The Starfollowers of Coramonde by Brian Daley Page B

maddened jackdaws, sparrows,
linnets and jays. There was a crackle from Blazetongue. Blue effulgence
whooshed up its blade like smoke up a flue, leaping off its pommel,
disappearing.
    The splashing
rain threw up a curtain of steam. As if poured from a kettle it came, boiling
hot. The flock’s wrath became mortal pain. Humans and horses cowered against
the cliff. Birds dropped, slaughtered in thousands. Those that found clear
space by the cliff rebounded from the rock, blundering back to their deaths.
    Gil pressed
his face to the cool stone, fearing his lungs would be cooked. White steam
filled the world, but the birds’ cacophony dropped away. Only the hissing of
superheated rain remained.
    Andre gasped
his foremost spell of Dismissal. Within seconds the torrent subsided. The
horses began to quiet. The travelers uncovered their red, glistening faces.
    Hot curls of
vapor rose from soaked ground. Remains of plants and fallen birds floated in a
muddy, foul-smelling soup. Dazed, the party hunkered in the lee of the cliff,
staring at the scalded landscape.
    “Andre, you
far surpassed my expectations,” Angorman confessed.
    The wizard,
watching the ground drain, waved the remark away. “I called the rain down, but
our survival may be laid to Blazetongue. I did not release its force.”
    “The kid,
then?” Gil asked.
    “You saw the
weapon’s energies fly up out of it. Blazetongue itself is responsible; I did
not activate it, and neither did the child.”
    He picked
himself up, dabbing at his wounds, and rummaged through his saddlebags. “I have
ointments somewhere, albeit none of us seems too badly burned or injured.”
    “But what
about the rain?” Angorman persisted.
    Andre
stopped. “My Lord, I informed you in Earthfast; there are more than mere
nations in opposition. Blazetongue is the Bright Lady’s instrument. Those
birds, bloodlusting on the wing, reeked of Amon, and the Five. The sword put
forth its energies to advance its ends. Two primal forces clashed on this
heath; the Perfect Mistress carried the day.”
    The
Saint-Commander made a sign of thanksgiving. Andre observed, “This party is of
enormous consequence, we have seen. I profess to understand little, just now.”
He scanned the steamy distance. “Our packhorse is gone, or dead perhaps; her
burden was nothing we cannot replace, if needs be.”
    Gil blew his
breath out wearily. “You mean you want to go on? What if we’re walking into
another ambush?”
    “Going on is safer
than going back. Ahead, in Glyffa, where the Divine Mistress’ sway is greatest.
Behind, it is less.”
    Gil, hand to
his eyes, shook his head slowly. “How much longer will we have the option?”
    Angorman’s
chin came up, harshly. “When one accepts a commission of service, one is past the point of no return. Or have you forgotten the Faith Cup?”
    Instead of
answering, the American got up to make sure Jeb was all right. A cool breeze
was carrying away wreaths of steam and stench. The water had receded and the ground
had cooled considerably.
    Gil concluded
that his only hope was that pressure would be off the party once they’d
delivered the child. They rapidly prepared to leave this area, blighted by the
confrontation of the gods.
     
     

Chapter Seven
     
    I gave the day to Angorman, and
showed to him my heel,
    and prayed he would forego the
chase
    (and vowed me nevermore to face
    his bright, moon-bitted Pilgrim,
poet-cleaving Red ordeal)…
    from “The Lay of the Axe and the
Rose,” by the hedge-robber and self-styled poet, Kidsheerer
     
    TOWARD evening of the next day,
they came to a towering cedar next to the Tangent. On its face an area was
roughly planed off. Graven there was an intertwined rose and double-bitted
axehead. The carving was old, but the tree’s growth hadn’t obliterated it.
    Angorman ran
a hand over the aged scars. Gil assumed the tree had been planed by Red
Pilgrim. They left the Tangent for a well-used side road, on the
warrior-priest’s