Part 27 (1/2)

”Aye. Aye, I could, lord. They spoke of the deaths, but mostly of the First Wartroop.”

Tireas gripped himself harder, his mind a haze of soft, rounded womanflesh forced upon unwilling bodies and minds, the slowly dawning horror of an awakening to a loss of self, of everything familiar.

' 'What of the First Wartroop? ”

”They are encamped separate from the rest of the army, my king.”

”And what news of them?”

The scout was cloaked in black, his face smeared with soot and his keen knife painted so that its gleam would not betray his presence. He indicated a fresh slash on his darkened cheek. ”Women they might be, lord, and new to their station, but they fight well. This wound I had from their sentry when I was foolish enough to approach. Her womanhood has made her no less the warrior.''

Darham stood next to his brother, his blue eyes show- 236.

ing a mixture of admiration and pity. But that was Dar-ham: in the midst of the thickest battle, he could still maintain a compa.s.sionate fellows.h.i.+p with the men he fought. ”And how do they fare, sir? Are they . . . ?”

”Some are dead. A number have killed themselves. The rest . . .” The scout touched the slash. ”I did not consider it wise to approach further.''

”And Vorya's army is deserting?”

”Aye. Already it is but half of what it was.” He considered, as though weighing the effect of his words. ”But there is something else. The sorcerer Mernyl has been brought to King Vorya. He appears to be welcome.”

Silence. Beyond the canopy hastily erected to serve as Tarwach's lodge, the campfires of the phalanxes flickered in the soft, eastern wind. The odor of woodsmoke and the murmur of men's voices fluttered in the air like the moths that circled round the torches.

Tireas felt the eyes of the king and his brother on him. He was supposed to say something. He could think of nothing to say. Nothing would make him put his hands on that trunk again, nothing could coerce him into allowing the shadowy tendrils of madness to snake across his consciousness. Nothing.

The battle was won. It would not be necessary. He clung to those thoughts. ”There is little that Memyl can do, my king,” he said.

There came, from the distance, the shout of a sentry, an answering cry. A rider approached the canopy in haste. Tarwach looked up, and his guards straightened and readied their weapons. It would not be surprising if Gryylth, failing in strength, turned now to subtlety.

But the rider came armed only with a soot-streaked face and, when he had dismounted, a heavy step. He was a big, strapping man, but he was tired. ”I bring greetings to King Tarwach,” he said at the edge of the canopy. He bowed.

”Do I know you, sir?” said the king.

”I am a farmer of southeast Corrin, my king. I brought tribute to you last year from Rutupia. You thought the heifer was especially fine.”

237.

Tarwach considered, gestured for him to approach. ”Karthin?”

”The same, my king. The war has made me turn soldier. The Eighteenth Phalanx approaches with fresh troops, but I came ahead. I fear I bear evil news.”

Mernyl, and now this. No, he would not . . .

”Speak. What has happened?”

”My king, Dythragor Dr^gonmaster has fired the crops to the south and east of Benardis. Our wheat and barley are no more, and several villages are in ashes.”

His nerves raw and bleeding, open to the faintest emotion, Tireas felt the series of thoughts and images that ran through Tarwach's mind. The crops were gone. There would be no food. And that meant that the war was not won: it would continue, with starving Corrinian against terrified Gryylthan. It would continue on, and on, and on ...

/ will not use the Tree. I will not.

But they were looking at him again. This was the time for the sorcerer to rise to his feet, lift his hands, and give some sound advice that would alleviate the crus.h.i.+ng sense of loss and futility, that might turn the anger aside.

But the sorcerer had nothing to say. The sorcerer was not himself any more. Tireas was as far fled as Marrget of Crownhark.

It was Tarwach who rose. ”By the G.o.ds, they will pay for this.”

Darham pa.s.sed a hand over his face. ”Adders will strike so, if trodden upon.” He looked at Karthin. ”Are you certain?”

”I myself watched from the vantage of the North Downs. The fields are black from Benardis to the sea.”

”Dythragor, you say?”

”Dythragor.”

Squatting in its wain, the Tree glowed at Tireas. Come, it said. Come to me, and together we will change the world. We will make the changes endless.

How long, he wondered, had he been looking at the Tree? Where were his wise words? Who was opening and closing his mouth? Who framed his sentences?

238.

Tarwach stared out at the campfires as though he might take fire from them and reply to Gryylth, flame for flame. ”We have no choice,” he said at last. ”Gryylth has made it for us. I would rather have all of Vorya's land in ruins than allow one child of Corrin to cry for a mouthful of bread.”

”Brother ...” Darham reached out to him.

Tarwach ignored the hand. ”We will rest tomorrow, and the next day we will march. If Gryylth is an adder, we will crush its head.”

I... I will not do it.

But the Tree was calling him.

Marrget came in quickly, and Alouzon managed to get her metal cuff up in time to deflect the main impact of her drive. But the crossing of the sword caught, and before she could set her feet in response, she was tumbled over and into the gra.s.s.

She stopped herself inches from the fire, the flames stinging the hair from her arms. Rolling over and away, she found Marrget standing over her, eyes hot, face set. ”Draw your sword, Dragonmaster.”

Alouzon blinked at her. This was exactly what she had wanted, but for an instant, her nerves turned rubbery. Fighting? Again?

Marrget swung her sword, brought it down in a clean, precise stroke that gave her the choice of fighting or dying. Alouzon rolled, jerked out her sword, and parried. The blades rang, and Marrget examined her as she got to her feet, sizing her up for another rush.

The power of the Dragonsword was building again, hammering its way down her arm and into her brain. Nerves were quickening, muscles snapping to attention. Marrget became a target to be a.n.a.lyzed for weaknesses and vulnerable points, and her technique was evaluated and cataloged before Alouzon realized that the process had begun.

”My dedication and loyalty to Gryylth have been constant and spotless,” said Marrget evenly, moving so as to back Alouzon against the flames. Obviously, the cap- .

239.

tain knew the power of the Dragonsword and was increasing her odds by trapping her opponent. ”I will not have it insulted.”

But Alouzon hardly heard her: she was busy fighting her own weapon. It was too easy to battle to the death. Marrget's technique was excellent, but it had its flaws, and the Dragonsword made her see them, urged her to exploit them. The sword wanted to kill. But Alouzon wanted it to heal.