we gathered scattered sigils and brought them to him for destruction. And ill-fated though my own enterprise in the Barrens was, I did manage to deny the Salka most of the first Moon Crag. That has to count in our favor.’

She pulled the comforter more snugly around him. ‘I prayed it would, though the Source himself seemed uncertain…What did you mean when you spoke of our plan for King Conrig being endangered? Is it put at risk somehow by the Demon Seat episode?’

Ansel set forth the basic facts of the arranged marriage that had driven Prince Orrion to his unwitting conjuration of the Lights.

‘The consequences of Orrion’s loss will enfuriate and trouble the king, leaving him more vulnerable than he can possibly know. Long years of opposing the Salka, as well as contending against his human enemies, have turned him harsh and unyielding. Conrig sees his hope of extending his Sovereignty beyond this island fading away. He has always been a difficult New Conflict participant – all the more so because he doesn’t know he’s been enlisted! He’ll be harder than ever to control once his scheme for his son Orrion lies in ruins.’

‘Do you think the Source’s plan for influencing the Sovereign through Deveron Austrey might now be impossible?’

‘We must trust that the former spy can still find a way to regain his old master’s friendship. Conrig cannot defeat the Salka invasion through human military efforts alone. Convincing him of that will not be easy.’

‘Perhaps Cray will think of something,’ Thalassa said, ‘as she did so fortuitously in the matter of the worms!’ She considered for a moment. ‘I shall have to go to her at once. We two must soul-travel beneath the Ice and consult the Source together on these matters.’

The dying shaman gave a prolonged sigh. He spoke aloud in a voice as faint as rustling leaves. ‘How I wish I were able to go with you! At least tell the Source that I beg forgiveness for having defied him. I had no choice but to go to the Barren Lands and destroy the first Moon Crag.’

‘Of course I’ll tell him, even though I’m certain he already knows and agrees you did the proper thing. He tried to dissuade you because of a premonition that you would not survive the mission and an understandable desire not to lose you. As a Sky Being, albeit one trapped in a body of flesh, he sometimes fails to understand our stubborn groundling self-righteousness. To say nothing of our foolish courage and need for direct action.’

Ansel Pikan began to laugh, but broke off in a fit of painful coughing. Thalassa Dru held his head against her ample breast until Wix came with the new medicament. Two drops of the elixer in milk were sufficient to bring relief to the shaman, after which she placed the heated, flannel-wrapped rock at his feet.

‘And now I must go through subtle corridors to the Green Folk. I’m loath to abandon you, my dear, but I have no choice. I leave you in good hands. Wix will stay at your side this night, and his mistress is as good a physician as I am.’ Thalassa kissed Ansel’s brow.

He spoke to her voicelessly on the wind. ‘I know my life is nearly over. I’m content with what I have accomplished. Don’t fret about me. Save your energies for the Conflict. We’ll win out. I’m certain of it.’

‘And so am I,’ the sorceress said with as much confidence as she could summon, even though a lump of cold doubt weighted her heart. She stayed at his side for a few minutes more, until his eyes closed in sleep. Then she snuffed all of the candles save one and rose from the bedside stool.

‘Wix, build up a fire in here and see to the shutters. The wind is rising outside the lodge and there will be sleet very soon. I must set out on my journey without delay, and I’ve no time to give you detailed instructions. You must care for our dear friend as best you can.’

‘Don’t worry, my lady. I’ll see to everything. Shall I wake my mistress and tell her you’ve departed?’

‘She needs her rest. I believe Ansel will sleep quietly for some hours. But don’t hesitate to fetch her if there should be a need.’

‘Yes, my lady. May your magical journey be swift and safe.’

Thalassa Dru sha Lisfallon, elder sister of the late Conjure-King Linndal of Moss and the aunt of Ullanoth and Beynor, smiled at the little old man. ‘I only hope the weather is better at Castle Morass.’

It was Master Shaman Kalawnn, second of the Eminent Four of the Salka monsters and guardian of the Known Potency, who first found out what the Likeminded Lights had done on Demon Seat.

He was deep within the bowels of Fenguard Castle in Moss, the new center of the Salka Authority now that the Dawntide Citadel had been destroyed by the vile humans, supervising the lapidary workers. They were preparing to cleave yet another fragile piece of mineral gleaned from the debris of the shattered Barren Lands Moon Crag. All previous attempts had ended in failure as the flawed moonstone disintegrated.

Suddenly Kalawnn felt a warning tingle from the minor sigil named Scriber that hung around his neck. This was followed by a severe pain deep within his brain.

‘Ahroo!’

The shaman clasped his neck with both tentacles and flopped away from the cutting bench as the vision crashed into his mind like a storm-surge. For a moment, he was blind to all else. A second low-pitched howl escaped his maw. He subsided onto the floor of the cavern, an enormous amphibian creature nearly twice the height of a man and more than four times as bulky, helpless as a beached whale.

‘Eminent One – what’s wrong?’ Several artisans crowded about him, head-crests erect and great red eyes goggling with dismay.

‘Wait…wait,’ he managed to say. ‘A windsensed revelation! I must comprehend it fully.’

Nonplussed, the other Salka stood away from his quivering body. Those who wore strength-giving sigils conjured supportive power and channeled it to the Master Shaman. The others could only focus their healing talent and murmur prayers.

‘Look at his neck!’ a gem-carver exclaimed. ‘The skin covering his gizzard glows crimson. The Potency within is active! Perhaps it disapproves of what we were about to do. Perhaps it’s angry with us for trying to work poor-quality material into new sigils.’

