Dragon Sword Series - Dragon Sword Part 36

. . . and Mernyl stood alone again, his staff held even with the horizon. There was no trace of the bolt.

A thin chorus of cheers went up from the embankment, and Alouzon heard Marrget's shout above it all. The captain was laughing, and she saluted Mernyl with a flourish, but the sorcerer did not notice, for another bolt had appeared, this one larger than the first. It also hurled 316.

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itself at Memyl, but, as before, he neutralized it with the energy of the Circle.

Most of the sky was by now covered with darkness. Only to the extreme southwest was there an arc of blue sky to say that it was not night, but, as though to make up for the deficiency, the bolts came faster now, shouldering their way forward as though to bludgeon the frail man at the side of the Heel Stone.

Mernyl fielded them all, holding his staff over his head like a lightning rod, the energy stream from the Circle flowing into him like a river of light.

"Arms, men of Gryylth!" Vorya shouted suddenly.

Alouzon winced at his choice of words, but she did not have time to be annoyed, for the first Corrinian soldiers had appeared. Staying far away from the battle of magics, a phalanx of about twenty-five advanced in formation and ran up the bank. The men lost momentum from the climb, but they gained the top quickly.

The faces Alouzon saw were mostly young, reminiscent of the students she had known during the years of protest. Their hair was long, their eyes intense. They had been battling for days, and they were tired and worn, but they nonetheless found themselves faced with yet more fighting.

Just like the students. Just like the warriors of Gryylth.

She felt the futility mounting around her. The Corri-nians had always been in Gryylth; there were no East-lands to which they could return. The entire world had, in fact, been created with just this insoluble conflict in mind: a vehicle for the fantasy heroics of a frightened, bewildered old man. But convincing the Corrinians and the Gryylthans that their problems were all in Solomon Braithwaite's head was another matter.

Only a brief glimpse as people then, and after that she did not have time for such luxuries. Her hand was on the Dragonsword before she knew she had put it there. As the power took her, she stepped between the phalanx and Vorya, and the blade leapt from its scabbard.

"Gryylth!"

The cry was out of her before she knew it, and her sword was flas.h.i.+ng. The first two Corrinians fell within moments as Alouzon ducked under their spear points and let the Dragonsword find its own way. In and out, the power glowing in her belly, Alouzon covered the defenseless left side of the king.

Vorya was holding his own, though. His good arm rose and fell mightily, and though he did not possess the graceful finesse of the Dragonmaster, those who thought that his infirmity made him an easy mark found their mistake a fatal one.

The battle lasted for a minute, and then the Corrinians retreated. On Alouzon's side of the Avenue, there had been no casualties among the Gryylthans.

"They came to test our strength," said Vorya. "Well, they know it now. Let them come."

She looked at her dripping blade and nearly became sick. Seven days in Gryylth and not a fighter yet, thank the G.o.ds.

Out at the Heel Stone, Mernyl was unharmed. The bolts had ceased for the time, probably because of the proximity of the phalanxes, but the sorcerer had erected a dome of force about himself that glowed like opalescent gla.s.s. The Corrinians could not touch him, and the Circle itself still pulsed with light, feeding Mernyl along the Avenue.

On the far side of the energy stream, Alouzon made out the figures of Marrget and the First Wartroop. Several were pitching dead Corrinians down the bank and into the ditch while Santhe and his men looked on. Scarred itself by the powers of the Tree, the Second Wartroop had been the most accepting of its comrades, and the men and women were exchanging backslaps and handshakes.

She turned back to Vorya. "Your people may make it after all."

The king did not seem to hear. He was looking off beyond Mernyl's position. There, several hundred yards past the Heel Stone, the Corrinian phalanxes were ma.s.sing. The ridge was thick with men. Grimly, Vorya bettered his grip on his sword.

Alouzon's nausea returned. It was going to go on and 318.

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on until everyone was dead. The people would slaughter one another, and the Tree and the Circle would fight until the world, already fragile, was powdered back into dust.

She grabbed Vorya's shoulder and pointed at the ridge. "Can't you see what's going to happen?"

He shook himself free. "I see the Dremord army."

"Man, we're going to get creamed no matter what. A settlement might let something live."

"Do they look like men with whom we can settle?"

A terrible sense of purpose radiated from the phalanxes as they advanced slowly and methodically down the ridge. In their midst was Tarwach, the king, and his brother Darham, golden-haired giants that seemed to personify the steady, vengeful movement. Behind, the darkness gyred up and spread across the sky.- Alouzon bent her head, pa.s.sed a hand across her face. Vorya laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Dragonmas-ter," he said, "I understand what you are saying." His voice was old and soft, the quiet communication between the aged and the young. "It would be a good thing if this battle did not take place, but I know well that there is no way to stop it. If we must die, we will die; and from our valiant deaths might come some compunction on Tar-wach's part if, victorious, he considers the enslavement of our people. In refusing to fight, not only would we lose the chance, slight though it may be, of maintaining, but our surrender would demonstrate our weakness, and Tarwach would see no reason not to oppress us."

