Read Online The web of wizardry by Juanita Coulson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Juanita Coulson
Ads: Link
More wizardry to counter the magical evil that had barred his way to the Zsed!
Ulodovol had said the Markuand wizard was mighty, and Danaer had felt the proof.
He had dealt with it, through no choice of his own. No, not alone. He was a warrior, but no fit adversary for creatures made of mist. Danaer did not enjoy owing a debt to magic, but he acknowledged what had happened. "The goddess I thank—and I thank you, my mysterious companion."
For a heartbeat, he captured a sensation of sparkling, large, dark eyes and triumphant, feminine laughter. There was no reply from the darkness, nor had he expected one.
Danaer chirruped to the stallion and coaxed it to take up the trail again. With each minute the awful fight with demons lessened its hold upon him. Soon he was on the fringes of the Zsed, and a more straightforward menace claimed his attention. Rolling grass-
land brushed against his stirrups as the roan trotted down a knoll, then splashed through one of the many streams which fed Siank's springs and wells.
Others were traveling this same path, the inhabitants of the Zsed returning from Siank or journeying on the Vrastre. These could be a danger, but one Danaer knew well and could accept. When the roan nickered to other horses in the Zsed's herds, he leaned on its neck and pinched its nostrils to shut off the exchange. Once he entered the heart of the Zsed, he must be the undisguised representative of Krantin's King. Until then he would act as a scout, penetrating the encampment with stealth.
There would have been Destre spies, watching the fort. But they were guarding against a large body of troops, moving to attack the Zsed. They would take little note of a single rider. The Zsed's outriders had not challenged him, either, thinking that one who wore a tribal mantle was a member of the camp.
The guard line was tenuous, and he slipped cautiously between each outpost. Now and then a challenge was called, but Danaer knew the tongue and gave proper answer, arousing no alarm. As he rode ever deeper into the Zsed, he began to wonder if Nurdanth was correct: a single unescorted courier was the only hope of success in this mission.
Close ahead now were clan fires, casting shadows on gaily striped tent walls and canopies. The women had taken down their looms for the night, and children slept or drowsed on their mothers' laps while the elders regaled any who would hear with Destre legends. Warrior men and women talked of weapons and roans and the movements of the Vrastre game, and they boasted of the raids they would make against the summer's caravans out of Siank.
It was a rich Zsed, well fed and well sheltered, and the contrast with Danaer's home encampment was great. Even the camp dogs were fat. Plainly the Zsed had not suffered in the season just ending. Clans fed on roast haunch of motge or woolback and dipped from steaming pots of simo grain. These were no beg-
gars, and their spirits had never been chastened by defeat.
"Smile, goddess, for all our peoples," Danaer said, sending the words winging to the holy ones.
He must not hesitate from this point forward. At a slow walk, he rode into the clan camp. It would be madness to move quickly. Tribesmen would think it an attack and rope him from the horse at once. He must convince them he was not hostile, and show them no fear.
Danaer drew a few careless glances which soon became hard stares as he passed the first line of tents. A dog barked, then lost interest, though his masters did not. The murmurings began among the people. Before anyone could react, Danaer was beyond them, heading for the next cluster of dwellings. He did not look back, but he knew most, if not all, of the clan he had just left were standing in the path and gawking after him.
He passed two more main camps, using the same method, not hurrying the roan. Word was running before him now, and on either side Danaer sensed the scurryings as people followed his progress. They darted between the tents
Ulodovol had said the Markuand wizard was mighty, and Danaer had felt the proof.
He had dealt with it, through no choice of his own. No, not alone. He was a warrior, but no fit adversary for creatures made of mist. Danaer did not enjoy owing a debt to magic, but he acknowledged what had happened. "The goddess I thank—and I thank you, my mysterious companion."
For a heartbeat, he captured a sensation of sparkling, large, dark eyes and triumphant, feminine laughter. There was no reply from the darkness, nor had he expected one.
Danaer chirruped to the stallion and coaxed it to take up the trail again. With each minute the awful fight with demons lessened its hold upon him. Soon he was on the fringes of the Zsed, and a more straightforward menace claimed his attention. Rolling grass-
land brushed against his stirrups as the roan trotted down a knoll, then splashed through one of the many streams which fed Siank's springs and wells.
Others were traveling this same path, the inhabitants of the Zsed returning from Siank or journeying on the Vrastre. These could be a danger, but one Danaer knew well and could accept. When the roan nickered to other horses in the Zsed's herds, he leaned on its neck and pinched its nostrils to shut off the exchange. Once he entered the heart of the Zsed, he must be the undisguised representative of Krantin's King. Until then he would act as a scout, penetrating the encampment with stealth.
There would have been Destre spies, watching the fort. But they were guarding against a large body of troops, moving to attack the Zsed. They would take little note of a single rider. The Zsed's outriders had not challenged him, either, thinking that one who wore a tribal mantle was a member of the camp.
The guard line was tenuous, and he slipped cautiously between each outpost. Now and then a challenge was called, but Danaer knew the tongue and gave proper answer, arousing no alarm. As he rode ever deeper into the Zsed, he began to wonder if Nurdanth was correct: a single unescorted courier was the only hope of success in this mission.
Close ahead now were clan fires, casting shadows on gaily striped tent walls and canopies. The women had taken down their looms for the night, and children slept or drowsed on their mothers' laps while the elders regaled any who would hear with Destre legends. Warrior men and women talked of weapons and roans and the movements of the Vrastre game, and they boasted of the raids they would make against the summer's caravans out of Siank.
It was a rich Zsed, well fed and well sheltered, and the contrast with Danaer's home encampment was great. Even the camp dogs were fat. Plainly the Zsed had not suffered in the season just ending. Clans fed on roast haunch of motge or woolback and dipped from steaming pots of simo grain. These were no beg-
gars, and their spirits had never been chastened by defeat.
"Smile, goddess, for all our peoples," Danaer said, sending the words winging to the holy ones.
He must not hesitate from this point forward. At a slow walk, he rode into the clan camp. It would be madness to move quickly. Tribesmen would think it an attack and rope him from the horse at once. He must convince them he was not hostile, and show them no fear.
Danaer drew a few careless glances which soon became hard stares as he passed the first line of tents. A dog barked, then lost interest, though his masters did not. The murmurings began among the people. Before anyone could react, Danaer was beyond them, heading for the next cluster of dwellings. He did not look back, but he knew most, if not all, of the clan he had just left were standing in the path and gawking after him.
He passed two more main camps, using the same method, not hurrying the roan. Word was running before him now, and on either side Danaer sensed the scurryings as people followed his progress. They darted between the tents
Similar Books