The others picked up the portentous word and repeated it anxiously. ‘The Potency! The Potency –’

‘Silence!’ Kalawnn bellowed. The eldritch seizure that had so abruptly afflicted him was over. He rose to his full majestic height, eyes wide open and agleam like balls of fire. ‘There is no need to be anxious. The Potency is not angry. It had nothing to do with my vision.’

‘But, master!’ one of the lapidaries protested. ‘We saw the glow within your crop, where the Stone of Stones is hidden

‘I have just received a most surprising piece of information from the Great Lights,’ Kalawnn said. ‘I must leave you now and share this news with the other three Eminences. I command you to carry on cleaving the piece of raw moonstone. Bespeak me at once with the results of the operation.’

He slithered out of the workroom with surprising rapidity and made his way to the castle’s Chamber of Audience – formerly the Conjure-Queen’s throne room – where his colleagues were in conference. Almost all traces of human occupation had been eradicated from the Mossland fortress of Fenguard by its new inhabitants. The doors were now enlarged to allow ready access to huge bodies and the windows were smaller to conserve the delightful boggy ambiance favored by Salka sensibilities. A coating of black mold softened the harsh stonework of the stairways and passages; rusting iron wall-sconces that once supported torches or oil lamps now held amber globes full of luminous marine organisms; the floors of the public areas were carpeted with decaying reeds and sedges from the fens, while the private rooms and the Chamber of Audience had more desirable floor coverings of fragrant kelp and other algae.

The erstwhile royal dais, lit by pendant bowls of glow-worms, had been enlarged to contain the seaweed-heaped golden couches of the Eminent Ones. These were pushed to the very edge of the platform so that the reclining Salka leaders could study a large map laid out on a low table crafted of whalebone. The map, a three-dimensional work of art depicting High Blenholme Island in relief, was an ingenious mosaic of sea-unicorn ivory, pearl-shell, and many-colored amber. Its rivers and bodies of water were indicated by shining bits of turquoise or lapis, and the salient features were labeled with small gold plaques. Golden figurines of miniature warriors – some Salka, some human, and some mysteriously shaped – were scattered about the map surface. Model ships, as intricate as fine jewelry, clustered in separate flotillas on the lapis sea.

As Kalawnn entered, the four persons bent over the map lifted their great heads. The aged Conservator of Wisdom looked vaguely startled, the First Judge bestowed an ironic smile of greeting, and the Supreme Warrior, mighty Ugusawnn, seemed even more truculent and grouchy than usual. The fourth Salka, a sage of middle rank who had been pushing the tiny figures about the map with a golden pointer and lecturing the Eminences, bowed his head to Kalawnn and stood in a respectful pose. The Master Shaman recognized him as Peladawnn, a military strategist.

‘You may leave us,’ the shaman commanded. Peladawnn nodded and wriggled off.

‘Well, colleague,’ the Supreme Warrior rumbled, ‘it’s high time you condescended to join our little planning session. I was just about to explain my new idea for breaking the impasse at Beacon Lake.’

Ugusawnn had returned from the encampment a tennight earlier when it became evident that the army’s advance was hopelessly stalled, leaving his subordinate generals to manage the tedious holding action.

‘I’d be most eager to hear your plan,’ the Master Shaman said. ‘But first, I must give you tidings of the utmost importance. The Great Lights have bespoken me a message.’

‘Ahrooi’ cried the other Eminences. Such a direct communication was virtually unheard of.

The rotund First Judge took a hasty gulp from a golden chalice. ‘What did they say?’

Before answering, The Master Shaman inserted one tentacle into his gaping mouth and pulled the Known Potency from his craw. He lifted it high and it glistened with his own body fluids, a small moonstone carving of a ribbon twisted strangely into a figure-eight that had only a single side and a single edge. Kalawnn held it delicately between four clawed tentacle digits. Its soft glow pulsated slowly.

‘The Potency reacted in a strange manner to the message. Therefore, I will temporarily remove it from my person.’

The Conservator and the Judge murmured apprehensively. The Supreme Warrior said, ‘Just get on with it, Kalawnn!’

‘Humans have discovered the second Moon Crag.’

‘Ahroo!’

‘It is situated atop the immensely high mountain known as Demon Seat,’ the Master Shaman said, ‘just south of the Didion frontier, near Castle Vanguard in Cathra. The Great Lights once again became aware of its location when the detestable Likeminded Remnant used the crag to channel sorcerous Sky power to a human petitioner.’

‘You believed that, Kalawnn?’ The frail Conservator of Wisdom spoke in a labored wheeze. ‘More likely, the Lights have known all along where the second crag was. Only their Likeminded enemies’ unexpected discovery and use of it has prompted this warning to us.’

‘Who cares why they saw fit to finally tell us about it?’ the Supreme Warrior trumpeted. ‘Now we know! And perhaps this second crag has a better grade of mineral than the pitiful crumbling stuff we were able to salvage in the Barren Lands.’

‘At such terrible cost,’ the Conservator lamented, ‘only to find that it is virtually useless for creating new Sigils of Supreme Power.’

‘Perhaps not as useless as you think,’ Kalawnn said. ‘My workers are cleaving the best piece at this very moment, seeking to free a small perfect portion of mineral from the worthless matrix. If they are successful, we’ll be able to make at least one new Great Sigil. We shall have to decide which one is the most appropriate. For practical reasons, it should be a type that is not too difficult to carve.’

