Robert Silverberg - Sorcerers of Majipoor

“There is somewhat more to making war, it seems,” he said sorrowfully to his aide-de-camp Nilgir Sumanand, “than merely proclaiming the righteousness of one’s cause.”

“It was only the first skirmish, my lord,” replied Nilgir Sumanand in a quiet tactful way. “There will be many more encounters on the field for us, and happier ones, before the task is done.”

Prestimion said dourly, “But look how badly we’re damaged already! Where’s Gialaurys? And Septach Melayn—I had a glimpse of him far across the field, in the midst of a pack of enemies. By the Divine, if Septach Melayn has fallen—”

“He is safe somewhere nearby in the forest, of that I’m certain, and will find us before long. The man’s not yet born who can lay a weapon to him, my lord.”

It was welcome reassurance. But Prestimion brushed it aside and snapped, with more anger in his voice than he would have preferred to display, “Enough of calling me ‘my lord’! It galls me to hear the phrase. Some Coronal am I, sitting here in the rain under these dripping vakumbas!” And then, quickly and in a softer tone, for he was abashed at having chafed this good loyal man with such harshness: “I’ve had to swallow down many an unpalatable thing, haven’t I, Nilgir Sumanand, since my fortunes changed? This was surely not the plan I charted for myself when I first set out to win greatness in the world.”

The rain seemed to be ending now. Through the huge heavy gray leaves overhead, leathery-skinned on their upper sides and furry below, he saw faint white shafts of moonlight peeping through. But the night was cold and the ground was sodden, and his thigh throbbed mercilessly; he had taken a sudden blow across the fleshiest part of it in one wild melee, one of Navigorn’s men galloping past and slashing him with a riding-crop as he went. Better that than the blade of a sword, Prestimion told himself, yet he was limping all the same.

“Do we have glowfloats with us?” he asked Nilgir Sumanand. “Tie them to these trees, if we do. They’ll guide others of our people toward us in the night who might be wandering hereabouts.”

“And if they guide Navigorn to us instead, excellence?”

“It would be a very rash general who led his troops into a dark forest like this by night, not knowing what sort of ambush is waiting for him. No, Navigorn and his men are getting grandly drunk in Arkilon just now. Put up some glowfloats, Nilgir Sumanand.” And soon there were globes of reddish light hanging from the lowest branches of the nearby trees; and in a little while, just as Prestimion had hoped, the lights began to draw the straggling fragments of his army, by twos and threes at first, or sometimes as many as a dozen.

It was midnight when Gialaurys appeared. He came alone. His sleeve was in tatters and a raw bloody cut showed through. His mood was so grim that even Prestimion hesitated to speak with him; shrugging off an offer to bind his wound, Gialaurys sat down by himself and took from his torn jacket the green fruit of a vakumba, one that he must have pulled from a low-lying branch or even picked off the ground, and began to gnaw and rip at it in a snarling frightful way, cramming the flesh of it into his mouth as though he were no more than a beast of the fields.

A little while after, Kaymuin Rettra of Amblemorn arrived, with a detachment of Skandars and some human men of his city, and then Nemeron Dalk from Vilimong, with fifty more, and almost on their heels was Count Ofmar of Ghrav, followed by many of his people, and some Simbilfant folk, and the three Sons of the vineyard overseer Rufiel Kisimir, leading a whole host of men of Muldemar, who surrounded Prestimion with loud cries of joy. And the noise of all these as they gathered in the one encampment under the fat vakumba-trees brought others, on through the night. So the army was not as utterly destroyed as Prestimion had feared, and he took some heart from that. There was scarcely anyone who had not taken some injury in the battle, and some of those serious. But all of them came before Prestimion, even the wounded ones, and earnestly vowed to go on fighting in his cause until the end.

Of Septach Melayn and Svor, though, there was no sign.

Toward morning Prestimion slept a little. Dawn was slow coming in this latitude, for Castle Mount lay straight eastward of here, and the rising sun had to climb above that thirty-mile-high wall before its light could penetrate the forest. At last Prestimion felt warmth on his face; and when he opened his eyes the first he saw was Duke Svor’s hooked nose and devilish toothy grin, and then Septach Melayn, as cool and elegant as if he were on his way to a banquet at the Castle, with not a single golden hair out of place and his clothes unmussed. The Vroonish wizard Thalnap Zelifor was perched pleasantly on Septach Melayn’s left shoulder.

The swordsman smiled down at Prestimion and said, “Have you rested well, O peerless prince?”

“Not so well as you,” Prestimion said, coming creakily to a sitting position and brushing the mud from himself. “This hotel is less gracious, I think, than the luxurious inn where you must have spent the night.”

“Luxurious indeed. It was all of pink marble and black onyx,” replied Septach Melayn, “with sweet handmaidens galore, and a feast of bilantoons’ tongues steeped in dragon-milk that I’ll not soon forget.” He knelt beside Prestimion, allowing the Vroon to jump down to the ground, and said in a less airy way, “Did you take any injury in the battle, Prestimion?”

“Only to my pride, and a bruise to my thigh that will have me aching a day or two. And you?”

Septach Melayn said, with a wink, “My thumb is sore, from pressing too tight against the hilt of my blade in the thick of the fray as I cut down Alexid of Sirave. Otherwise nothing.”

“Alexid is dead?”

“And many others, on both sides. There’ll be more.”

Svor said, “You don’t ask me about my wounds, Prestimion.”

“Ah, and were you fighting valiantly too, my friend?”

“I thought I would test myself as a warrior. So I went into the midst. In the veriest heat and turmoil of it, I came up against Duke Kanteverel, my face right up against his.”

“And you bit his nose?” Prestimion asked.

“You are unkind. I drew on him—I had never drawn in anger before—and he looked at me and said, ‘Svor, do you mean to kill me, who gave you the lovely Lady Heisse Vaneille? For I have lost my weapon and am at your mercy.’ And nowhere in my heart could I find hatred for him, so I took him by the shoulder and spun him around, and shoved him with all my strength, and sent him staggering toward his own side of the field. Did I fail you greatly, Prestimion? I could have killed him there and then. But I am no killer, I think.”

Prestimion answered, with a shake of his head, “What would it have mattered, killing Kanteverel? He’s no more a fighter than you. But stay behind the lines, Svor, in our next battle. You’ll be happier there. So, I think, will we.” Prestimion looked toward Thalnap Zelifor and said, “And you, companion of my prison-chamber? Did you do mighty work with your sword?”

“I could wield five at once,” said the Vroon, waving his many tentacles about, “but they would be no greater than needles, and all I could achieve with them would be the pricking of shins. No, I shed no blood yesterday, Prestimion. What I did on your behalf was cast spells for your success. But for me, the outcome would have been even worse.”

“Even worse?” Prestimion said with a little chuckle. “Well, then, you have my gratitude.”

“Be grateful for this too: I’ve thrown the divining-sticks to see the outcome of your next battle. It was a favorable pattern. You will win a great victory against overwhelming odds.”