think of it. What else can it mean?'
'Why speculate when the answers are so near?' Canthor asked. 'You had a whole day to ask this Melizar of his craft and yet you did not. He is an ally. We strike for a common cause. At worst, he would refuse the request. Anything else would teach you more than you know now.'
'So says my father.' Jemidon sighed. 'So cry my memories of Kenton's feast hall and the fields of wheat. And Melizar is the very reason I have returned to the land of my birth.'
He paused and tried to sort out his feetings. 'And yet, now that I have the opportunity, I am indeed quite hesitant. Somehow, I do not trust this strange one; yesterday, just his presence made me uncomfortable. In truth, his skills I long desperately to know. But now, now that I have experienced him more, something tells me that they must be ferreted away, not received as a gift.'
Jemidon hesitated a second time and then smiled. 'Besides, I have not done so badly on my own.' He numbered the facts on his fingertips, 'The first change in sorcery took place on Morgana; nowhere else in all of Arcadia was the craft practiced more. Magic has been nullified on Pluton, where the hoards of tokens were greatest. Here in the wheatlands, thaumaturgy dominates the other crafts. We have seen his use of the drums. It is as if Melizar seeks out where the concentration of the arts is strongest; somehow it makes the changes easier to come about.'
'You have the heart of a master and not that of a warrior, to be sure.' Canthor laughed. 'All of your kind place so much importance on your secrets. And yet, what is the value of any of your efforts in the end? Petty entertainments, bookkeeping devices for trade, machines for the harvest. If not with your arts, then by some other means the same results would have been achieved.'
Canthor patted the hilt of his sword. 'Even in battle, it is still muscle and bone that determine the final result. Illusions of great monsters or slides of rock perturb the outcome this way or that, but in the end, a blade is in your gut or it is not. It is the warriors who sit on the thrones of Arcadia, Procolon across the sea, and the other kingdoms. Warriors are kings, and not the masters. Why, even the archmage commands only a small guard and a modest house of stone.
'Yes, embrace this Melizar. Learn what you can. In the end, he will be an advisor like the others, bowing deeply to some baron and scrambling for the gold that drops to the floor.'
'If it is so simple, then why did I feel such uneasiness yesterday when he was near?' Jemidon insisted, but Canthor stopped paying attention. The warrior put a finger to his lips and pointed down the trail.
Jemidon turned and saw a puff of dust billowing lazily skyward. The royal troop was coming at last. He felt the muscles in his face tighten. The feeling of drifting was still in his stomach, but it faded into an uncomfortable dimness. Now there were more immediate concerns than Melizar's manipulations with the drums.
Eventually, the marching column came into view. Triple file across the trail, the men-at-arms snaked into the cleft of the pass. A mounted commander, with pennant bearers stepping smartly at either side, led the procession. In full armor, he prodded his sweating horse up the incline. Behind the leading officers came the first company. On foot and dressed in mail, they breathed heavily from the labor of the climb.
Jemidon tensed as the head of the troop disappeared from view. After the second of the four companies had gone by, the rocks were to tumble. Each of the two outlaw bands would fall upon those on its side of the pass and then come to the aid of the other, if it were able to. The last of the first company entered the notch, and Jemidon waited expectantly for the next to follow.
But suddenly, just as the pennant bearers of the second group approached, the ground shook. A grinding rumble filled the air.
'Avalanche! Look out!' Jemidon heard someone shout. The flag carriers threw down their standards and turned to run. Small rocks and then heavier boulders began to rain down from above. Streaks of blurring gray fell from the cliffs. The groans of breaking stone and then of wounded men sounded over the deep, teeth-shaking rumble. Clouds of white and dirty brown billowed from the crest of the pass.
One pennant bearer was hit in the shoulder by a rock ricocheting in a flat arc, but he managed to stagger back before the larger boulders smashed him to the ground. In momentary confusion, the marching column stopped in the swell of dust and noise.
A horn sounded from the cover on the other side of the trail, and Pelinad's band jumped to the attack. With swords raised high, they thundered into the third company's flank.