‘A Destroyer!’ Ugusawnn cried. ‘A simple wand. What could be easier than that? And what is more appropriate than the deadliest moonstone weapon of them all?’

‘Recall that Destroyers are also the most perilous to those who wield them,’ the Conservator said. ‘During Bazekoy’s invasion, numbers of our bravest warriors perished when they tried to conjure Destroying power in a manner that the Lights deemed presumptuous or excessive. The sigil acquired a dire reputation amongst our ancestors for that very reason.’

The Judge said, ‘Even the wily human villain Rothbannon was reluctant to make use of the Destroyer he tricked us into giving him.’

Kalawnn inclined his head. ‘We should also keep in mind the heinous fate that befell Queen Taspiroth of Moss, Rothbannon’s descendant, when she tried to use the sigil wrongly. Her husband King Linndal, my friend and colleague in sorcery, was driven mad by horror and grief after the atrocious tortures wreaked upon the queen’s body before her soul was consigned to the Hell of Ice.’

‘What in the world did the wretched woman attempt to do with the sigil?’ the First Judge inquired with clinical interest. ‘Knock the Moon out of the sky?’

‘Worse,’ Kalawnn said. ‘She was angered by certain – um – activities carried out by the Salka bands inhabiting the Little Fen. So she commanded Destroyer to kill every one of our people then dwelling on High Blenholme Island.’

‘Ahroo!’ the other Eminences exclaimed, aghast.

‘If such a terrible deed had taken place,’ the Master Shaman continued, ‘the minor sigils worn by those Salka would have died with their owners, depriving the Great Lights of the pain-energies they crave.’

The elderly Conservator of Wisdom digested this piece of information with a thoughtful frown. ‘But how are we to know which commands are safe to give this deadly sigil? I recall no guidelines for Destroyer’s use.’

‘There are none,’ Kalawnn admitted. ‘Whoever was chosen to use the Great Stone against the enemy would put his own life and soul at risk, in addition to suffering a tremendous pain-debt. We would require a daring and selfless volunteer…or even several of them, if the worst should happen. Of course, we might abolish the Lights’ control of the Destroyer by means of the Known Potency, as we originally planned. But then the limitation would prevail.’

‘A single abolished Destroyer,’ the Judge said, ‘even when used to best advantage, might not suffice to win back the rest of our island.’

‘It would grease the skids of victory,’ the Master Shaman said, ‘terrify the foe, and give our troops needed encouragement. Later on, if we manufacture more Destroyers from this second Moon Crag, the limitation will no longer be a serious factor.’

‘First, we must reach the second Crag,’ the old Conservator pointed out.

‘Quite right!’ said mighty Ugusawnn. ‘Our valiant prospecting force was decimated before attaining the Barren Lands Crag, thwarted by arctic elements, harsh terrain, and the withholding of the Lights’ favor. At the very threshold of success, our warriors met catastrophe at the hands of a single Tarnian witch-doctor!’

The Conservator spoke with reproach. ‘Are we seriously considering a new expedition to Demon Seat in Cathra? Only look at the map laid out before you, colleagues…How can even the best and bravest of our people hope to penetrate this well-guarded region of enemy territory? They would have to fight every inch of the way from Skellhaven on the coast, then crawl up a colossal mountain peak.’

‘Humans climbed the mountain.’ The Judge selected a juicy mollusk from a bowl of refreshments and popped it into his mouth. ‘Kalawnn said so. Why can’t our warriors do the same?’

‘Humans are more agile than we,’ the Conservator said. ‘The very puniness of their bodies works to their advantage, and –’

The Supreme Warrior had been scowling ferociously, deep in thought. Now he interrupted without apology. ‘Colleagues, listen to me! Most of our seasoned fighters are fetched up in the Green Morass of northern Didion, unable to advance further. Only untested reserves are available to us here in Moss. To attack Demon Seat now would require an army of many thousands – virtually all the troops we have in training – and there is no certainty of success. The terrain is rough, with few suitable waterways to ease our passage to the mountain. It would be impossible for our warriors to travel over it quickly. I cannot recommend that we move upon the second Moon Crag. Not until we are much stronger…and the humans much weaker.’

‘What do you recommend?’ the First Judge inquired.

The Supreme Warrior said, ‘We should carry out the strategic action that Peladawnn and I were in the process of explaining when Kalawnn joined us.’

‘What is this plan?’ the Master Shaman asked.

The Salka general took up the golden pointer left behind by the military strategist and began to indicate features on the map.

‘I propose that we immediately abandon our unsuccessful push through the Beacon River Valley. It was an excellent scheme, but it has failed for reasons we could not anticipate. I propose that the regular army should now withdraw to the north coast, feigning a return to Moss. However, the force will actually set out to circumnavigate Tarn – thus! – moving north around the Lavalands Peninsula and then westward, using the greatest stealth to ensure that our warriors are not detected by human ships. Meanwhile, our keen young reserves will swim southward from here in Moss, past Didion and Cathra, into the Dolphin Channel, where they will turn west. At the Western Ocean they will proceed north to Terminal Bay near the disputed frontier between Tarn and Didion. There the united army will regroup and launch a new offensive.’

‘But the time factor –’ the Conservator protested.

