Robert Silverberg - Sorcerers of Majipoor

“Because I told them not to,” said the Procurator. “I will not deny, my lord, that I allied myself with Prestimion in the first days of his rebellion. He is my kinsman: you know that. The ties of blood drew me to him. But I never had any great love for his cause.”

“And yet you gave him troops.”

“I gave him troops, yes, because I had pledged him I would do so, and at the Jhelum I let them fight against your army. But it was only a pretense, to swell him up with pride over an easy victory, and make him ready for the crushing. At the next battle my soldiers came too late to fight, and that was at my order too.”

“What’s this?” cried Korsibar. “Oh, you serpent.”

“But your serpent, my lord. Prestimion’s cause is hopeless. That was clear to me from the start, and it seems beyond dispute now. He is one man against a world; you have the backing of the people, and you will prevail. He may win a battle here and there, but his doom is certain.”

“You have that from your soothsayers?” Korsibar asked, with a quick glance at Sanibak-Thastimoon.

“I have it from here, my lord,” replied Dantirya Sambail, tapping his great gleaming freckled forehead. “Every ounce of wisdom I have in here, and there’s more than a little, tells me that Prestimion is attempting the impossible by trying to overturn your regime. And so I withdraw my pledge of aid to him: for I am not one who is given to toiling at impossible tasks. I’ve come here to you—at great personal inconvenience, my lord, which you can see from my rumpled look; traveling back and forth with such speed across the vastness of Alhanroel as I’ve been doing all this year and last, not to mention crossing the sea a couple of times, is no easy thing for a man of my years—for the sake of presenting you with the key to victory and putting an end to the strife that embroils the world.”

“The key to victory,” Korsibar repeated tonelessly. “What can you mean by that?” This conversation was becoming abhorrent to him. Dealing with Dantirya Sambail was like wrestling with manculains: there were deadly spines all over the man. He looked around the room for guidance, to Sanibak-Thastimoon, Iram, Serithorn, Farquanor. But their faces were as rigid as masks and their eyes told him nothing. “What would you have me do, Dantirya Sambail?”

“For one thing, you must take the field yourself.”

“Will you bite us both?” Korsibar demanded. “First you work treachery against your cousin, and then you try to lure me out of the Castle into the open, where anyone who cares to aim a javelin at me can—”

Dantirya Sambail grinned a tigerish grin. “Put your suspicions aside, my lord. You’ll come to no harm. Let me show you what I have in mind. —Is this the map of the battle zone? Yes: good. Here’s Prestimion, somewhere between Stymphinor and Klorn and moving to the northwest, I assume with the goal of reaching Alaisor and recruiting new troops for himself along the coast. Here’s the army of Mandrykarn and Farholt, somewhere around Purmande and heading toward him from below; and here’s Navigorn, to his east, pursuing him also. Perhaps Mandrykarn and Farholt will trap him in central Alhanroel, perhaps not more likely not, but they’ll force him northward. Do you agree?”

“Go on,” said Korsibar.

“As he runs from place to place, trying to elude the two armies coming after him from this side and from this, word now reaches him that you yourself, the Coronal Lord Korsibar, have assembled yet a third army and have gone into the field yourself at the head of it. Look, here is the River Iyann, my lord. Here is the great Mavestoi Dam, and here is the reservoir behind it, Lake Mavestoi. Now, my lord, you take up your position in the hills above the dam; and then you let the word leak out to Prestimion’s spies that you are camped there, planning to descend on him from the north and destroy him.” Dantirya Sambail’s violet eyes were glowing now with excitement they seemed almost incandescent. “His position is desperate, but he sees one last hope for himself! If he can attack your camp and manage to kill or capture you, he has at one stroke ended the war. Ringed all about him are the hostile forces of Mandrykarn and Farholt and Navigorn, but with you removed from the scene they would have no choice but to yield the throne to him.”

“So you bait a trap for him with me,” said Korsibar. “And he comes marching up the Iyann to take the bait. Yes, but what if he succeeds in snatching it, Dantirya Sanbail? What if he does overthrow me with his one desperate final stroke? I’m not within his reach so long as I remain at the Castle, but once I’m in the field he has a chance at me. Not that I fear him, or anyone; but it’s only prudent for me to stay beyond range of some sudden wild thrust until this affair is done with.”

“Ah, no, my lord, no need to fret over that. Prestimion will fall into the trap and be destroyed, and no risk to yourself at any time. Here, my lord—let me show you—”

For Prestimion it was a time of steady retreat, and of the healing of wounds.

The losses at Stymphinor had not been as great as he first had feared, but they were serious enough. Of his officers he had lost Abantes of Pytho and the fearless Matsenor son of Mattathis, and also Thuya of Gabell, the Ghayrog Vexinud Kreszh, and an old playmate of his Muldemar childhood, Kimnan Tanain. A good many soldiers of the line had perished also; but the core of his army was still intact, though battered and to some degree demoralized.

And also Septach Melayn had taken a deep cut in the upper part of his sword-arm, which was an event that caused much wonder and dismay among Prestimion’s men. It was like the humbling of a god. No one had ever touched steel to Septach Melayn’s skin before, in all his years of mastery of the sport of swordsmanship. But the battle at Stymphinor had not been any sort of sporting event, and now Septach Melayn sat shirtless and pale and grimacing while one of the surgeons closed the long red slash for him with glossy black thread.

Was that an omen of their ultimate defeat, the peerless Septach Melayn wounded? The men were muttering darkly and making conjure-signs to ward off the demons that they feared were closing in on them.

“I’ll go among them,” said Septach Melayn good-humoredly, “and show them I’m well, and tell them that I’m relieved to discover that I’m mortal after all. Will make me less cocksure next time I’m in a fray, I’ll say: for indeed over the years I’d come to think I could best any opponent in the world without half trying.”

“As surely you can,” said Prestimion, who had learned that morning that Septach Melayn had taken his wound while fighting four men at once, and, despite the hindrance to his arm, had slain all four of them before leaving the field with the greatest reluctance in order to seek a poultice for the cut.

The behavior of the Zimroel armies, which had been so slow to take the field at Stymphinor, was another concern for Prestimion. He summoned Gaviad and Gaviundar to berate them for their laxness; but the fleshy-faced brothers were so penitent and abject that he withheld most of the anger he had had in readiness for them. Stocky thick-bodied Gaviad of the pendulous lips and jutting mustache was cold sober, for a novelty, and said over and over that his troops had been ready but he had been waiting for news of the cavalry charge before sending them forward, since that had been the plan; and tall big-eared strutting Gaviundar of the bald head and great tangled orange beard actually wept in dismay for having failed to bring in his men in timely fashion. So Prestimion forgave them. But he kept in mind whose brothers they were, and, fearing always the trickiness that ran in the Procurator’s blood, warned them that he would tolerate no excuses at the next engagement with the royalists.