turned again, we were always ready. Now, did the Ahn wizards obtain such power over the elementals as to come and go at will, they could deliver the Kho’rabi at any time, and their airboats return to their far-off land to bring more against us. More and more and more, until-I endeavored to deny the thought, but could not-until they conquered us. I shuddered and said softly, “I see it.”
“It is not a pleasant vision,” said Trethyn, no louder.
“This is not,” Kaern said, “a thing to voice abroad. The God willing, we’ll not see these new airboats so far west. Until the time comes, the common folk are not to know.”
“Shall you not prepare?” I asked: the aeldor was not alone in owning some knowledge of strategy. “How shall you hide it, must you raise levies?”
He grunted acceptance of my judgment and said, “We aeldors enlarge our warbands and commission ships. Yes-we prepare. But until we are sure, I’d not see panic spread.”
To this Trethyn added, “There are already refugees come west to escape the attacks of yesteryear. Should such news become common parlance, likely the cities and the east would be deserted.”
“And your resources be strained,” I said. Then: “You expect the fighting to be in the east.”
“And the cities,” said Kaern. “Do the Sky Lords fight a sensible war, they’ll seek to overcome three centers first-the Sentinels, Durbrecht, and Kherbryn. Take those, and Dharbek fights in disarray.”
Rwyan! The cold fingers I had felt on entering this room became claws, scoring my soul. I could only duck my head, horrified. I was helpless. I could do nothing, save hope; or pray to a God I was no longer sure existed.
“This goes no farther,” said the aeldor, formal again. “It is deemed necessary to inform you Storymen, but none others.”
“No,” I said. “My word on it.”
The sun was close to the sea now, and the window was a rectangle of brilliance. I could hear the squalling of gulls and the noises of folk in the yard below. The smells of cooking drifted, mingled with the scent of the ocean. It was a pleasant evening, tranquil. I felt as I had when a child, watching storm clouds build over the Fend, knowing that soon the wind should howl and lightning dance. Then, I could anticipate the shelter of our cottage, the storm shut out. Now, I thought there should be no shelter from the storm.
“So, a brave face,” said Kaern, rising. “Tell cheerful tales, Storyman. And hold your lips sealed on this matter.”
“Yes,” I said. And for the first time added, “My lord aeldor.”
I did as I was commanded, trudging from hold to village to town with the most glorious of my tales. I spoke of Fyrach and the Great Dragon, of the battle of Tenbry Keep, of Petur’s duel with the Kho’rabi. In hamlets where fishing boats clustered the shoreline I told of Jeryd and the Whale, and Dramydd’s Voyage. In farms and lonely foresters’ huts I spoke of Beryl and the Magic Tree, of Shadram and the Great Bull of Corvyn, of Marais the Cattle King, and the hermit Denus. When-as was inevitable-I was asked for news of Durbrecht, I told of the city’s splendors and of its valiant stand against the Sky Lords. I spoke of my own battles, and those of others I had heard, all slanted so that we appeared invincible, the Sky Lords an enemy soon defeated by might of magic and the wisdom of the Lord Protector.
I was hailed a master of my calling; I felt I was a deceiver.
And though I did my best to quell my burgeoning fear, I thought too often of Rwyan, and how she should fare did the Sky Lords come against the Sentinels as Kaern and Trethyn predicted. Too often I found myself watching the sky as I walked.
Early in that summer, I wandered a little way inland, following a road that wound gently up through low hills whose slopes were all thick with cork oak, the crests with pine. The sun was not quite at zenith, and I had halted atop one hill, electing to wait out the midday heat beneath the cooling canopy of trees. I had fared well at my last stop and been gifted with a fresh loaf, a thick wedge of good yellow cheese, and a skin of pale wine; now I intended to eat, drink a little wine, and indulge in the west coast custom of dozing awhile.