‘It will take no more than half a moon to get both forces into position,’ Ugusawnn said. ‘Plenty of time before the really severe winter weather rolls in. We’ll vanquish all human settlements on Terminal Bay in short order – even without using a Destroyer. Then, while the reserves hold the bay secure, our regular army force invades Didion via the Dennech and Shadow Rivers and the Tweenwater marshes.’

‘I like it!’ the First Judge enthused.

‘The pirate strongholds of Terminal Bay have fleets of well-armed gunboats and a few fighting frigates.’ the Warrior went on, placing tiny model ships into position by way of demonstration. ‘They’d have to be vanquished promptly before they were reinforced by the enemy fleets based at Tarnholme and at Yelicum in the Firth of Gayle. But observe how constricted the entrance to Terminal Bay is.’

‘Ah!’ breathed the other Eminences.

‘Once the bay is secured by our warriors, it can be readily defended from attack by sea – a situation which the local human pirates have taken advantage of for centuries!’

‘How much opposition might we expect as we move inland?’ Kalawnn asked. ‘Unlike the Green Morass, the region seems to have numerous castles and settlements.’

‘But most are very small,’ Ugusawnn said. ‘The fortified town of Dennech-Cuva would be bound to put up a good fight, since it is the ducal seat. We should probably beleaguer and bypass it, leaving the inhabitants to starve. The castles deeper within the Great Wold are pitiful things – barely more than strongholds for brigands. The region’s rivers are deep, providing excellent corridors for troop movement, and the swamps are much more congenial to swift Salka progress than the terrain of the Green Morass, even though the distance to be covered is greater. There should be plenty of aquatic food for our warriors along the line of advance. We’ll build a string of garrison lodges in suitable spots for hibernators. However, most of our army would spend the winter in a state of alertness in Terminal Bay. It doesn’t ice over and it’s full of fish.’

‘How far do you think we might penetrate this year?’ the Judge inquired eagerly.

‘With luck, we’ll get as far as the Wold Road before bad weather stops us. That’s the main land route connecting Tarn to Cathra and Didion. If we control it, we own the heart of High Blenholme Island!’

‘Audacious,’ murmured the Conservator of Wisdom, studying the map. ‘Too bad we didn’t choose this course in the first place.’

‘Beacon Lake would have been faster,’ the Supreme Warrior growled. ‘If we hadn’t encountered them.’

‘Even if we don’t reach the road this year,’ the Judge said, ‘we’d surely be able to get there by late spring, wouldn’t we?’

‘Beyond a doubt,’ said the Warrior. ‘And with high mountains protecting our position on two sides and the bay secure at our rear, it would be difficult for the enemy to outflank us. Their main body of troops would have to come at us along the Wold Road. We could cut it at many points – not just one – by demolishing bridges and causeways through the wetlands.’

The Conservator blinked his feebly glowing eyes. ‘Is there any alternative to this proposal?’

‘Only an ignominious retreat to Moss,’ said the Warrior, ‘with a renewed assault in spring. This is what the foe will expect us to do, of course. But they will be taken completely by surprise if we strike from the Western Ocean this year.’

‘Do we have the resources to accomplish this?’ asked the Master Shaman.

‘We do,’ Ugusawnn stated, ‘if we act without delay. And this new scheme also enables us to reclaim the element of shock that was lost when we stalled at Beacon Lake.’

‘Well thought,’ said the First Judge. ‘Shall we agree to put this plan into action?’

The others concurred unanimously. The Warrior displayed a frightful smile of triumph and began to gather the map figurines into a golden box.

‘Before we disperse,’ the Conservator of Wisdom muttered, ‘I must return to Kalawnn’s earlier news of significant import. What was the nature of the sorcery channeled by the vile Likeminded Lights to the humans who climbed Demon Seat?’

‘I’m not certain, Wise One, but I believe it was a fairly insignificant display of power,’ the Master Shaman said. ‘A mere trifle. You must understand, colleagues, that the truly remarkable thing is the fact that the Defeated Remnant had the ability to channel sorcery at all! One wonders whether the struggle between the two factions of Lights might be entering a new phase.’ He studied the enigmatic sigil called the Known Potency, which he still held in his tentacle. ‘Perhaps the Great Lights would tell us what happened if I inquired.’

The Warrior gave a thunderous snort. ‘We’d do better to ask them whether the human who used the Moon Crag’s magic had any notion at all what he was doing!’

‘True,’ the First Judge agreed. ‘Find out who this person was. Was he sent by the One Denied the Sky, who is called the Source by humankind? What favor was obtained? Do humans now intend to create new Sigils of Supreme Power from the second crag to oppose our conquest?’

‘I will attempt to ask the questions –’ Kalawnn began to say. But almost simultaneouly a call came to him on the wind. ‘Colleagues, be patient while my associates bespeak me concerning their work on the Barren Lands mineral.’ He closed his eyes, then almost immediately reopened them. ‘Ahroo!’ he roared. The force of his breath blew away several of the map’s miniature ships.

‘What?’ the other three Eminences demanded.

‘The lapidaries have cloven the chunk of raw moonstone successfully, making not just one flawless blank, but two.’

‘Congratulations, Kalawnn!’ said the First Judge. ‘A notable feat!

The Master Shaman continued. ‘The first piece of raw stone is much smaller, a mere wafer. We must decide which sigil it is best suited for – but I incline toward a Subtle Gateway, even though that particular Great Stone is quite difficult to carve.’

The Conservator inclined his head in approbation. ‘If we possessed one of those, we would have easy access to the Demon Seat Moon Crag and all the raw mineral we could possibly use!’

