Dragon Sword Series - Dragon Sword Part 21

Cvinthil swung the door open and gave a shrill whistle just as someone began rattling the front door that he had pinned shut. Shouts, cursing.

But the horses knew the call, and they cleared the fence with a bound. The guards tried to stop them, but Jia's hooves knocked one unconscious, and Cvinthil's mount simply rode over the other. Another whistle from Cvinthil, and the horses were heading directly for them.

"Atta boy, Jia," she whispered, throwing her arms about the familiar neck. "Are you willing to take me without a saddle?''

He was willing, and more than willing. As though sensing his mistress's danger, Jia moved fluidly and took her on his back. Cvinthil mounted also, and he sent the three extra horses ahead to charge the crowd of men that was forming at the archway that led to the streets of the town. "If we can gain the gate-"

"We'll still be up to our a.s.s in alligators."

For a moment, he pondered the metaphor. "Well, per- haps there will be a few less alligators. Whatever they are."

The unmounted horses had been trained for impact, and they crashed into the densely packed men, toppling many, sending a ripple of disorder throughout the crowd. "At 'ern, Jia," said Alouzon as she swatted his rump.

There were holes in the ranks of the men now, and with the speed of their mounts, Alouzon and Cvinthil pa.s.sed through the gateway and into the streets of Bandon without having to parry a single thrust. The soldiers crowded after them, but could not keep up.

The gate of the town was not far away, and Alouzon knew that unless it could be opened quickly, the men would once more be on them. With the strength of the Dragonsword, she herself could continue to fight, but she was unsure about Cvinthil. His strength was going to give out soon, and she doubted that she would make as effective an opponent if she were burdened with an unconscious man.

Quick and to the point then. No time for dallying. They rounded the corner and found the gate closed. A torch burned in the gatehouse, but the window was covered with thick bars of iron.

Alouzon swung off Jia's back. "Yell when you see them coming. I'll get the gate open." She started running up the steps to the door, muttering to herself: "Somehow."

She tried the door and found it locked. Strangely, though, she heard the sounds of a struggle within the gatehouse. One of the combatants was Kanol, and- stranger still-from the sound of it, the other was a woman. Her voice was familiar.

"Adyssa!"

"I am trying to unbar the door, Dragonmaster!"

"You will be dead in an instant, woman," said Kanol.

"My lady, he has a sword. I have nothing."

The plump midwife would have been the underdog even if Kanol had not been armed. "You're a real brave man, aren't you Kanol?" Alouzon shouted through the window.

He did not reply. He still would not talk to her.

186.

187.

Two blows from the Dragonsword shattered the door, and Alouzon kicked it in and lunged after the fragments. Adyssa was in one corner of the room, holding her side. Blood was seeping out from between her fingers. Kanol stood near the turnstile that controlled the gate, his sword freshly blooded.

"I heard of Kanol's plans, my lady," said the midwife. "You were . . ." She staggered, and the blood flowed faster. "I could not let him do that to you."

Kanol faced Alouzon, sword lifted. "Come no closer."

She circled him. "Come on, man, I don't have time for this s.h.i.t."

"Stay back."

"Get the f.u.c.k out of my way." She was already moving, and though Kanol had some skill, it was as nothing to the Dragonsword. He went down with a thump and a warm slithering from his opened belly.

Alouzon hauled on the turnstile and heard the chains engage. Adyssa came to her side and pulled also, and with their combined weights, the gate responded, opened, its counterbalances creaking down as the iron bars lifted into the upper levels of the gatehouse. Alouzon shot the heavy catch into place and hammered a piece of firewood in after it.

Adyssa's face was gray, her hands cold. She could barely move. Alouzon reached a hand to her. "Adyssa, you need help."

Cvinthil's cry rang from below. "Alouzon! They are coming!"

Adyssa shook her head slowly. "Nay, Dragonmaster. I am dead. I am physician enough to know a mortal wound.'' Her eyes blanked suddenly, and slid to the floor. Her hand fell away from her side to reveal a gash only slightly smaller than that which had felled Kanol.

"Alouzon!"

"Kanol, you son of a b.i.t.c.h ..." She did not even have time to spit on him. Grabbing her sword, she ran down the steps three at a time, swung onto Jia and kicked him into a gallop. In seconds she and Cvinthil had gained the open countryside.

They let their horses run for several miles, taking shelter at last in an arm of forest that stretched out from the mountains. Cvinthil found water, and they drank, but they had no fire, nor any desire to signal their presence by making one.

Alouzon was shaking, the strain of an hour's unremitting battle falling heavily upon her physically and emotionally. She felt shocky and weak, but she told Cvinthil to sleep. "You need it more, man. I'll keep an eye out."

"You will wake me for my watch?"

"Yeah, sure," she said, but she had no intention of doing so. Tired though she was, she did not think that sleep was possible, for she saw too many dead men's faces behind her closed eyes, viewed them with too much relish.

With the Dragonsword in her hand, she sat atop a log and stared back toward the town, her ears alert for any sounds that men might make, her eyes searching for movement.