'But Melizar was supposed to wait until two companies had passed through!' Jemidon shouted to Canthor. 'And you were to stage your glamour among the wagons from behind! Now Pelinad charges on the side, rather than into the rear.'
'A misbegotten plan, to be sure,' Canthor said, suddenly alert. 'Leave it to a practicer of the arts to bungle what chance we had.' He grabbed his blade, bounded around the rock, and looked up and down the trail. 'Quickly, follow me,' he said after a moment. 'With three companies rather than two, the line is too long; we are blocked from the others. But despite Pelinad's odds, we will fare better on his side of the trail than here. There is no time for a pretense of sorcery. Our hope will be to circle through the confusion of the avalanche, if we can.'
Jemidon scooped up the scythe and ran after the bailiff as Canthor scrambled toward the pass. The attention of the royal troops was focused on the charge of Pelinad's men, and no one noticed them in the swirling dust. With practiced precision, the middle company turned its shields to meet Pelinad's attack, while the ones on either side made ready to engulf the flanks as the ragged tine drew closer. Soon the rumble of the rock was replaced by the clang of steel and cries of pain.
Canthor jumped among the boulders with an agility that belied his age. He headed directly for the broken rock that had spilled out of the confines of the pass. The royal troops were giving the area a wide berth. In the confusion, Jemidon and the bailiff managed to reach the edge of the rubble before they were noticed. Without slowing, they climbed onto the fresh talus and began to scramble toward the other side of the trail.
But three-quarters of the way across, they were spotted by a pennant bearer. Before Canthor could reach him, he cried out an alarm. In answer, half a dozen men-at-arms turned from the rearmost line and started to climb the rubble. As they approached, Jemidon flung out the scythe at arm's length and struck the nearest in the temple. Two more closed on Canthor, who slashed with his blade, biting deep into the wrist of the one on the right. Undaunted, the other four pressed forward, one waving an axe, and Canthor stepped back in order not to expose his side. Watching the bailiff out of the comer of his eye, Jemidon retreated as well, taking a few steps up the slope.
One of the men-at-arms tried to circle from the left. Jemidon picked up a jagged rock at his feet and threw it squarely into the attacker's face, breaking his nose with a splash of blood. The remaining attackers continued forward, waving their swords in menacing arcs. Jemidon found himself retreating farther up the jumble of rocks, swinging the long scythe back and forth as best he could.
As he retreated, Jemidon jabbed tentatively point first, using the shaft like a pike. The man he faced reacted swiftly. Before Jemidon realized his mistake, a slashing sword hacked the blade from the head of the pole. Jemidon instinctively jabbed a second time, but saw his adversary continue forward, this time removing two more feet from the shaft. Jemidon threw the useless pole aside and turned to look at Canthor, to see what he should do. But as he watched, the bailiff stumbled on loose rock and fell onto his back, his sword sailing out of his hand.
The man-at-arms on the left ran forward, seeing his advantage, and swung his axe high over his head for a fatal plunge. Canthor threw his hand upward in a desperate attempt to ward off the blow, his eyes wide with the image of death. Then, like a drowning man grasping at leaves on the surface of a lake, he sang one of the sorcerers' chants. The three recitals tripped from his tongue faster than Jemidon had ever heard a glamour spoken before. He recognized it as the illusion for a windstorm. He saw Canthor scoop up a handful of dirt and pebbles and throw them in the axeman's face.
Then, as Canthor threw, Jemidon experienced a great lurching in his stomach. The feeling of drifting that had been submerged by the danger of battle boiled upward from where it had been pushed away. With a breathtaking blur, Jemidon felt himself flung across some measureless space and time. His senses reeled. He was overcome by the same disorientation he had felt in the presence of Melizar and his drums.
As suddenly as it had come, the feeling vanished. Like a speeding arrow wrenched from the air in midflight, he jarred back into focus. His stomach was calm, the sense of falling was gone; everything was sharp and clear. It had all happened in an instant, and Jemidon blinked in surprise. He looked at Canthor's adversary and saw the man clutching his face and staggering backward, the axe flung aside on the rocks.
'The sand, the wind!' the man-at-arms shrieked. 'It is worse than the high desert. We will all be buried