‘How long will it take your lapidaries to make the two sigils, Kalawnn?’ the First Judge asked.

‘The Destroyer, twelve or thirteen days. The Gateway, a few days less – if the supremely delicate sigil doesn’t shatter during manufacture, as is all too likely. Two teams of carvers will be working separately. The most experienced will be assigned to the Gateway project.’

‘We must have a contingency plan,’ the Supreme Warrior said, ‘in case of failure. Two new sigils won’t reconquer the whole island. We need more – and we need them soon. Perhaps the Lights can advise us on this matter, as well as answering the Wise One’s inquiries about the humans who climbed the mountain and the nature of the magical boon granted to them by the Likeminded.’

Kalawnn said, ‘I will attempt to bespeak them now.’ His eyes closed.

The other three Eminences waited: Ugusawnn reining in his impatience, the First Judge seeming to be interested only in a fresh snack, and the venerable Conservator doing his best not to nod off.

At last the Master Shaman reopened his eyes. ‘I am told that three sons of High King Conrig ascended Demon Seat together. They were not sent by the Source and knew little of the second Moon Crag’s potential, save that it might grant a miracle to a worthy petitioner. They know nothing at all about sigil-making.’

‘Ahroo!’ The Supreme Warrior vented a sigh of relief.

‘What favor was granted?’ the Judge asked, picking a bit of prawn shell from his back teeth.

Kalawnn cocked his head-crest in bemusement. ‘The Prince Heritor of Cathra asked that he be spared from mating with a princess of Didion, since he did not love her.’

‘What?’ cried the others.

Kalawnn shrugged. ‘It’s hardly believable, yet this royal tadpole was silly enough to beg such a mundane boon – and the Defeated Ones complied in the only manner possible. They burnt off his sword arm. A prince lacking that appendage is deemed unworthy to inherit the throne of either Cathra or Didion.’

The other Eminences fell about laughing at the eccentricities of humankind until Kalawnn brought them up short. ‘I asked the Light who responded to me one other question. The most important of all, I think: What is the best possible way for Salka to obtain raw moonstone from the Demon Seat Crag?’

‘The answer?’ the Conservator demanded.

Kalawnn lifted both tentacles in a helpless gesture. ‘Colleagues, the Light spoke only two words: Ask Beynor.’

‘Are you absolutely sure you remember how to say the spell, Jegg?’ the sorcerer asked.

‘Oh, yes, master!’ The servant lad’s coarse features were ruddy with excitement. A north wind had risen, carrying the first fat drops of rain from the darkening sky. The two of them stood on a stony slope a dozen ells below the cave where Gorvik had been ordered to wait.

‘Let’s go over it one final time. I’ll ask the questions the Great Light will put to you in the Salka language, and you answer in a loud, gruff voice.’

Jegg did as he was told. His accent was still a little off, but it would do.

‘Very good.’ The sorcerer opened his belt-pouch. He placed one moonstone on the ground and offered the other one to the boy. ‘Now hold out your hand. It’s time to put on the power-giving sigil.’

‘I can’t believe it’ll really happen,’ Jegg gushed, staring at the simple ring of carved mineral that had been placed on his right index finger. Its name was Weathermaker. ‘I’ll be a magicker, too – better’n Gor, almost as great as you! The ring’ll let me command rain and snow and sunshine – even whirlwinds and lightning!’

‘It will all come true if you perform the ritual properly and are steadfast in enduring the necessary pain.’

‘Oh, master, I will!’ The servant boy was twelve years old. He believed everything that Beynor of Moss had told him.

‘Now we’re ready. I’ll go up to the cave and wait there with Gorvik. You count to one hundred, then begin. Kneel down and press the ring to the moonstone disk lying there. Remember – no matter what happens, you must keep the two stones together.’

The sorcerer hurried to the cleft in the rockface, a disused bear’s den. The Didionite hedge-wizard Gorvik Kitstow lurked just inside the entrance, eyeing him in shifty silence.

Beynor thought, Yes, you know what I’m doing, and why! But it doesn’t matter anymore –

The abrupt blaze of emerald flame and the thunderous concussion made both men flinch.

‘Frizzle me fewmets!’ Gorvik cried. He took a few unsteady steps out of the cave, but the entire area was swathed in malodorous smoke and nothing could be seen clearly. The rustic magicker muttered more obscenities under his breath.

Beynor ignored him until the cleansing wind had done its work. Then he returned to the scene of the experiment with Gorvik trailing after him. All that now remained of the unfortunate Jegg was a heap of foul-smelling ash lying on the hillside amidst scorched remnants of gorse and heather. Slow rain extinguished the last burning bits of vegetation.

‘Not even a bone left!’ Gorvik wagged his uncouth head in disbelief. He had the physique of a blacksmith and a face that looked as though it had been well and truly smashed, then re-molded into an approximation of human features. ‘Nary a scrap o’cloth or bit o’ shoe-leather. The poor li’l sod’s vanished off the face o’ the earth. That’s some terrific sorcery!’

‘It’s Beaconfolk sorcery, the greatest there is – and the most dangerous.’

Beynor drew Moss’s magnificent Sword of State, the only relic of his aborted reign as Conjure-King, and stirred the gritty ash with its tip. After a few moments he uncovered the ring carved from moonstone, together with a thin disk of the same material, narrowly framed in gold, that was less than a handspan in diameter. He stooped and retrieved them, and after wrapping each one carefully in cloth, slipped both objects into his wallet. He cleaned the sword against his bootcuff and replaced it in its scabbard.

