The Starfollowers of Coramonde (50 page)

Yardiff Bey
drew to a halt out on the plain. He turned his heightened, one-eyed gaze to the
east, seeing farther and better than mortal sight. He descried the war-dray far
off, throwing out a plume of dust. Its way led through low, gutted hills from
which much stone had been quarried and cut for use in Salamá. Beyond those rose
the bare little mount upon which the Lifetree could thrive.

He sensed an
emanation he’d come across before; Calundronius, accursed gemstone of the
deCourteneys, was there. No simple spell would stop his prey. And even with his
infernal steed, Bey could not overhaul them in time; they’d gained a commanding
lead. It would require extraordinary measures to halt them, or at least impede
them until he could catch up.

He ordered
his thoughts, sorting out the things he must invoke, flows he must tap, oaths
to bind and vows to make. He used a forbidden tongue, his aristocratic hands
darting through the passes of his Shaping. The hellhorse, scenting sorcery,
reared high, beams of amber light arrowing from its eyes. Ears flattening to
its skull, it screamed its excitement; not an equine sound, but rather the cry
of a giant feline.

Van Duyn and
Katya, having dropped far behind the main party as rearguard, heard that sound.
They turned, and saw a horse and rider, tiny in the distance, coming at uncanny
speed. They brought their horses around, the American unslinging the M-1, to do
whatever they must to buy time for those riding with the Lifetree.

The main
party thundered down into the lowest part of the valley, their horses lathered
with sweat, flinging up the earth in clots. They passed striated cliffs and deserted
stoneyards, catching sight of low-lying excavations where ground water had
formed pools. That an open body of water could exist here proved their
destination was close.

Springbuck’s
heart was alive with hope; all victory seemed possible. Then Fireheel slowed,
his senses sharper than his rider’s, testing the breeze, ears pricked forward,
moving with quick, high steps, head swiveling. Springbuck scanned for danger,
taking Calundronius from his chest and holding it by its chain. He saw nothing
approaching from any direction, and the sky was vacant.

The brown
earth jumped, like a horse’s shoulder-twitch; Yardiff Bey’s sorcery was taking
hold, Shaping this most inert and difficult of the elements to his purpose.
Rising in a mound, as if a baker kneaded dough, it folded and refolded,
swelling. Here, where the earth had already been opened and raided, Yardiff Bey
had found pliant material, receptive to his arts.

The
earth-elemental found its feet like a drunkard, the problems of balance and
motion altogether alien to it. It came from quiescent soil, used only to
movements dictated by simple gravity and the patient adjustments of the
substrata. It was twice as tall as the tallest of the humans, crudely wrought.
Headless, it worked its arms and legs slowly, with a rain of dust and gravel,
chance minerals and bits of rock.

To the right
of the road was the valley’s side, and to the left, a jumble of stone blocks in
the abandoned yards, leaving no room to go around. The eight bulky dray horses
reared and neighed, kicking, threatening to break their cracking swingletrees.
Gil and Hightower could do nothing but endure the rocking and jolting grimly.

Dunstan had
himself braced in the curve of the driver’s waist-bar, fighting the reins.
Fireheel had shied away from the apparition, but now Springbuck forced the gray
close, holding Calundronius out. The thing sensed the gemstone and its power.
It stomped clumsily, gathered more earth to it and flung it at the
Ku-Mor-Mai.
Sand, dirt and shale hit Springbuck like a wall. The stallion and his rider
were blasted backward, falling; Fireheel whinnied in fright, and Calundronius
was torn from the Protector-Suzerain’s fingers. Swan lofted a javelin that
drove deep into the creature’s side, then began to slough out again without effect,
telling her no mortal weapon would avail.

Dunstan and
Ferrian were working together to back the neighing, bucking team. Reacher rode
up to seize the right lead horse’s bridle.

Sorcery drew
the elemental to the axe, guiding it in its only purpose, to stop the Lifetree.
It lifted a boulder, hurled it at the dray. Its aim was off; docile earth, it
was unused to something as bizarre as trajectory. The boulder missed the team,
but smashed into the dray, snapping a wheel rim, crunching its spokes.