Bandon stood in the distance, a dark, huddled shape that blocked out the stars. She had killed there, but she felt no shame. If she felt anything, she realized, it was the ache of the loss of a friend.

It was not just Adyssa, though the midwife's sacrifice had touched her deeply. No, it was Suzanne h.e.l.ling who had been lost. The peaceful college student was gone now, back perhaps to Kent State, where she could wander among the shades of memory, finding whatever solace she could in the remembrance of the dead, scrambling for a tainted absolution in the waters of helplessness.

Alouzon Dragonmaster was part of Gryyltn now, part of the violence and the blood, and the love and loyalty too. Cvinthil had risked his life for her. Adyssa had given hers freely, had accepted her death calmly.

And they don't even know who their G.o.ds are . . .

She blinked back tears as she regarded the town with a cold loathing. "You ought to be burned down," she said. "And the ground sown with salt. And if I ever get those kids out, I just might do it."

188.

189.

It was not battle. It was slaughter.

Darham's sense of honor was revolted by the progress of the campaign. The garrisons at the Dike had been overpowered by surprise and by numbers, and though they continued to fight as they retreated deeper into Gryylth, they did so without food or supplies, and their morale had been devastated. Nor were the wartroops that were brought up to reinforce the defense-hastily conscripted from nearby towns, force-marched to battle, fatigued and almost useless upon arrival-any obstacle to the Corrinian phalanxes that rolled over the countryside with gathering momentum.

Easy, effortless killing. One might as well have been chopping wood. From the beginning, it was not a battle to look upon with pride, and it became less so on the afternoon of the second day, when Dythragor appeared with the Great Dragon. For a moment, it appeared that the Dragonmaster might rally the Gryylthans, for a faint cheer went up from the clumps of soldiers who had been scattered across the landscape by the latest drive of the phalanxes, and some began to reform for an advance. But a shadow fell across the land, and the cheers ceased abruptly.

By Tarwach's orders, Tireas had been waiting, holding back until his magics were needed; and as Silbakor swept in from the north, black against the blue sky, a different and more ominous blackness suddenly tunneled up from behind the Corrinian lines. It rose and spread into a whirling gyre, gathered ma.s.s and potency, and, like a dark hand, batted the Dragon away as though it were a mayfly. In spite of Silbakor's efforts to bring Dythragor to the aid of his people, the Tree held it off, wrapping it in roiling clouds of unlight that flickered with pale fire, eclipsing the sun with shadow.

In the twilight cast round the battlefield by the Tree, the character of the battle changed from slaughter to rout, from grim, single combat to a frenzied hacking. Swords flickered fitfully in the faint spill of daylight from the north, and spears flew invisibly, finding their targets by fate and chance. Men died beneath a sky that had seem- ingly been sealed off by a lid, and at night, the stars went unseen, their light blocked by Tireas's murk.

Through it all, Darham stayed next to Tarwach, conferring with his brother, swinging his sword when necessary to batter away the Gryylthans who attacked the Corrinian king in a desperate effort to break the momentum of the phalanxes. Tarwach was left free to give his full attention to a battle that moved constantly, that spread out like a sackful of rice dumped onto a table. The disordered ranks of men jostled and bucked at one another, Corrinian and Gryylthan losing ident.i.ty as lines of combat ebbed and flowed and blended. Tarwach shouted directions, sent messengers to the phalanx captains, sometimes rode directly into a densely packed struggle to shove men bodily in the direction he wanted. His judgment-impelled by need, sharpened by the consequences of loss-was good, and the phalanxes advanced, pushing on during the day, holding positions tenaciously by night, and renewing the a.s.sault come morning.

Speed was important, for the Circle had to be won before the veteran wartroops of Gryylth could be notified and brought to the battle. Tarwach could not expect his men to endure the strain of combat indefinitely, but he had to drive them forward as quickly as he could, and therefore, the morning of the third day brought with it another command to attack.

Heavy fighting now, with groups of Gryylthan survivors banding together and throwing themselves at selected phalanxes in an attempt to slow them down, to buy time. Screams, shouts, the incessant clang of bronze and steel and iron weapons that stuck one upon another. The dead were widely scattered, strewn upon the trampled fields like a summer's sowing. Darham's horse stumbled upon a corpse, but the animal was well trained and held its footing at his word.

"Are you well, brother?" Tarwach's question was automatic.

"Better than those below me."

The Corrinians drove off another attack, and the last 190.

191.

of the wartroops fled to the west to regroup. For the time being, the silence was broken only by cries of pain.

Tarwach called a pikeman to his side. "Tell Tireas to lift some of this endless night," he said. "Tell him I must be able to see."

"Instantly, my king." And the soldier went running to the rear.

"And what do you look for, brother?" said Darham.

"I want to know when to expect the First Wartroop. I am surprised that we have not met them yet."

"It is indeed strange." Darham strained his eyes across a rolling land that was lapped in deep twilight. In any large battle between the forces of Gryylth and Corrin, the First Wartroop was inevitably the first to arrive, the last to leave. For the best warriors of Gryylth to be so conspicuously absent now was evidence either of extreme cunning on Vorya's part or of the most woeful miscalculation.