‘Didja know Jegg ‘uz gonna die?’ Gorvik asked offhandedly. ‘I heard ye tell ‘im the Coldlight Army’d put power into the ring if he spoke the spell ye taught ‘im. But sumpin’ went way wrong, di’nit?’

The rain fell harder. Beynor started back up the slope toward the shelter of the den, where the three of them had camped out during the final summer of searching. ‘So you eavesdropped on us.’

‘Nay, master. Just caught a few words by chance, like. And wondered why ye’d let a simple knave like Jegg do conjurin’ for ye, steada doin’ it yerself – or givin’ the job to a born wiz like me.’

‘It was a test,’ Beynor said shortly. ‘One that was regrettably necessary. And whether you realize it or not, the test was a success.’

The hulking Didionite grinned, revealing a mouthful of stained broken teeth enriched by a single incongruous gold incisor that gleamed like a bright coin lying on a dungheap. ‘Not a success for Jegg, I’m thinkin’! Still, he weren’t much of a servant to ye, and none back in Elktor will miss ‘im. What went wrong? Why’d the Lights smite ‘im with their thunderbolt?’

Beynor re-entered the cave, not bothering to hide his impatience. He had not borne the long years of frustration easily, and his gaunt frame and sunburnt narrow features framed by sparse platinum hair made him look much older than his seven-and-thirty years. Once inside he doffed his wet cloak and hung it on a peg pounded into a crevice. He was attired in a grey leather hunting habit, well made but worn from rough usage and badly scuffed about the knees. After removing his sword belt and hanging the heavy weapon from a second peg, he put more fuel on the smoldering fire and sat down on a flat stone opposite the flow of acrid smoke. The vagrant wisps that threatened him he diverted with his talent.

‘Fetch me a double dram of spirits,’ he commanded Gorvik.

‘There’s only a wee bit left, master,’ the wizard protested. ‘I was savin’ it for –’

‘Pour it out, damn you! There’s no need to stay here any longer. Don’t you understand that our endless searching in this miserable place is done? I have the three Great Stones. It matters not if there are lesser ones still lying about somewhere. I’m leaving. I won’t return.’

‘But the magical book –’

‘The bear who scattered the contents of the bag originally hidden in this cave obviously left the book in an exposed place where it was destroyed by vermin and the elements. That moonstone disk you found this morning in the ravine is all that remains of it. The disk was once fastened to the book’s cover.’

Gorvik’s piggy eyes gleamed in sudden understanding. ‘Ah! Then it’s the disk you needed to conjure yer three sigils – not the book itself.’

‘Using the spells written down in the book would have been much safer. But, yes: the stones can be brought to life in another way with the disk. A more perilous way, as young Jegg discovered.’

The big magicker took the jug of liquor and two dented pewter cups from the rocky shelf that held their nearly depleted supply of food and drink. He was dressed in a ragged fustian tunic and cross-gartered leggings, and had only a short hooded cape of ill-tanned goatskin to keep off the elements. He thrust a half-cup of malt into Beynor’s outstretched hand, then poured a generous noggin for himself and sat down on another rock, mumbling under his breath.

‘What did you say?’ Beynor asked sharply.

‘I said ye killed that lad on purpose, master. Or rather – ye let the Beaconfolk blast ‘im to ashes and soot. I’m wonderin’ why. What good are magical moonstone amulets if the Lights slay the one who uses ‘em?’

Beynor stared at the fire and sipped his drink. Almost absently, he said, ‘They only slay persons they consider unworthy.’

‘And Jegg was?’

‘Yes. Obviously.’

‘But ye di’nt know that aforehand?’

‘Not really,’ Beynor admitted with peevish reluctance. ‘I hoped he would survive but was almost certain he would not.’

Gorvik nodded in slow satisfaction. ‘And that was the test. I see. Now I unnerstand.’

Beynor lifted his head and shot a glance like a steel dart at the big man squatting near him. Yes, the cunning rascal had almost certainly guessed the truth…

Beynor had searched for the three lost Great Stones of Darasilo’s Trove and the book that accompanied them for sixteen years, combing the region around the bear’s lair in the high moorlands east of Elktor in Cathra where he knew the trove had disappeared. Sigils, even the inactive ones he hunted, could not be perceived through windsight; they had to be sought using the naked eyes. He made a map of the area, drew a grid of squares upon it, and set out to search each square, patiently lifting every rock and bit of vegetation that might conceal a small amulet.

He labored throughout the temperate months of each year, then retired to lonely rooms in Elktor City during the winter, when snow and severe cold made spending long hours outdoors impossible, occupying himself by windwatching his foes and trying to invade their dreams.

During the early years of his search Beynor had hired sturdy dullards such as Jegg to assist him in his fatiguing work, men or boys he was confident would not understand the value of the things he sought. But the kind of helper he really needed was a fellow-adept – not a brilliant magicker, but one he could dominate and use as a cat’s-paw, thus circumventing the curse laid on him by the Beaconfolk.

Long years ago, when Beynor lost his throne, the Great Lights had told him that he would be cast into the Hell of Ice if he attempted to activate and use any moonstone sigils. He still possessed powerful inborn magical talents, but these were inadequate to raise him to the lofty position his twisted ambition craved.