The elemental
went to the wagon and, without sign of effort, it began to topple the vehicle
over on its side. Dunstan clung to his place at the prow a moment, then the
reins were dragged from his hands and the weakened hitch broke. The eight
horses milled and reared. Ferrian, arms and legs gyrating, was tossed headlong.
Reacher managed to break his fall by leaning far out of his saddle, but the
King’s own horse, flinching in fright, robbed him of balance. Both went down.
The team broke and ran blindly, and with them went Reacher’s horse. The King
scrambled madly to pull Ferrian and himself from beneath the great hooves, but
his leg was struck, and Reacher’s left leg hung useless, crushed and numb.

Inside the
dray, men tumbled as wall changed place with ceiling and floor. Gil managed to
catch himself by a handhold ring, igniting white agony in his side. Red Pilgrim
lay nearby, having narrowly missed his head. Hightower’s restraints came loose,
and he met the wood with a thud.

The
earth-being began to pry at the dray bed, not understanding what it was, but
only that the object it sought was within. Clumsily conceived arms hunted the
chassis for purchase, to sounds of sliding soil and gravel. Its weight tilted
the war-dray still more. Those inside struggled to the rear hatch, but its lock
was jammed, and the prow had been crumpled in. There was a roof hatch but it,
too, resisted them.

Swan was out
of her saddle, helping dazed Springbuck dig himself out of the soil that
half-covered him, hoping to find Calundronius, as the Shaping commenced tearing
at the bed of the overturned dray. Tugging the limp
Ku-Mor-Mai
free, she
found his fingers empty and condemned the luck; Calundronius was the one thing
that would help now. She began scooping dirt furiously, looking for the negator.

Planks were
torn away from the dray bed. The elemental began working its crude hands in for
a new grip. Gil was helpless to aid Dunstan, who was throwing himself against
the rear hatch.

There was a
creaking from the roof. Inch by inch, the hatch there bent open, as the monster
gradually pulled the floor away. The roof hatch parted further, and Gil saw the
King of Freegate, Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach. His right foot was planted
against the roof, back bowed in exertion. Now he threw his head back, face
bracketed with strain. He’d peeled one corner back, and now the latch gave. The
hatch popped open.

Reacher,
asprawl, thrust his hands in, took Gil’s shoulders and yanked. The American was
pulled to momentary safety with a shriek of pain. Dunstan came behind, dragging
the bulk of Hightower in short, desperate tugs. Then Reacher seized the
Warlord, hauling him out in one motion. The Warlord’s blood ran copiously from
his mouth.

Half the
dray’s bed came loose in the elemental’s hand. Dunstan, grabbing up Red
Pilgrim, was last to tumble through the broken hatch. The Shaping broke off its
efforts on the dray, pushing it aside, rolling the wagon over onto its roof.
Reacher, with one leg numb, had to move quickly to keep Gil and Hightower from
being trapped beneath.

Holding the
greataxe, Dunstan ran for the nearest horse, Jeb Stuart. The elemental followed
close after, and the horse shied and bolted from it. With nowhere else to hide,
Dunstan made a frantic dash for the maze-work of quarries and stoneyards. The monster
pursued.

Swan left
Springbuck to dig for the negator. She plunged into the stoneyards to help
Dunstan, pausing only to pick up a flake of rock with which to blaze her route
through the jumble.

Reacher had
already recognized that he couldn’t follow; he hopped and hobbled back to
Ferrian. The Horse-blooded sat holding a gash in his temple that had come close
to his eye. The King began to tear his old companion’s vest into shreds for
bandage. Gil lay back, wearily cursing the luck that had stopped them so near
their objective.

The
stoneyards were filled with unused pieces, from monolithic cubes the size of a
house to keystones no bigger than a scent box. Lying where they’d been left,
they formed a labyrinth terrain of roofless corridors and cul-de-sacs. Dunstan,
weaving among them, Red Pilgrim clutched close to him, tried to quiet his own
breathing, listening for sounds of the thing following him. He chose his path
by guesswork, hoping he was moving the right way. The melancholy Horseblooded
hoped the plan he’d conceived in transit, as it were, would work.

He heard the
calls of Swan, but withheld any answer, unsure if the creature could hear. Then
Dunstan heard scraping, tons of stone being moved by illimitable strength. The
elemental was close, guided by the decrees of Yardiff Bey that had targeted it
on the Lifetree.