Unlike Dythragor's incessant preoccupation with glory and saving face, Vorya's words, though grounded in his culture's beliefs, were based on an underlying practicality. He fought because he could see no other solution. If a better way presented itself, he would consider it.

But there was none, and the phalanxes continued to advance while Mernyl stood ready at the Heel Stone. Across the Avenue, Marrget, Santhe, and Cvinthil stood side by side with the men and women of the wartroops, weapons ready, matching the Corrinian sense of purpose with one of their own.

Alouzon moved to cover the king's left side again, though she knew that a concerted rush from so many would quickly overwhelm their position. About them, the King's Guard stood firm.

The Corrinians had almost reached Mernyl's position when he acted. With an abrupt motion, he drove the b.u.t.t of the staff into the soft ground and lifted his arms. The Heel Stone flamed as though drenched in gasoline, and the power from the Circle flared along the Avenue.

Sweeping his arms out, Mernyl spread the energies around the perimeter, encircling the monument with a wall of white light that caused the darkness to leap away as though in fear. The radiance of the Circle intensified *hen, and it rose in a column that pierced the roiling darkness and pushed it away to the northeast. The sun streamed down on the defenders of Gryylth, Another cheer went up, but it was a ragged one. Most of the men and women eyed the wall of light warily, obviously wondering what was going to happen when the Corrinians reached it. Even as they watched, the energies were growing more transparent, allowing them to see the phalanxes that approached the flickering turbulence.

Mernyl's body was taut, intent. Alouzon could not believe that this was mere grandstanding.

The Corrinians reached the wall, felt it out, and, with a shouted command from Tarwach, hurled themselves against it. Red flares burst in soundless explosions at the points of contact, but the soldiers did not seem to be hurt. They were, however, held back, and when only ten or fifteen men staggered through the barrier instead of the expected hundreds, the defenders realized that Mernyl's wall was acting as a filter, allowing only a fragmentary a.s.sault.

"Considering the work of the Tree," said Vorya, "I had hoped for better from Mernyl."

' 'He's doing pretty good. I don't think the Circle works real well for killing, and ..." She pointed off to the northeast, where the darkness had gathered its strength. It too was advancing. "He's got his hands full."

The king did not answer. The Corrinian forces were gathering their strength on the near side of Mernyl's bar- 320.

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rier, collecting what men could wade through. The soldiers were tired, but they had not forgotten their purpose, and when about a hundred had a.s.sembled, they charged directly at Vorya's position.

Alouzon glanced across the Avenue, hoping for some reinforcements, but Memyl's defense, relying on the Avenue being clear from peristyle to Heel Stone, effectively split the forces of Gryylth. A fluid defense was impossible. In order for the other captains to help, they would have to herd their warriors and soldiers all the way around the monument: nearly seven hundred and fifty feet. There was no time.

And now flashes were appearing on the other side of the Avenue. Mernyl could not do everything.

Alouzon's sword dropped a pikeman who was charging Vorya's left side. She tried not to think about what she was doing: in Bandon, her cause had been essentially just, the sides clear-cut; but here, she was merely living out Solomon Braithwaite's delusions. She hated herself for it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vorya cleaving skulls as though he were reaping crimson poppies, and she slashed at a figure that rose up in front of her, letting the power guide her. Her hand turned warm and wet and she refused to look at it.

More Corrinians were slipping through the barrier. In the daylight that had returned to the area, the red flashes of their entrance faded to a dull carnelian, and the wall turned increasingly transparent. Ma.s.ses of men were pressed against it, like flies against gla.s.s. Through steady, forward pressure, they were forcing their way through.

Alouzon was almost an outside observer now, holed up in some niche of her brain, watching her body perform its lethal antics: parry, slash, stab, deflect, parry, drive . . . The dead rolled down the bank and into the ditch, and their living companions slipped in blood and viscera as they climbed.

She turned to find herself confronted with the Corri-nian king. Tarwach towered over her by at least a foot, and he was closing on Vorya. "Not on your life, big guy," she said, and she threw herself at him. Her steel bracelet caught him on the chin and opened a vicious cut.

He turned on her, glaring. ' 'Woman, I challenge you,''

"Go to h.e.l.l." He was swinging, but she stepped back suddenly and let the sword go by. Deprived of an impact, Tarwach fought with the inertia of the heavy weapon, and Aiouzon had time to plant her booted foot firmly in his chest. Unceremoniously, the Corrinian king toppled off the bank and fell into the mire of his men in the ditch.

"You might think about settling, my lord," she called after him. He shook his fist at her. "I'm serious. Please ..."

Others had taken his place, were climbing the steep slope, were already on the bank. Facing them, she nearly fell over a body, and recognized it as that of Pas of the King's Guard.

And where was Vorya?

With the Corrinians cl.u.s.tering about her, she swung wildly with fists and sword, looking frantically for the king. The Dragonsword had free rein now, and with her attention diverted, it pursued its own ends, spinning her around to kill two who advanced on her, then a third and a fourth.

Don't think about it, girl. You think about it, you're going to get sick.