A scheme of his to neutralize the Beaconfolk’s curse with the help of the Salka had fallen apart on the day the huge amphibians invaded the Conjure-Kingdom of Moss and discovered that Queen Ullanoth’s collection of sigils, which Beynor had promised to turn over to them, was inexplicably gone.

In the months that followed, the sorcerer had lived furtively, outlawed by Somarus, King of Didion, whose Lord Chancellor had once been Beynor’s co-conspirator and was now his mortal enemy. The faint hope of finding some of Darasilo’s lost sigils and using them to bring down two kings – and his nemesis Kilian Blackhorse as well – then became Beynor’s principal motive for living.

He knew the remains of Darasilo’s Trove had been hidden in a rocky den on the high moorlands east of Elktor in northern Cathra. But soon after reaching the place, he made the heartbreaking discovery that a cavebear had chewed up the leather fardel holding the precious items and scattered its contents about the hillside. Beynor slew the animal by flinging a magical fireball into its wide-open jaws. Then he began what he feared would be a futile search for the sigils and the magical book.

Luck was with him, however. After only a few weeks, he recovered the first missing Great Stone.

It was a sigil named Ice-Master, a moonstone pendant shaped like an icicle the size of a man’s little finger, lying in plain sight on the bank of a stream below the mouth of the cave. Of course the stone was inactive, not bonded to any groundling person and so unable to draw power from the Beaconfolk. The Ice-Master was only a bit of carved rock, as harmless to Beynor as it was worthless…for the time being, at least. Until he chose a loyal and amenable person to conjure the sigil for him, who would only use its sorcery as he commanded.

That encouraging first discovery had to sustain Beynor throughout nine more weary years of searching, when he finally found the second important moonstone, a finger-ring called Weathermaker. When he was Conjure-King of Moss he had owned another Great Stone of this type, and it had been his undoing. He had used it in a manner that the capricious Beaconfolk disapproved, and they’d snatched it from him, called down the curse, and driven him from his throne into exile among the Salka.

Now he possessed a second Weathermaker and an Ice-Master as well. Only a single major sigil from the depleted trove – Destroyer, the greatest of them all – remained to be found, along with the ancient book written in the Salka language containing spells for activating and controlling all manner of Great Stones. At that point, Beynor began thinking seriously about recruiting the necessary cat’s-paw who would enable him to evade the Lights’ curse.

He was almost – but not quite – certain that the puppet would have to possess windtalent.

Magickers not affiliated with the abhorrent Brothers of Zeth were uncommon in the nation of Cathra. But Elktor, Beynor’s base of operations, was close to the Didion border, and now and then an itinerant conjurer of that country would pass through the city. Those that Beynor encountered early on in his long quest he had deemed unsuitable for various reasons. Gorvik Kitstow, who had shown up in Elktor late the previous winter, was different. He was mildly talented, sharp as a bodkin in gulling the yokels out of silver pennies, yet not possessed of deep intelligence…or so Beynor had thought.

He decided to take Gorvik partially into his confidence, tell him something of the sigils’ background, and determine whether he might make a suitable collaborator. Meanwhile, the burly hedge-wizard could assist in the search, along with the boy Jegg.

Beynor resumed his labors in spring and was satisfied when Gorvik worked diligently and without asking inconvenient questions. Near the end of Blossom Moon the hedge-wizard found the innocuous-looking little stone wand called Destroyer, which Beynor believed was the key to supreme power. And then, on the day before yesterday, Gorvik also located the moonstone disk that was formerly affixed to the cover of the missing magic book. It was the last part of the trove Beynor needed to carry out his plan.

But should Gorvik Kitstow still be part of that plan?

Beynor now had serious doubts. If it were possible for an untalented, biddable lout such as young Jegg to use sigil magic, then far better to play it safe and bond the moonstones to him.

But the calamitous test had settled the matter decisively. The cat’s-paw must of necessity be a person of talent. But if not Gorvik, then who?

Out of nowhere, as he sipped his cup of spirits, stared at the leaping flames, and pondered the dilemma, a marvelous new idea came to the sorcerer. Why not make a more daring choice of creature – a man needing more subtle forms of control, who might nevertheless help Beynor achieve his goal far more quickly…?

Gorvik had been speaking for some minutes while Beynor was lost in thought. Now the man’s words became ominously clear.

‘All yer high and mighty plans, master, that ye tantalized me with while we hunted – I admit I was a wee bit skeptical anything’d come of ‘em. Ye hafta admit the idee of almighty Beaconfolk sorcery channeled through moonstones was unlikely. But seein’ what I seen today changed my mind. Ye tried to bond a sigil to young Jegg, who lacked talent as much as he lacked brains. The Lights rejected ‘im. It’s clear ye need a man with talent. So let’s get on with it. Bond the things to me. I’m not afeered.’

‘What makes you think that I might do such a thing?’

Gorvik Kitstow gave a knowing chuckle. ‘Well, ‘tis obvious that ye don’t want to try conjurin’ a sigil yerself. Else ye’d never have risked turnin’ over a powerful magical tool to a dolt like Jegg. Ye’d have made the thing yer own right off the mark if ye could. But maybe ye can’t! Maybe the Lights won’t let ye. Am I right?’ He winked.

‘Yes,’ Beynor said calmly. ‘You’ve hit on it exactly. I know how the Great Stones work, the way to conjure them. But I’m banned from using them myself. I require a faithful assistant – one possessing innate magical talent, not a normal-minded wight like Jegg – who will stand at my side as I drive the Salka into the sea, destroy the Sovereignty, and bring the human population of Blenholme to its knees…Do you believe you’re the man for it?’

