The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (47 page)

Another arrow clattered against the smoothed rock that reinforced the tunnel mouth, then dropped onto the stone of the ledge.

“Players!” Jecks boomed again, his fingers tightening on the hilt of a blade all too useless from where he viewed the valley.

A figure paused at the tunnel mouth.

“Stay there!” Anna didn’t need to lose another chief player. “Line up everyone right there inside the tunnel. They’ve got dozens of archers. I’ll need the flame song for them.”

Liende paled.

“Just for the archers and the horsemen,” Anna emphasized. “Then we’ll have time for the loyalty spell.”

She tried not to wince . . . but she didn’t trust Dencer, even under a loyalty spell, and Dencer didn’t deserve mercy.
You’re the avenging angel now?
She pushed away the thought, and cleared her throat, going through the simple “polly-lolly-pop” vocalise on her knees. It didn’t feel
right. She had to cough and clear out her throat. “I need to stand up.”

Fhurgen and Rickel-locked shields.

“When I tell you, you’ll have to step to the side,” Anna said.

“Yes, lady.” Fhurgen grinned grimly. “But not until then.”

Another arrow clattered, this time against the safety wall.

Behind her, a ragged warm-up tune followed as she struggled to clear her cords.

Three more arrows bounced from various angles onto the ledge. A heavier
clank
announced a crossbow bolt that skidded almost to Anna’s feet.

“Now!” snapped Anna. The arrows would only get more accurate.

“The flame song. On my mark. Mark!”

The tune was ragged, but not too bad, Anna hoped as she launched into the spell.

“Turn to fire, turn to flame

those below who reject my name.

Turn to ash all tools spelled against my face

and those who seek by force the Regency to

replace . . .”

Another volley of arrows arched over the wall, one sticking into the shield Fhurgen held, several others clattering against the stone of the cliff above and around the arch of the tunnel entrance.

“Turn to fire, turn to flame . . .”

Fiery spikes of flame seared out of the sky, more like lances of flame than arrows, and the harmonic chord that only Anna seemed to hear strummed deeply, once, twice.

Anna winced as the screams rose from below, as another volley of arrows clattered on the stone, and as more lances of fire slashed from sky to valley.

T
he angular Dencer peers down at the clouded image in the glass—an image that shows a woman standing on a road and singing at a rock face. Behind her are the even more shadowy figures of players.

“Where is she?” demands the Lord of Stromwer. “I know she works sorcery. She always works sorcery. But where works she this sorcery?”

“We will try, ser.” The sweaty-faced man in tan linens gestures to the three players and begins to sing.

“Now show in the shining light of song
where the sorceress may be found . . .”

The singer coughs and the images shiver back into silver mists.

“Show me! Now!” snaps Dencer.

The seer coughs again, then repeats the refrain, the violinos matching his thin voice.

This time the cloudy image shows horsemen along a narrow trail.

“Not much better. Thank the harmonies I know my lands.” Dencer glances at the seer. “Cannot you do better than that?”

“Ser . . . she is powerful.”

“What use are you all? Worthless! Why have I only the weak and worthless?” The lank-haired lord knocks aside the seer with his gauntleted left arm and strides from the room. “Gortin! Zerban! Form up the archers! Now!”

Dencer still yells commands as he rides from the stables and closes with the waiting Dumaran captain. “Are your
men ready?” The Lord of Stromwer gestures toward the gate to the south. “Zerban! We ride!”

“I have followed your orders, Lord Dencer, but I see no sorceress.”

“Had we waited until we saw her, too late would it have been. Are all you Dumarans so stupid?” Dencer urges his mount toward the gate. “Archers! Ride to the west! After me!” The gates groan open, and the armsmen in tan leathers flank Dencer as he rides out through the gates and along the berm road to the west.

Gortin gestures to his own lancers and smaller number of mounted archers, then follows the gawky-looking Lord of Stromwer through the gates and across the flat grass of the high berm toward the cliffs to the west of the keep.

“Why here?” asks the Dumaran officer when he finally draws his mount alongside that of Dencer, more than halfway to the base of the cliff.

“The bitch uses sorcery, and if she succeeds, she will make her way through that low point in the cliffs.” Dencer draws his blade and gestures. “There. See you not the rock steaming?”

