Robert Silverberg - Sorcerers of Majipoor

He burst out suddenly then in a fit of coughing, and groped for the bowl at his bedside. Gialaurys handed it to him. Prestimion drank deeply, and took breath deep into his lungs, and closed his eyes a moment to regain his poise.

“There. What do you think, my friends?”

“I think you should have more rest,” said Svor.

“Yes, and then? The plan?”

“Is no way it can fail,” said Septach Melayn.

“Agreed,” Gialaurys said. “The Divine is on our side.”

“Indeed,” said Svor when the others looked toward him. But there was just the smallest hitch of hesitation in his response. And he said then, “First you should rest, Prestimion, and restore yourself. Then we’ll march forth and see how it fares for us in this war.”

How it fared was cheering enough at first. At Amblemorn, where Prestimion and his family had always been much beloved, there was a delegation to greet him with warm enthusiasm when he came down the road from Dundilmir. “Prestimion!” they cried, with hands upthrust in starbursts. “Lord Prestimion! Long live Lord Prestimion!” That was the first time any of the citizenry had called him that and made the starburst, and, smiling, he accepted the homage with modesty and confidence.

The banners of Korsibar that had been all over Amblemorn at Prestimion’s last visit were gone now, and they had Prestimion banners up instead in the same royal colors of green and gold. No doubt these were the ones they had planned to hoist when Prankipin died, and had hurriedly stored away when the throne so surprisingly went to Korsibar. Prestimion stood by the black stone shaft of the timberline monument and solemnly pledged himself to restore the world to its proper state, and they cried out his name again and vowed to support his claim. And when he moved on down the Mount and made his westward turn to the foothill city of Vilimong with a great horde of men of Muldemar and some from Amblemorn at his back, everything was much the same, Vilimong hailing him gladly as the true Coronal and swelling his army by another regiment of fighters.

It was at Estotilaup, the next city beyond Vilimong at the foot of the Mount, that trouble first occurred.

Estotilaup was Confalume’s ancestral city, and they felt a fierce pride in him there, which had carried over to his son Korsibar. It was a city of tall narrow white towers with pointed tops of red tile, ringed around by a formidable high gate of black iron palisades; and when Prestimion arrived before it, the gate stood ajar, but not by much, and was blocked to him by fifty men in the uniform of the municipal proctors who stood with folded arms outside it. A larger party of somber-faced armed troops was visible behind them, just within the palisade.

Duke Svor went forward and said, “This is the Coronal Lord Prestimion, who seeks entrance to your city and a meeting with your mayor.”

“The Coronal Lord is Lord Korsibar,” the chief of proctors replied, peering unhappily at the multitudes of armed men who stood behind Svor on the plain, “and we know Prestimion only as a prince of one of the cities of the Mount. If he has come here to subvert the throne, he will not be admitted.”

Svor carried this news to Prestimion, who responded that they might well not care to recognize him as Coronal here, but even so they had no right to refuse entry to their city to the Prince of Muldemar. “Tell them that,” said Prestimion.

“And let them see that we’ll force entry if entry is denied us,” said Septach Melayn, with more than a little vigor.

He raised his arm as though to signal to the front-most detachment of Prestimion’s troops that they should move closer to the gate. But Prestimion caught him midway between wrist and elbow and drew the arm downward. “No,” he said sharply. “We’ll force nothing here, not this soon. There’s time to draw blood later, if we must; but I have no yearning to make war on innocent uncomprehending folk at Estotilaup gates.”

“This is foolishness, my lord,” said Septach Melayn.

“You call me ‘my lord,’ and you call me a fool also, all in the same breath?”

“Indeed. For you are my Coronal, and I am pledged to you to the death,” the long-legged swordsman answered him. “But for all that you are a fool, if you think you can back away from conflict here, and force it at your convenience another day. Show these people of Estotilaup here and now that you are their king, who will not be turned away at their gate.”

“I am with Septach Melayn on this,” said Gialaurys.

“You both will quarrel with me?”

“When you are wrong, yes,” said Gialaurys. “And here you are most gravely wrong.”

“Well,” said Prestimion, and laughed. “If this is my beginning at kingship, when I am bearded and defied by my own dearest companions, it will be a rocky reign.” And to Svor he said, “Tell them that we will have entry, and no two ways about it.” And instructed Septach Melayn to stand behind Svor with a squadron of some two hundred men, but to refrain from launching any hostile action unless attacked.

He himself withdrew to one side and waited.

What happened then was unclear even to those who were in the thickest of it. Prestimion, standing apart, saw Svor in hot negotiation with the chief of proctors, the two men face-to-face and gesturing; and then suddenly there was an angry flurry of some sort, though hard to say where it began. The Estotilaup troops came rushing forward among the proctors, and Septach Melayn’s men charged toward the gate also in one and the same instant. Swords flashed and there was the thrusting of spears and here and there the bright flaring red beams of those unreliable but deadly weapons, energy-throwers. Prestimion saw Septach Melayn towering over all the rest, wielding his rapier in a blaze of furious activity, the blade flashing with such rapidity the eye could scarce follow it, and drawing blood with every thrust, while with the other hand he plucked little Duke Svor up high, out of the midst of the melee. Several soldiers of each force were down with flowing wounds on the field. A man of Estotilaup staggered out of the brawl, staring uncomprehendingly at the red stump of his arm.

Prestimion began to lunge forward, heading for the gate. But he had taken no more than three steps before Gialaurys caught him about the chest and held him back.

“My lord? Where are you going?”

“This has to be stopped, Gialaurys.”

“Then tell me so, and I will stop it. You are not to be put at risk here, my lord.” He released Prestimion and ran in thunderous steps to the gate, where he forced his way into the muddled throng and came to Septach Melayn’s side. Prestimion saw them conferring in the midst of the battle. The confusion continued another few moments more, until the order to withdraw had reached all of Prestimion’s men. Then, suddenly, the clangor and shouting ceased; the Estotilaup men went rushing back within their gate and slammed it shut, and Gialaurys and Septach Melayn returned at the head of Prestimion’s troops. Svor was huddled between them, looking pale and wan, for he was not built to a warrior’s scale and lacked all appetite for bloodshed.

“They will not admit us except we make them do it,” Svor reported. “On this they are resolved. Men have died already today to keep us out of this place, and many more will perish on both sides, I think, if we make a further attempt.”

“Then we will give it over for now,” said Prestimion, with a sharp glare of warning meant for Septach Melayn. “The next time we come here, they will roll out a precious carpet of Makroposopos for me to tread upon as I enter. But for now I want no warfare made against my own people, is that clear? We will win their acceptance by the force of our righteousness, or else not at all.” And he gave orders to draw back and march on to Simbilfant, which was the next city in their circuit of the Mount. Two men of their company had been killed, one of Muldemar and one of Amblemorn, and four wounded, in the skirmish; of the men of Estotilaup there were at least five seen dead or dying on the field.