As I ate, I surveyed the gentle panorama spread before me. Brynisvar, I calculated, lay beyond the third ridgeline. At the foot of the slope facing me stood a farmhouse. Perhaps I would halt there and tell a tale before moving on. Likely the farmer and his folk would be too busy. I sipped wine and gazed idly at the sky. It was a blue not seen in the east or over Durbrecht, a lapis lazuli blue of incredible clarity. To the northeast I saw a shape that neither soared nor hovered but came straight on. At first it was but a speck, and I assumed it some bird intent on whatever business propels avians to hurry. As it drew closer, I saw that it was no bird. I stoppered my wineskin and sprang to my feet.
Soon I could see clearly the cylinder of blood red, the occult sigils of the Sky Lords’ magic painted on the flanks. They pulsed and throbbed. Beneath hung a black basket. Around the craft, the air shimmered, roiling like steam from a kettle. Within that disturbance I saw elementals darting, whirling too swift for precise definition. The skyboat came closer still, and I saw that it was small, that the basket could hold no more than ten men. It was at the same time familiar and strange. It bore the configuration of an airboat, but that cloud of miasmic dread, dark, that was the customary signature of the Sky Lords was absent. I felt no chill, save that of shock, nor that mind- numbing horror that usually accompanied such craft. I pressed close against the trunk of the sheltering pine. And felt my breath catch in my throat as the vessel halted.
Trethyn had told me; Kaern had told me. Still I could scarcely credit the evidence of my own eyes: the tiny airboat halted and hovered. The wind was from the west but held no dominion over this craft. It hung steady as any falcon over the farmhouse in the valley.
The aftertaste of wine turned sour in my mouth: I spat. I reached cautiously for my canteen, afraid I should be seen. I drank and hung the canteen with my pack, on my back, ready to flee. I had my staff and my knife-I should stand no chance against Kho’rabi were I spotted.
The airboat turned slowly around, sinking toward the ground. It landed, light as any feather, the red cylinder still airborne, only the black basket touching the sward before the farmhouse. It had been seen by the folk there. Of course it had been seen! I had been too preoccupied, too amazed, to think of them until now, when they came from their home to face this unprecedented apparition.
There were four men, armed with nothing more than farm implements. Two clutched pitchforks, one a scythe, the last a mattock. Three dogs clamored about their feet. From the rear of the building I saw three women emerge, their skirts gathered up as they scurried for the oak thicket behind the house.
From the basket came nine black-armored Kho’rabi. A tenth Sky Lord remained behind. He, I supposed, must be the wizard, retaining control of the spirits that even now danced and darted about the shape of the airboat.
I suffered a terrible dilemma then. These farmers stood no chance against such warriors. Less even than I, who had fought Kho’rabi. Should I go to their aid? Should I align myself with them in hopeless defense? Or should I watch, hidden? Safe. A coward?
I calculated the distance between my safe position and the farm and knew that I could not reach it in time. Knew, also, that my presence should make no difference to the outcome. That was inevitable: I watched, and wondered the while if I was craven.
The dogs attacked first. They were large-such hounds as can protect flocks from wolves or bring down a man-and they were brave. The Kho’rabi dispatched them with a casual efficiency. I watched as swords swung and the dogs died. Watched as the Kho’rabi advanced on the men, who were no less courageous. They flailed their poor weapons and fell to Ahn steel without a blow struck. I saw the greensward painted red.
Then the wizard gestured, and I suppose he shouted, for the Kho’rabi ran past the bodies of their victims, around the farmhouse, to the timber beyond. I do not know whether he guessed the women hid there or knew it by his magic; nor did I see the women slain. I remained hidden, waiting, as the black figures disappeared amongst the oaks and in a while came back, their blades sheathed. I hoped the women had escaped; I did not think they had.
I watched as the Kho’rabi entered the building, emerged with sacks and slabs of meat that they stowed on board their vessel. Some brought containers to the farm’s well; those they filled and put on board. Then they regained the basket, and the airboat rose vertically, turned its nose a little north of east, and moved away.
I wiped sweat from my brow and unlocked my fingers from my staff. They ached from the strength of my grip. I stared after the receding shape and saw that it moved toward Brynisvar. It came to me there was no keep there, no sorcerer or warband to confront the Sky Lords. I did not know whether they intended to attack, but I felt