Gortin half ducks as the weapon swirls by him, then looks to the cliffs ahead and overhead. As Dencer has said, steam or mist—something boils off the rock nearly a hundred yards up from the base of the cliff.

“She will level that mountain, if it takes that, to get to us. She is already calling on dissonance to support her attack.” The tall lord reins up and half turns his mount. He stands in the saddle easily, despite his awkward appearance, and gestures with the long blade. “Form up the archers! Here! Now! Right before me!”

Gortin gestures, and the Dumaran archers begin to form to the south of the tan-clad forces of Stromwer. Dencer watches as the archers tumble off of mounts and form on the long grass before him.

Above them and to the west, a dull rumbling fills the midday air, and gray clouds of dust spurt from the cliff’s side.

“A tunnel. . . . The bitch has created a tunnel. . . . Proves she’s not all-powerful.” Dencer gestures with the long blade again—toward the gray-and-red layers of the cliff that lies less than a hundred yards from where his archers prepare.

The gray mist swirls away in the light breeze, revealing a rock-walled balcony jutting out of the cliff. Gortin’s jaw drops momentarily, but he closes his mouth quickly and glances toward Dencer.

“Your lord—did he not realize the danger this sorceress poses?” Dencer’s voice oozes with irony. “The great Lord Ehara . . . he did not realize?”

“I think not, Lord Dencer.”

Two shields appear above the wall on the cliff, and then a figure in greens—apparently blonde—peers over one of the shields.

“The bitch! She’s there already,” mutters Dencer. His voice rises as he sheathes the blade. “Zerban! Archers! Blanket that place with shafts! Now! Every shaft you have!”

To his left, Gortin echoes similar commands, and the half-score of crimson-clad Dumarans begin to loft shafts over the short expanse of wall. Some arrows bounce off the rock.

“More shafts!” insists Dencer, stringing his own great bow, and then loosing one shaft, then another.

The sounds of horns, then of strings, waft out over the valley—followed by a strong voice, a clear voice, a voice that makes that of Dencer’s seer seem as nothing.

The Lord of Stromwer glares, nocks another shaft, and releases it. “Bitch! Bitch! Get you if I can . . .” His voice is low and ragged.

The puffy white clouds to the south and west darken into gray, and the ground seems to rumble.

Dencer looses another shaft.

A lance of fire appears from somewhere in the sky and sizzles into the archers before Dencer.

“Ooooh . . .” The muted moan of the dying man mixes with the odor of burning flesh.

“Aeeeiiii . . . aeeiii . . .”

Fire lances begin to fall as fast as raindrops in a thunderstorm, and the screams of the dying rise with the flames that engulf them.

Dencer nocks yet another shaft and lofts it toward the stone wall above him. “Bitch! No sorceress . . . No woman . . . Bitch!”

He struggles to reach one more shaft as the fires enfold him, tries to lift it to the burning bow, while he clamps his lips shut. Then he raises one fist . . . slowly . . . before his charred figure is thrown from the back of the mount that rears to escape the flame, rears . . . and collapses under the rain of fire that appears to be everywhere there are armsmen.

A
s Anna finished the spell, she took a deep breath, then began to cough. Rickel and Fhurgen raised the shields around her.

“Oh . . .” Behind her was a muted cry, and a sound of someone falling.

She turned, still coughing, as the arrows continued to rain down on the rock-walled platform, even as the few clouds began to darken, the ground seemingly to rumble. Fiery spikes flared from the skies, bright enough to dazzle her eyes, and with the spikes came cries . . . and screams from below. Screams that Anna ignored as she saw the body.

On the ledge sprawled one of the more newly recruited players. A crossbow bolt had gone straight through his
neck. Even as she scurried toward the figure, with blood that had welled up everywhere, Anna could tell it was too late, probably a slashed carotid artery. The odds against something like that were tremendous, but somehow, warfare didn’t always take odds into account.

Shit . . . damn . . .

Anna looked over at Liende, trying to recall the young violist’s name. Hasset—he’d been one of the cheerful ones. Blond, curly-haired, laughing, and he was dead. Like that.
How many? How many more?

As she questioned, both the fire lances and the screams died away, and only the odor of burning grass and burned flesh drifted upward from the valley.
Only?
Anna swallowed, trying not to cough again, afraid she’d end up retching if she did.

