The Starfollowers of Coramonde (8 page)

For a moment,
the former sergeant had the daunting image of Wintereye before him. He’d come
too far, though; swallowing the traditionally thick, bitter wine, he made
himself a part of this Faith Cup. He gave it to Angorman, and his hand went
again to the Ace of Swords lying against his chest. He suddenly felt
optimistic.

Angorman,
eyes closed, moved his lips in prayer before taking his part. Hightower, the last,
raised the bulky chalice in one hand. “Confusion and death to Salamá!” He
drained it as Angorman and Katya echoed him. Upturning the Faith Cup, he licked
the last droplets from its rim and gave it to the servant.

Gil soon
left, to find some time alone. He was intercepted in the corridor by
Gale-Baiter. With the Mariner captain were his two crew members whose names Gil
caught this time. The hulking redbeard was Wavewatcher the Harpooner, the
smaller one Skewerskean the Chanteyman, whatever that meant.

Gale-Baiter
began, “I have heard it privily that you wish to go to Death’s Hold.”

“What if I
do?”

“Then you may
come there with me, if you wish it. Our course should take us that way.”

“Are you sure
you’ll be going there?”

“Not
positive, but in prosecuting war on the seas against Salamá, we will in all
likelihood come to it at last. Some vassals of the Masters are still said to
linger there.”

“And better a
full sail above you,” Wavewatcher rumbled, “than a stinking horse beneath.”
Skewerskean snickered. But Gil saw that any number of things could happen to
screw up the sea voyage. He had no desire to be involved in an ocean battle, or
get sidetracked on blockade duty or some such. Besides, he’d drunk the Faith
Cup. He shook his head.

“Sorry, no.
Thanks anyway for thinking of me.”

Gale-Baiter
waved his hand. “Not at all. We leave this evening for Boldhaven and our ship.
If our courses ever cross again, you’ve always the offer of passage aboard the
Long-Dock
Gal.”

Gil said
good-bye to him, and to Wavewatcher and Skewerskean. “Fair winds to you,” the
harpooner boomed. “Until our courses cross again,” added the chanteyman.

Springbuck
had traveling arrangements quietly completed by morning. His seneschal made
life miserable for many people in Earthfast that night. No one, aside from
partakers in the Faith Cup, knew what it all meant. Springbuck’s orders
included a good deal of misdirection. He’d taken to wearing Bar once more.

The rising
sun found them in a deserted corner of the bailey, puttering with the last-minute
incidentals preceding any trip. Reacher, Katya and Van Duyn had come out to see
them off. The three would depart a day later.

Gil had
decided to abandon his suit of woven mesh armor. It had an insignia on its
breast, copied from the 32d’s crest, that Duskwind had put there; he preferred
not to see it again. Instead, he wore a light, short-sleeved byrnie under his
shirt. The sword of Dunstan the Berserker knocked at his left hip, the Mauser
pistol at his right in a canvas holster. The Browning was in its shoulder
holster. He’d prudently worn a steel cap, but had tucked the hat given him by
Captain Brodur into his saddlebag. At the back of his belt was the trench knife
he’d carried from home, with brass knuckles on its grip. He patted the neck of
the waiting Jeb Stuart, a sturdy chestnut he trusted as much as he could
anything with hooves. He had Dirge cased and slung at the side of his saddle,
partly hidden by the chapelets, hoping Yardiff Bey’s sword would be of use in
tracing the sorcerer. Andre had agreed it might be so.

Angorman,
wrapped against the cold, moved stiffly. Blazetongue, concealed in wrappings,
was fastened to Andre’s other gear. The wizard had his own ancient sword,
sheathed, in hand, and another belted on over his coarse clothing. He also
carried a powerful Horse-blooded composite bow and quiver of arrows.

He opened the
pommel-knob of his old sword. Removing Calundronius from around his neck, he
dropped it into the compartment there. Gil knew that the mystic jewel’s
influence was confined in that manner. The wizard was leaving it in Gabrielle’s
care, deeming that she might have greater need of it if war erupted.

Another
companion appeared, whom Gil greeted with mixed reactions. It was Ferrian. The
Horseblooded had a scimitar secured to his cantle, by his left hand, his cloak
covering the pinned-up right sleeve. Gil wasn’t so sure he was a good choice.
The American couldn’t very well object, however, and assumed Andre had reasons
for picking him.