Her sword was slick with blood from tip to hilt by the time she found Vorya. The old king was being attacked by three. His numb arm had already been hacked deeply in several places, but he fought on, using the unfeeling flesh as a s.h.i.+eld when he could not evade a blow.

She kicked one away while she struck at another. Vorya, free to concentrate his abilities, settled the third. The first fell back into the blades of the King's Guard and was cut to pieces.

"Your arm!" Alouzon was appalled. Bone was show-ing"through the blood, and the flesh hung in rags.

He shook his head. "I do not feel it. I lost this arm two days ago. This is ... a formality."

More Corrinians. "We can't keep this up."

"What do you propose?" Surrounded by battle and the dead, he actually seemed amused. His eyes held no 322.

bloodl.u.s.t, only a sad fatigue, as though he were in the middle of a tedious job that he wished he could finish.

But a horn sounded from outside Mernyl's wall, and the signal was taken up by another. Tarwach was gesturing his soldiers back, and Mernyl was letting them go.

Vorya looked astonished. "What is this?"

Alouzon saw Tarwach's purpose: a hundred yards past Mernyl's position, a white-robed man stood beside a wagon. Within was a squat, glowing tree, its fruit gla.s.sy and luminous, and from its twisted branches a funnel of blackness arose, touching the sky with dark power.

The men of the phalanxes were running back, clearing the way. Mernyl stood within his hemisphere of force, staff up and ready, but now he was face to face with a strength that equaled that of the Circle.

While they watched, Tireas raised his hands and began a conjuration.

-CHAPTER 22 *

We should not be fighting one another. We should be friends.

Darham's forearm throbbed with the cut he had received, but lifting his eyes to the warriors who still stood defiantly at the top of the embankment that surrounded the Circle, he could not but admire them. Though they were outnumbered severely, though they had been pursued across country by a vengeful enemy, though they faced powers that made the battles of the past seem trivial, the Gryylthans were fighting magnificently.

He found that he was shaking. Was he getting that old, then? Unable to take a cut in battle without growing a little weak in the knees? He let his shoulders hunch forward experimentally as he sat on the stool, prompting a polite but firm request from the physician who was bandaging his arm. Straightening, he laughed tiredly.

From his vantage, he had a clear view of the battle to the south of the Avenue. He watched the phalanxes shove their way through Mernyl's magical barrier and throw themselves up the embankment. By simple numbers, they should have had an easy time of it. But at the top they met the swords of the First Wartroop, and, repeatedly, they were toppled back into the ditch with heavy casualties.

He shook his head in wonderment. Unbelievable. Though Tireas had struck the First Wartroop with a spell that had altered the men beyond their deepest nightmares, they fought on, bravely, their skill matching-no, 323.

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he had to admit it, surpa.s.sing-Corrin's best. Marrget herself seemed to be everywhere, a blonde fury, her gray eyes flas.h.i.+ng as coldly as the blade of her sword. Beside her, Relys was & whirl of black hair and steel. And . . .

The physician cut another length of bandage, began adding further layers to an already sizable dressing. And then there was that amber-haired girl, deceptively pretty, who had slid under his guard with all the grace of a dancer and opened his forearm from wrist to elbow. He would, if he kept his arm, carry that scar to his grave, a reminder of the skill of women warriors. As though Manda would ever let him forget.

His enemies were valiant. He recalled that it was Dy-thragor who had fired the crops, not these. And Dythra-gor was well known for his impetuosity and willfulness. Perhaps he had acted on his own. Perhaps there was a way out of all of this killing.

"Well, Dervyhl," he said to the physician. "Must I now learn to eat with my left hand?"

Dervyhl was a thin, desiccated man, and he eyed Dar-ham like a mother an ill-behaved child, his mouth screwed into a frown. "If you insist on having your right carved like a New Year roast, lord, perhaps you should. But, no, not this time. You will heal."

"The bandage seems overlarge."

"The blood is soaking through, lord. If I might be so bold, I would suggest that you not fight any more."

"What?"

"I would say for this battle, at least. But, knowing you, I will say for the day. And I would hope you would listen."

A big man was pa.s.sing by, tottering, holding his side. Darham recognized Karthin of the Eighteenth Phalanx. The vicissitudes of battle had s.h.i.+fted men from one formation to another, and Darham had found himself often fighting beside the big farmer.

Farmer? Regardless of his skill with a scythe, the man knew how to use a sword. "Ho! Karthin!"

Karthin's face was ashen, and for a moment, Darham was afraid that he had been mortally wounded. But Kar- .

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thin noticed his expression, shook his head. "I will live, lord Darham. 'Twas that blonde demon did this to me." He cracked a smile, almost chuckled. "I believe she has broken my ribs."

"Dervyhl," said Darham. "Attend to this man as to me."

With a sigh, the physician gestured Karthin to another stool and began examining him, prodding at his battered side.

"Marrget?"

"Marrget. Ouch!" Karthin jumped. Dervyhl mumbled an abstracted apology and went right back to his prodding. "She is amazing."

"I was reflecting that it would be far better if we were friends with these people."