itself. The Watchers had passed long ago into legend, keeping vigil over the lonely centuries against a return of the Fallen Ones. How could she look any of them in the eye knowing she went to enlist the aid of their ancient enemies?
Nor was this the best of times to approach Omizantrim. Sometime during the night after the Chanobit Creek debacle the volcano had belched into deadly life again. Lightning and choking poison vapors now ringed the jagged crest of the mountain, and a spume of black smoke grew from it like a bloated, ghastly phallus raping the sky. Such was the power of that single eruption, that from time to time Moriana and Darl passed through areas rendered gray and unreal by falls of ash from the crater two hundred miles to the east. Glancing uneasily at the vast smudge defiling the eastern sky, Moriana wondered what unholy message the mountain had uttered.
She had the gut feeling that it boded her no good.
In another year Moriana might have appreciated the soft beauty of early spring. Leaves burgeoned on the trees, and fields and meadows exploded with a profusion of wildflowers, pink canthas, ovuei as gold as the sunset on placid waters, even the rare royal minsithen mimicking the colors of the Empire of High Medurim. In contrast to Moriana's grim mood, those minsithen shone cheerfully, each a bright yellow star inset in five rounded petals of blood-rich maroon, enriching the air with subtle scents. The trees were deciduous, mostly sturdy spreading anhak, their bark as brown and shaggy as a hornbull in winter coat. Interspersed with the anhak rose stands of Upland tai, straight, slim yellow boles as graceful as elf dancers against the great gnarled shapes of their neighbors. Birds molted to show rainbow colors to the new season and sang to the travellers.
But neither the Princess nor Darj had eyes or ears for the splendor all about them. The bulk of the Sky City army had hurried south the day after Chanobit, but that did not mean she and Darl were spared the horrors of pursuit. With breaking of the weather, the war eagles once more had the freedom of the sky. They could range north to harry the refugees and then wheel southward to catch up with the lumbering columns of dog riders and infantry in time for a hot supper and boots of mulled wine. Moriana's every sense concentrated upward, eyes scanning the sky for sight of wings outstretched in the distance, ears cocked for the cry of a death-giving war bird carried to them on the spring breeze already laden with the smell of spring flowers and moist fertile earth. She wished Darl would rouse from his stupor long enough to take some of the burden of the searching off her.
If anything, his depression grew worse with every mile. His thoughts turned inward and he seldom responded, even when directly spoken to. After two days, Moriana ceased trying to communicate with him. She decided it was best to let him work alone through his depression, if he could. She knew no magic to pull the man back to the world outside his skull. Darl seemed momentarily a lost cause to her, lost like the battle, lost like her precious City, lost, lost, lost.
On the third day, they approached the juncture of Chanobit Creek and the River Marchant. As they rode, Moriana had collected dazed stragglers, tatters of her once-proud army. Her battered army was now sadly composed of knights in dew-tarnished armor turned as gaunt as their quarrelsome, hungry dogs by fear and deprivation; of Great Nevrym foresters slipping on foot through woods flanking the riders, graceful and lethal as panthers even in defeat; of peasant footmen stunned and stumble-footed; and of adventurers hard-eyed and angry at seeing their dreams of conquest and plunder evaporate with the morning mists at Chanobit. Some still hailed Dar! as their commander, in spite of his temporary mental infirmities. Gratifyingly, others called out her name with fervent loyalty on encountering the party. She felt small and soiled at the satisfaction she took in knowing that some, at least, gave allegiance directly to her instead of to her through the charismatic wandering hero who had taken her cause at Tolviroth Acerte.
Tolviroth Acerte. So long ago. Lifetimes ago. And a lifetime of struggle lay in front of her.
Since that first day after their defeat, Moriana had said nothing more of her intention of journeying to the keep of the Fallen Ones. Part of her disliked being less than candid with men so loyal. The practical side pointed out that there would be plenty of time to leave for those who disapproved. But that had to be later, when they were beyond the joining of the rivers, and most likely beyond the vengeance of the City in the Sky. Besides, her cynical self observed, even among the survivors were many who followed whomever was in motion at a given moment, not caring where they headed. They were like Darl, who needed to be led. Others realized that their numbers and the princess's intimate knowledge of the bird riders who pursued them gave the best chance of survival. Moriana knew the callowness of attributing faith to all who followed her simply because they followed.