Gorvik tossed down the last of his drink and rose to his feet. His head nearly grazed the roof of that part of the cave and his great knobby hands flexed. The gold tooth flashed in the firelight as his smile widened.

‘Well, I been thinkin’ on that. I did overhear ye tell Jegg the spell that conjures the moonstones. So I reckon it wouldn’t be that hard to use ‘em, once I called ‘em to life meself.’

‘You think that, do you?’ Beynor sat very still. For a time, there was silence except for the drip of rainwater and the snap of burning wood.

‘So I do,’ said Gorvik. There was no longer any trace of servility in his voice, only evil self-assurance. ‘Don’t be lookin’ to yer sword, nor reachin’ for yer dagger neither. Ye know how quick I be. And strong.’

‘Yes,’ said Beynor.

Gorvik began to edge closer.

‘Just keep yer hands resting on yer knees, unnerstand? Don’t move.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Ye were once a king, so y’say, and a great sorcerer. But now ye’re neither and the magical moonstones are no good to ye. So think how matters lie and decide if we two might make a diff’rent sort o’ bargain – with me the master and ye the man! Hand over the sigils now and keep yer life. What d’ye say?’

Beynor shrugged. ‘All right.’ He removed the small pouch holding the stones from his belt and held it up for the shabby wizard to see.

Then he tossed it into the fire.

Gorvik gave a bellow of rage. But before his hands could close on Beynor’s throat, the Mossland Sword of State hanging on the cave wall flew from its scabbard and transfixed his neck from side to side just below the jawbone. A great jet of blood spurted from the magicker’s open mouth, just missing Beynor. Gorvik toppled into the fire like a felled oak and smothered the flames.

Beynor rose to his feet and stepped back. He waited until the writhing body was still, drew out the sword, and wiped it on the dead man’s tunic. Then he hauled the corpse aside and retrieved the wallet, which was only slightly scorched. He dipped it into a rain puddle, poured the sigils out onto the stone seat very carefully, and inspected them.

They were unharmed. The disk, Weathermaker, Ice-Master, and the all-important Destroyer were not even warm to the touch.

‘To think I was foolish enough to consider bonding these to a lowborn blockhead,’ he murmured, ‘when the proper candidate has been awaiting me all these years!’

Beynor had made a near-fatal mistake with Gorvik, letting him overhear the spell of conjuration. That blunder would never happen again. The new cat’s-paw he had in mind was infinitely more intelligent (and dangerous) than the hedge-wizard, but he was also a man ruled by unbridled ambition.

Confiding in him would be a great gamble on Beynor’s part. The safer course by far would be to look for a more pliable magical assistant. Any large city in Didion would have numbers of impoverished wizards inhabiting its underworld that he could pick and choose among. He had already been forced to postpone his great scheme for sixteen years. Why act hastily now?

There was an answer to that: after a long period of relative inaction broken only by a few ineffectual coastal raids against humanity, the Salka had invaded northern Didion in force. The Sovereignty was gravely imperiled.

Beynor had scried the monsters’ Barren Lands operation earlier in the year from a high point in the Sinistral Mountains. He knew that the Salka had managed to bring a small amount of mineral from the devastated arctic Moon Crag to Royal Fenguard. Their shamans would be doing their utmost to fashion more Great Stones from the meager sample, especially Destroyers. If they succeeded, they would possess powerful weapons to use against humanity. There was a time when Beynor had encouraged Salka aggression. Might it still serve his own purposes – but in a very different way?

He hadn’t attempted to windwatch the monsters’ military activities closely since beginning this summer’s work. The moorland where he searched for the lost trove lay immediately below the southern slope of the great rocky massif that divided Blenholme, a formidable barrier even to his remarkable scrying talent. While on occasional supply trips to Elktor, he had heard news about the stalled Salka incursion far to the north. Thus far, the great army mobilized by the Sovereignty had made no serious attempt to engage the inhuman enemy host.

It was a situation ripe with opportunities.

Beynor decided that his first move should be to cross over the mountains into Didion and see whether hostilities had fizzled out altogether, or whether the amphibians were only biding their time before resuming their southward advance.

One by one, he lifted and caressed the small moonstone carvings resting on the rock: a miniature icicle, a translucent ring, and a fragile wand incised with the phases of the moon. So much power! If only he could tap into it safely.

Outside, daylight was fading. The cave was a two-hour ride from Elktor, which lay to the west. But he’d left nothing of value in his rooms there. If he followed the track directly eastward instead, he could reach the great frontier city of Beorbrook by midnight even in the rain. After spending the night at an inn, he could head out for Great Pass and Didion in the morning. Conrig Ironcrown, King Somarus, High Sealord Sernin Donorvale, and all of their battle-leaders and high-ranking advisers were gathered in a Council of War at Boarsden Castle. They’d twiddled their thumbs up there for weeks, apparently unsure of how to proceed against the Salka invaders.

I could survey the situation, Beynor told himself. Make my final decision about approaching the candidate after studying the possibilities. The journey to Boarsden would take only three or four days.

He replaced the inactive sigils in the blackened leather pouch and stowed it securely inside his shirt. Then he buckled on Moss’s Sword of State and hurried to the cave mouth to bespeak the horses. Both of them, along with Jegg’s pony, had fled in terror when the Great Lights’ green thunderbolt struck the boy dead. But the animals would return readily enough at the irresistible summons of his magic.