Dragon Sword Series - Dragon Sword Part 27

"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."

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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?

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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- .

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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.

Marrget drove in, carrying herself lithely and with a quickness that was almost hypnotic. Alouzon backed, slid to one side, and caught her in the ribs with an elbow. For an instant, Marrget staggered, and Alouzon gave the power momentary play: her foot snaked out, tripped her.

Marrget hit the dirt with a thump, but she was on her feet again without pause, rolling smoothly from the fail into a recovery, and then into a guard stance.

"Even," said Alouzon.

"You think this is a game?"

"Nope."

Alouzon attacked. Giving and taking with a lethal power that sought always to turn her actions toward death, she sidestepped in and deflected Marrget's guard, then swung hard and prayed that the captain's reflexes were good.

They were. Marrget deflected in turn and landed a backhand fist on Alouzon's jaw. She stumbled with the impact, and slashed with the hilt of her sword to break off the attack. Marrget grunted and backed away, but Alouzon felt blood trickling down her cheek.

And the fight went on. Attack, parry, smash, riposte, parry . . . Survival was a matter of blade against blade, quickness of foot, and instinct for battle. Blows came from any body part that could be swung. Weapons were anything that could damage. Attack and reply blurred into one another until they could no longer be distinguished.

Without warning, Marrget caught the Dragonsword in a sleeve of her robe, held it, and nearly tore the weapon from Alouzon's hand. Instead of pulling, though, Alou- 240.

Gael Bandiiio zon pushed, and her unexpected response toppled Marrget and put her on the ground as Alouzon dropped on top of her with a shoulder.

Inside, she was dancing: dancing with the power. In, out, back and forth, she let it take her, but broke away before it could make her kill. She allowed the Dragon-sword to find the openings, but she herself chose when and how far to act upon them. It was a demon lover she embraced, one that filled her flesh with fire, but she steadfastly denied it full possession of her.

On their feet again, they faced off. Their movement had taken them away from the fire, and the fight continued in shadow. Blades flickered in the moonlight. Footfalls were m.u.f.fled in the soft, uncrushed gra.s.s.

Gathered together by the fire, the remaining women of the First Wartroop watched. Alouzon felt their eyes as she pushed the power away again and struck for their captain. Whether they knew it or not, she was fighting for them.

It was not a matter of glory or valor. It was a matter of friends.h.i.+p and caring. She had knelt by the dying at Kent State, powerless, unable even to scream until the hysteria had taken her days later. Tonight, she could not scream, but she could, she hoped, heal. She could make Marrget see who she was, and what she could do; and she could pray.

Please say that it's going to be all right.

What religion wors.h.i.+pped a Cup? Whatever its name, its convert fought tonight beside a fire in Gryylth. She clung to the image of the healing chalice, letting it guide the hot bloodl.u.s.t of her sword into something that could deal out life.

"Why don't you give up, Marrget?" she gasped as she pulled out of another flurry of exchanges. "You can't take me." Fatigue was building on both sides, but she had to press, to taunt, in order to keep Marrget fighting.

The captain was panting too, but she shook her head. "I will have vengeance." Her sword leaped. Alouzon blocked it and locked crosspieces.

Frozen suddenly, motionless, they stood straining .

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against one another, their faces inches apart, Marrget's hard gray eyes burned out of a smooth face streaked with sweat and caked with dust. A cut in her temple oozed blood and lymph.

Alouzon planted her feet and held. In her mind, the Grail flamed alongside the power of the sword, tempering it, turning it to other ends. "What about vengeance against the Dremords?"

Marrget kicked her away, and Alouzon fell to the ground. Her breath was coming in deep, harsh gulps, her sword felt as though someone were standing on it, and she discovered that she could only pick herself half up. But Marrget did not take advantage of her weakness. The captain stared at her, sword in hand, seemingly unable to force her body into action.

They were both tired, crushed beneath a weight of mental and physical strain. For nearly a quarter of an hour they had been fighting furiously, without pause, with scarcely a chance for breath, and their strength was nearly exhausted.

"How about it, Marrget?" Alouzon managed between pants. "You're so d.a.m.ned big on vengeance, and now you want to pull out of the big fight."

"I have nothing to fight for."

"s.h.i.+t. You've got everything."

"I ... cannot . . . fight" Marrget's voice was ragged. "I cannot. " In spite of her words, she rushed forward and aimed a vicious cut at Alouzon's head. Still on her knees, the Dragonmaster blocked it and levered Marrget into the gra.s.s just before falling beside her.

For a minute or two, they lay still. "I just want to go to sleep," Alouzon murmured. Had she allowed herself, she could have dropped off with her hand on her sword and her head cradled on her arm, but she forced herself to her hands and knees, and crawled toward Marrget. Kneeling over her, she bent and rolled the captain onto her back. The loose robe fell open and exposed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Look, honey," Alouzon said, "don't give me s.h.i.+t about-"

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Marrget swung up with both fists and punched her in the belly. Alouzon sat back on her heels and stared stupidly at her, but there was no follow-up: Marrget just panted, sucking in breaths as though she were gagging on die air.

Her robe fell off as she dragged herself up, but she paid no attention. She gripped her sword. "I am going to kill you, Alouzon Dragonmaster." She lunged.

"G.o.ddammit, no!" Alouzon brought her fist down on the back of Marrget's head, and the captain sprawled face down into the damp gra.s.s. Teetering for a moment, Alouzon collapsed beside her.

They stared at one another as though their eyes could continue the battle. "You're not making sense, Marrget."

"I make sense enough."

"You can fight. You've been fighting me for-what?- years now." Alouzon panted, caught her breath. "You can still swing a sword."

Marrget was choking with fatigue and emotion both, and there were long moments when she could not utter a sound. "I am a woman."

"Yeah. Big deal." Alouzon tried to crawl, but her body was not responding to any further commands. "So am I." She gave up and let her cheek rest on the gra.s.s.

"You do not understand."

' 'All I understand is that your people are going to get cut to pieces if you don't help."

Marrget pried an eye open. Her fingers twitched on her sword. ' 'What kind of help can the likes of us give? We cannot fight."

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you've been doing to me?"

Marrget let go of the sword, pressed a hand to her face, "lam . . ."

Alouzon pushed herself toward her. "A warrior of Gryylth. Say it! Dammit! Say it! I am a warrior of Gryylth. " Nearly toppling, she grabbed Marrget by her bare arms, shook her in cadence to the words. "I am a warrior of Gryylth.''

"By the stars, leave me, Alouzon. Let me die."

"No such luck. We're all stuck with this, and you're not getting out of it."

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