The woodlands rose gently to a ridge that dropped off steeply toward the northwest. Moriana rode point with a bow in her hands. She felt responsible for the fate of these groundlings who followed her.
Before she reached the crest of a rise, she slipped from the back of her war dog. She patted the beast's blunt muzzle and whispered encouraging words in one cropped ear. The animal was trained to stand stock still and to make no sound. She had no fear of it running off or betraying her presence with barking when she scouted the ridgeline on foot.
It's a sign of becoming human, child, a calm, gentle voice said in her mind. This concern (or those you once would have deemed beneath your notice. Moriana paused, still hunkered below the crest of the rise.
'Aye, perhaps I'm not fully human. Perhaps my people had lived in the splendid isolation of our City too long.' Her mouth twisted bitterly. 'Certainly I can send humans to their deaths as easily as if I were of some other race.'
Don't use that stick to beat yourself, the voice said. That is the most human trait of all.
Moriana smiled briefly. Ziore of Athalau had spent her entire long life cloistered in a convent devoted to the ascetic teachings of Erimenes the Ethical. Like Erimenes, the nun had survived the death of her body, living out long, dusty centuries as a cloud of mist contained within the enchanted red clay of an Athalar spirit jar. Moriana had found the genie while stumbling in a haze of exhaustion and self-hatred through the streets of the glacier-entombed Athalau. Though Ziore's existence had been remote from human experience, the spirit was wise with a wisdom as deep and placid as a sheltered pool. Her soothing presence and loving words had been all that enabled Moriana to keep her tenuous grip on sanity through the brutal trials and disappointments of the last few months.
'Thank you,' Moriana whispered, feeling an immediate answering caress in her mind.
Arrow nocked but undrawn, the Princess of the City in the Sky moved up the slope. She placed her feet carefully to avoid slipping and falling headlong on the slippery mulch of fallen leaves underfoot. The anhak trees grew right to the crest where the soft black earth fell steeply to a broad flood plain. Here and there she saw great raw gaps in the terrain where the spring flood had undercut the bank and toppled a hunchbacked anhak. None was recent. Winter had been too brief for the melting snowpack in the far-off Thail Mountains to engorge the Marchant till it overflowed its banks.
She dropped to her belly. Nothing in the act struck the princess as incongruous. In years past when an heir apparent to the Beryl Throne and not an outcast, she had trained as a bird rider of the elite Sky Guard, a course designed to break all but the fiercest, most determined and toughest in mind and body.
Moriana had passed without the slightest favor being accorded her due to her station. Under the command of the youthful leader of the Guard, her cousin Rann, she had leda flight of Sky Guardsmen into battle against the Northern Barbarians. Now Rann was head of all Sky City soldiery, and Moriana's sworn enemy. But Moriana had not forgotten the hard lessons she'd learned from him. Not the least among them was that survival never took second place to dignity in the field.
With bits of sodden leaf and rich black loam clinging to her belly, she snaked to the crest of the slope. Above her and to the left grew an oval-leafed urylla bush. The short shrub sported no flowers and would not blossom until the white sun of high summer glowered down from overhead, but it provided excellent cover. The princess knew not to silhouette her head against the sky.
Noiselessly she wriggled to the bush, raised her head to peer through the branches. To her left the Chanobit made its final dash to meet and merge with the Marchant. Man-high rushes marked the banks of the river. She scanned them carefully. If the Sky City forces wished to mount a final ambush on the ground, this would be an ideal place to do it.
For ten long minutes she lay staring intently from between the leaves of the bush, eyes scanning the river, the mile-broad plain, the sky. The surface of the river rippled strangely clear. This time of year it usually clogged with flotsam, branches, barrels, scraps of cloth. The decaying corpses of trees, animals and feckless men were often carried downstream on the spring torrent, too. As she completed her thorough reconnaissance, Moriana pondered the shortness of the winter. Though it lengthened the growing season for the groundling farmers, a magnificent boon in the cool Sundered Realm where the planet's three-hundred-day year rendered the fertile time between frosts precariously brief, she found only ominous portent in it. Powers were afoot that interfered with the