"I cannot believe other than that this must be some kind of strategy," said Tarwach.

The sky cleared, and pale daylight flicked across the field. Darham noted that Silbakor was still fighting against Tireas's magic. It was making progress now that the darkness had abated, and he could see the flash of the Dragonsword.

He touched Tarwach's arm and pointed. "If Dythragor gains this battle, it is quite possible that we will lose ground, First Wartroop or no."

"And what of the other Dragonmaster? "

' 'I see only one rider.'' Stranger and stranger. Baffling and seemingly foolish battle plans, the absence of the crack troops of Gryylth, and now the use of only one of two Dragonmasters. "Do you suppose that, because she is a woman ...?"- "Then why would she be in Gryylth?"

Darham shrugged. He had been fighting for two days now, his sleep fitful, broken, and of short duration. Not much longer, perhaps, and he would resemble the travel-worn neophytes that Gryyith had been sending against him. "I suppose I care not. She is not here, and that is good."

A Gryylthan warrior who had been feigning death sprang up beside Tarwach and thrust at him with his spear. Darham was on the wrong side of the king, but as Tarwach parried the weapon with his sword, his brother leaped over the horse and hewed the man in two.

Darham dragged an arm across his brow, the odor of blood and body fluids, old and new, rank in his throat. "Valor or foolishness, I know not, brother, but I wish this were done."

Above their heads, the Tree's darkness balled itself into a fist and smacked Silbakor and its rider to the south again.

Darham watched for a minute. Dythragor was most likely livid with frustration. Well, let him be livid. Small payment it was for the damage he had done to Corrin. Withdraw or die. That was what he had said, over and over again, rebuffing any offer, accepting no compromise. And then there was the grief that Manda bore.

Dythragor could rot in the sky for all he cared. But the men of Corrin were another matter. "We are all tired, Tarwach," he said. "Perhaps it would be good to take a half-day's rest before we continue?"

The king debated. "I would we gain the Circle first."

"And if we drop from exhaustion once there, what good will the journey have been?"

"We must put an end to this war. We are tired now, to be sure, but are we not tired of the years of fighting? And how shall we rest from that prolonged battle save by gaining our objective?"

"But-"

In the distance, on the crest of a gentle rise, there appeared several wartroops. Darham recognized their insignia. These were no young, unblooded troops, fresh-faced and overeager to prove themselves, but rather old, skilled warriors of Gryylth, veterans of many battles, cunning and courageous opponents. Time had run out for Corrin.

And what if the First Wartroop were among them?

192.

'-'I do not see Marrget," said Tarwach, as though he had guessed Darham's thoughts. "But there will be no rest for us today, I think."

The soldier he had dispatched to Tireas returned now at a run. "The compliments of Tireas the sorcerer to the king," he gasped. "He asks that the king not engage the Grvylthans immediately."

"What?"

But the darkness spread over the sky again, dimming their view of the wartroops. With a hissing crackle, the Tree launched a bolt of black fire, its incandescence sensible more to feeling than to sight, that arched high over the phalanxes and smashed directly into the first waves of the Gryylthans. The wind was from the west, and Dar-ham smelled burned and charred flesh.

"Behold the outcome of Gryylth's arrogant stupidity," said Tarwach. His voice was harsh. "They had their chance for a settlement, and we have been more than patient with them. Come, brother. Tireas will do his work, and then we will do ours. Perhaps we will soon have some leisure after all."

The king spurred his horse ahead, shouting for the phalanxes to form and advance.

For an instant, a flicker of sunlight glanced through the twilight, falling upon an untrampled piece of field. The gra.s.s glowed with yellow flowers as bright as Manda's hair.

Lovely Manda. Shining Manda. And if Corrin was not successful, her lot would be to crouch beside a Gryylthan cooking fire, serving a man to whom she had to bend her bright head every day.

Darham leapt onto his horse and galloped off after Tarwach. Rest or no rest, Corrin would gain the Circle.

* CHAPTER 13 +.

When Alouzon Dragonmaster came once again in sight of Kingsbury, she realized why it had seemed so familiar. Cadbury Hill, in Somerset, the site of Leslie Alc.o.c.k's four-year investigation into the historicity of Arthur, might have been duplicated, tree for tree and trench for trench, here in Gryylth. She did not doubt that, had she possessed aerial photographs of both hills, Kingsbury would have been distinguishable from Cadbury only in that its fortifications were exposed rather than buried.

But it was a dull recognition at best, for it was only one more peculiarity in a land rife with riddles. Her eyes swollen with a night's weeping and no sleep, she stared up at the tree-clad slopes that were wrapped now in the haze of a warm summer afternoon. Larks called, and a magpie, resplendent in its black and white livery, flitted across the road.

If there was a Grail in Gryylth-and she believed that there was-she needed it now. Added to a past filled with despair was a present saturated with violence, and she did not know whether she was disturbed more by the killings in Bandon or by her emotionless acceptance of them. Either way, the image of the life-giving, healing sustenance that flowed in such bountiful streams from the Sacred Cup drew her as though it were the promise of water in a wasteland.