After a moment, she turned her eyes to Liende. “I’m sorry. I tried.”

“I know.” Liende sighed. “It is war.”

War—was that what she was good at?

Several of the players swallowed as they looked down.

“We’re not done.” Anna caught their eyes. “You need to get ready for the next spell . . . or what we’ve done won’t mean anything.” Her eyes went to Liende. “Out by the wall. It’s safe there now.”

“Places,” coughed Liende. “By the wall.”

Anna walked slowly back to the overlook. Both Fhurgen and Rickel had lowered their shields. Jecks stood by them.

Below, streaks of black seared the earth. Small patchy fires burned in several places. Man-sized heaps of charcoal dotted the green meadow. Three horses galloped free. The others had been less fortunate, sharing the fate of their riders.

Poor damned horses . . . but you can’t keep coming up with spells for everything. . . .
Except that the problem was that spells had to be relatively short, and that meant that people—and horses—suffered. Then, that was true of blades, arrows, and nuclear weapons.

Anna cleared her throat.

The remaining nine players straggled out onto the walled ledge. Kaseth, almost tottering, still clutched his violino. Delvor marched out almost defiantly, followed by Yuarl and Duralt, still half strutting.

Typical brass player . . .
Anna forced her mind back to the keep below. “The new spell . . . the loyalty spell. On my mark.” With the players behind it, rather than just her lutar, she hoped that the effect wouldn’t be as draining on her and more effective on Stromwer.

“Mark!” Liende gestured and began to play herself.

Anna went into the song, without words, without preamble.

“Folk of Stromwer, weak or strong,
loyal be from this song.
Be you young or be you old,
faithful be till dead and cold.

“Your heirs of all, daughters and sons,
workers of lands, while time runs.
Treachery prevent to all Defalkan lands
with your cunning and your hands.”

The slash of pain was so intense, the pounding through her skull like so many jackhammers, the flares in her eyes so hot, that she could feel her knees fold like an instantly-struck set.

And the darkness was not cold or distant, but hot, prickling.

She could feel herself twitching, moaning, and unable to move, before the hot blackness swept over her and swallowed her.

T
he dark-haired woman strides past the guard outside the door and into the sunlit study. Her eyes fix the gray-haired Matriarch, ignoring the older man in the straight-backed chair across from the writing desk.

“Veria, I had asked not to be interrupted. I presume you have information of great import.” The Matriarch’s words are level.

“Matriarch, you said that this sorceress used only Clearsong. You said that she was with the harmonies.” Veria’s cold eyes fix on the cherubic face of her mother. “All Liedwahr felt the dissonance of this . . . abomination.”

“I have no doubts that the sorceress meant well, daughter.” The Matriarch’s face clouds.

“ ‘Meant well.’ You will find an excuse for everything that she does. Did not the Prophet of Music mean well? Did not the Evult mean well?”

“You take on too much, daughter,” says Ulgar quietly, rising from the chair.

Veria’s eyes flash. “You would see nothing but perfection in every word—”

“What happened to the sorceress?” asks the older woman. “If you will . . .”

“She lies prostrate. The seers say she may not live. Nor should she, with that force of Darksong!”

“And if she does? Do you think she will attempt it again?” The Matriarch turns in the padded desk chair.

“If she can. The woman has no ideals. She is not a woman for us.”

“Oh? Was she raised as you to understand Darksong
and Clearsong? Did she have someone tutor her in the finer points . . .”

“Matriarch . . .”

“I think you should leave, Veria.” Ulgar steps forward, and his eyes are hard. “We do not know what happened, not well enough to judge, and you wish to judge.”

“I have every right to judge Darksong—and I will.” Veria bows. “Good day, Matriarch.”

As the door closes, the Matriarch glances to her consort. “You should have let her speak.”

“No. She is only looking for ways to hurt you.” Ulgar’s eyes go to the door.

“I cannot explain it, Ulgar.” The Matriarch sighs softly.
“I know
that whatever the sorceress did was to avoid more bloodshed. She does not like to shed blood. She is still young at heart, and she would use her skills to change souls to save bodies. As we know—and as Veria will not see—you cannot use the harmonies in such a fashion.”