Gil was about
to ask where the baby was when a last traveler rode up. The newcomer was a
woman in conservative road clothes, riding sidesaddle on a speckled mare whose
trappings were decorated with swatches of bright red bunting. She was erect in
a way suggesting discipline, bearing harness supporting some burden on her
back. She had a kindly, rounded face, so fair that her eyebrows and lashes were
nearly invisible. Her hair, free of its hood, was touched with much gray.

Gil, curious,
walked to one side to see what cargo she carried. He cursed when he saw the
infant there, in a sort of papoose rig.

He spun on
Andre. “What the hell’s she doing here with that?”

She answered
for herself. “My name is Woodsinger, young man; I am to carry the child. Did
you expect me to bear her on my hip for our entire journey?”

“Our
journey? No way; that’s out, hear? Out!”

“Ahem,”
Springbuck intervened. “Gil, there is the matter of the baby’s care and
feeding.”

“Then,” the
American roared, pointing at Andre, “let him do it. It’s all his idea anyway.”

“Not mine
entirely,” protested the wizard.

“And,” added
Woodsinger, “can he lactate?”

Gil spat on
the cobbles and glared at the
Ku-Mor-Mai.
At last he said, “We’re
wasting time.”

“I am sure
things will work out well,” Springbuck soothed. “She brought the child from
Freegate.”

“First it was
the kid, now a nursie. This is giving me a lot of grief, pal.”

With injured
dignity, Woodsinger proclaimed, “I have been on farings to wear down better men
than you, with the heirs of Kings at my paps! Furthermore, I—”

Gil stopped
her with a forefinger. “Save it! Just pull your own weight.”

He left her
gaping, outraged, and said farewell to Springbuck, who obviously envied him a
bit, tired of being chanceried at Court.

Suddenly
there came a furor of growling, barking and baying. A pack of dogs burst from
the distant kennels and swarmed toward them, bristling in hatred, bellies low
to the ground. The dogs were big, wolfish-looking hounds, giving a confused
impression of glinting eyes, red tongues behind white, killing teeth and
salivary foam.

The pack,
eleven in all, threw themselves at Woodsinger’s mount. The leader sprang for
the nurse while the others caught the terrified horse’s legs and flanks,
sinking fangs in deep. Woodsinger kept the presence of mind to yank on her
rein, though, and spoiled the lead dog’s first attack, slashing at it with her
riding crop as her horse fought madly to break free. She twisted her body to
shield the child from the dog’s jaws, fighting the horse at the same time.

Then Reacher
was in among the pack. He avoided the snapping hounds and tore their leader
away from Woodsinger, closing his fierce grip on its neck. Katya was behind
him, sword flashing in the morning light, downing a dog with her first stroke,
driving the others back for an instant. Reacher flung the body of the leader at
two of its fellows, but another landed on his shoulders from behind. He went
down, rolling over and over while it bit at the chain-mail collar of his armor.

Springbuck
had drawn Bar and leapt in after the royal siblings. Woodsinger’s horse was
being dragged to the ground despite her efforts to keep it upright. Growls and
shrill whinnies added to the total chaos.

Gil was
afraid to risk a shot with Springbuck and the others intermingled with the
pack. For the same reason Van Duyn held fire, and Angorman and Andre hesitated
to strike. Gil took Jeb Stuart into the savagery. The war-horse, practiced
combatant with hooves and teeth, instantly took a dog out of the fight,
trampling it to bleeding shapelessness. Gil slipped his right hand from its
sling.

Springbuck
took another hound out of midair with Bar. The sword’s enchantment of unfailing
keenness was as effective as ever; the canine head and body fell away in
different directions. Reacher had grappled the dog that had knocked him down
into a bear hug. He applied his remarkable strength; the dog howled as its
spine splintered.

Katya had
lost her sword and now had a long combat knife in each hand. She dropped to one
knee to evade a leaping hound. Her right-hand knife darted up to gut it as it passed
overhead.

Two dogs had
Woodsinger’s horse by its nose and neck, another its tail, pulling it down.
Ferrian’s left hand blurred. A whirling metal loop struck down the tail-end dog
in a welter of blood.