He finally
found what he’d sought, an excavation filled with murky ground water,
surrounded by high blocks. Dunstan cudgeled his brain, twisting his sad face in
thought. Which would be the best place to wait, one that would give his pursuer
no long corridor of approach? He plotted the grating, grinding noise of
dislodged stone, and positioned himself.

Swan’s voice,
nearby, made him look up. She’d ascended a series of blocks to stand high above
the rest of the maze, and seen his plan. “That way,” she called through cupped
hands, then pointed. “It comes, no more than thirty paces!” She turned, jumped,
vanished from sight. He stepped to a better location. There he waited, sweat
beading his long features and staining his shirt, as the thing heaved stone
tonnage aside to get at him.

Dunstan’s
gaunt face worked urgently. He’d come with the vague idea of luring the monster
into the water, but if he waited on the brink, might it not catch him first? He
was of the High Ranges, and could barely swim, but if he dove into the water
now, could the thing not kill him and bury the axe with stones flung from the
land? He berated himself; hadn’t that lifetime-night of captivity in Salamá
even taught him to
think!

The block
fronting him began to move, even as he heard Swan’s halloo. He hazarded a quick
look over his shoulder and saw her there on the far side of the pool, a dozen
paces from him, watching him expectantly. Her look brought home to him the fact
that he was not in the Rage, that he’d thought and acted, under great pressure,
and not yielded up control of himself. He was again Dunstan, and nevermore
Berserker.

Then his mind
became cool, his course of action clear, his arms steady and strong. He fired
the terse order to Swan, “Stand ready, Red Pilgrim flies!”

As the last
block was moved away and the earth-elemental lurched toward him, he took a
two-handed grip at the end of the greataxe helve. He waited until the creature
was nearly on him, a precise calculation. Then he heaved the weapon up, over
his head, as high and as far as he could, and immediately threw himself between
the elemental’s feet, curled in a tight ball.

The
creature’s limited senses remained with Red Pilgrim, as the axe spun and glittered
through the air over the pool. The thing moved after its prize, prodded by
dim-witted singleness of purpose. It plunged off the lip of the excavation,
into the water. The axe descended, clanging to the stone near Swan.

The water
heaved and surged with earth and stone swirling through it as two antithetical
elements met. Waves and foam pounded, a miniature hurricane in narrow confines.
Dunstan got to his feet, brushing dirt from himself. The waves stilled, and the
pool’s surface became as smooth as it had been before.

Yardiff Bey,
a wraith of murderous intent, flew at Van Duyn and Katya; his horse’s hoofbeats
left a trail of glowing prints in its wake.

The American
had dismounted, to snuggle the butt of the Garand firmly at his shoulder. The
hellhorse grew larger in his sight picture, cannonading the ground. The
sorcerer was crouched behind the beast’s neck, clinging like a thistle in the
whiplash banners of its mane. “You must wait until he is nigh, Edward,” the
Snow Leopardess advised, “or he may distort what you see.”

He fixed his
cheek to the rifle stock, steadied his sight blade. He fired carefully, as he
did all things, leaning into the recoil. The first shot was high. The second
kicked up dirt, an overcompensation, but the third hit. Bey’s eldritch mount
gave its feline cry as it lost vaporous, foul-smelling blood from a wound in
its left gaskin. Katya, seeing Bey could hide behind his steed’s neck, told Van
Duyn to hold fire; her reckless courage had hold of her again.

Rowling her
horse, she went at the Hand of Salamá, shield up, ironbound lance pointing the
way. But Bey’s mount was demoniac in its speed and strength, and feared
nothing. It swerved away from her lance like spindrift, its snapping,
sulfur-smelling fangs barely missing her arm. Its enormous weight slammed her
horse’s side, knocking the Snow Leopardess and her charger through the air,
discards of battle.

The rifle
came up again; Van Duyn fired with metronomic punctuality, one round per
second. One whistled through the beast’s forelock, but others struck deep in
its neck and chest. Though Bey was protected from the gunfire, Van Duyn stood
his ground resolutely. It almost cost him his life; he just did manage to dive
aside. The hellhorse swept by, its wounds fuming and sizzling.

As dust
settled around him, Van Duyn climbed shakily to his feet. Katya was already
picking herself up, throwing off her fall. “I am unscathed,” the Princess
assured him, peering eastward after the vanished sorcerer, “but the day seems
mapped for disaster.”