Gil, gripping
his saddle tightly, leaned far over with the Browning in his hand. One dog had
stopped pulling the nurse’s horse, gathering itself to spring. The American
stiffened his elbow and wrist, fired at a range of five feet. The dog
somersaulted and fell dead.

Andre and
Angorman had gotten to Woodsinger’s side, pulling her from her floundering
horse, keeping her safe between broadsword and greataxe. Reacher had plucked up
another dog and raised it above his head. Now he flung it down against the
cobbles with all his strength. It lay in death spasms, many of its bones
shattered.

The two
remaining hounds were still at the horse, pulling its tack, chewing at the red
bunting with maniacal hatred. Springbuck smote the first down, while Reacher
wrestled the second to the ground and held it immobile, arms locked around its
throat, legs around its body. Guards had come to investigate; at Springbuck’s
command they took ropes and tied the dog, binding its muzzle.

“What the
hell was all that about?” Gil demanded, shaken. Gabrielle, examining the baby,
was satisfied she hadn’t been harmed.

“I cannot
say,” the
Ku-Mor-Mai
answered, wiping Bar on a dog’s coat. “These
animals were all trained, and none had ever set upon a human being.”

“They may not
simply have attacked Woodsinger,” Andre countered. “They were at her horse too.
When we pulled her from her mount, the pack did not pursue her.”

Katya,
returning her cleaned knives to their sheaths strapped to her thighs, asked,
“How now, then; did they go mad?”

“It is more
to be suspected that they were driven to it.” The wizard tore a strip of the
red bunting from Woodsinger’s saddle. He held it close to the bound dog; it
growled, straining to tear into him.

“This, then,
prompted the attack.”

Gabrielle
examined it. “There are procedures,” she agreed, “spells of no difficulty to
Bey or his more adept followers. Yes, the dogs would assail anyone bearing this
cloth. From whence did it come?”

The nurse was
mystified. “I became impatient at awaiting my mount, so I went and found it
myself, saddled and decked out so. I do not know who draped it, and thought it
some good-fortune wish or send-off decoration.”

Van Duyn had
taken the bunting, sniffing it. “Your impatience saved you. The horse would
probably have been brought around to the main steps, and the hounds released.
You would have been killed before we could have gotten to you. Whoever planned
this had no choice, after you’d taken your horse, but to set the dogs on you
here.”

The
Ku-Mor-Mai
dispatched a detail to search the kennels and stables for the one responsible,
but doubted the person would still be close by. Gil now held the strip of
bunting. He wadded it up and tucked it down into his saddlebag, one more piece
of the sorcerer’s trail.

Ferrian was
holding the war-quoit he’d thrown, a Horseblooded weapon much like a Sikh chakram.
Springbuck inquired whether Woodsinger would resume the trip or prefer to be
relieved of her duty.

“We can
switch her stuff to another horse and be on our way in a quarter of an hour,”
Gil broke in. Woodsinger stared at him. “Uh, right?”

Her round
face showed a small, lopsided smile. “Quite so. Are we to be deterred by a
dogfight?”

Gabrielle
chuckled, one hand on Ferrian’s shoulder, the other on Woodsinger’s. “So, the
Ace of Swords goes forth in suit.”

“Gung ho,”
commented Gil MacDonald sourly.

When in disgrace with fortune
and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state…

William Shakespeare

THE
Ku-Mor-Mai
considered life, considered death.

Over his
throne hung the snarling crimson tiger banner of Coramonde. Before him knelt
Midwis, a Legion-Marshal.

“What
mitigation can you offer,” Springbuck demanded, “that you should not be hung
from the Iron Hook Gate, and your family evicted from their lands?”

Midwis licked
his lips and cast about for an answer. “Sire, I broke my ties with your enemies
at the last, lifted the siege on your allies at Freegate, yea, and at the
Hightower too.”

“Yes, after
you’d heard I had taken Earthfast.”

“I concede
it. Please, ask of me no merit; I have none, except some martial aptitude. Do
as you will with me.”

Which was
precisely the problem. Midwis was a much-admired officer, his battle standard
weighted with campaign streamers won in service of Coramonde. His family was
wealthy, ancient and influential. And, as the Marshal had said, he was a
talented commander with a hardened Legion. Every resource was vital now, but
Springbuck could no more let Midwis go unpunished than impose death upon him.
He had a middle road in mind.