"Back!" cried Marrget. "Before it comes again!"

The phalanxes swept over the plain like a tidal bore. ASouzon and the others retreated, following the route of the panicked soldiers. The sun was a streaming glory in their eyes as they fled over the southwest bank and into the open countryside, leaving the Corrinians in possession of the Circle.The eyes of the Corrinian sorcerer were clear, almost luminous, and when he spoke, he spoke with a.s.surance. He sat in a chair before the king, lapped in a clean white robe, at ease, confident, poised . . . but Darham knew that he was as mad as if he had been groveling in the fields, gulping gra.s.s and howling at the night sky.

Tarwach did not notice, for he was silently raging at the terrible losses of the day. It seemed inconceivable that five score Gryylthans could have inflicted such damage on over thirty phalanxes, but after the captains had made their reports, the truth was evident. Corrin had gained the Circle, but its strength was barely a quarter of what it had been that morning.

"What do you recommend, sorcerer?" said Tarwach, breaking the silence suddenly.

Tireas shifted, pursed his lips, looked out through the open flap of the pavilion. In the distance was the Circle, glowing with light and power. Mernyl was still within, still alive, still able to summon potent energies to his aid. "We do not yet hold the Circle," he said, his voice strangely hollow.

The night was warm, and moths danced about the torches. One fluttered in front of Tireas, and he lifted a hand to bat it away. At-his touch, the insect dropped lifelessly into his lap. Darham stared, then looked at Kar-thin, who was beside him. He had also noticed, and his blue eyes had turned distrustful.

Darham ventured to speak. "The grounds of the Circle 353 354.

are secure," he said. "The Gryylthans have fled. I would say that our task is finished."

There was more-or maybe less-in Tireas's eyes than Darham remembered. "Mernyl is still alive."

"What can he do? He is as much a prisoner as if we held him in Benardis."

"He can do much." The sorcerer's voice, already hollow, deepened, turned threatening. "So long as he lives, the Circle is not ours. So long as we do not possess the Circle, we do not have Gryylth."

"There are many men now dead," said Tarwach, "who gave their lives to gain the Circle. Do we not owe them success?''

"We have the Circle," insisted Darham. The sorcerer held him with his black eyes. Black eyes? Had his eyes not been gray long ago?

"We do not," said Tireas.

Something was wrong. There was a sense of the malign about Tireas, about the entire scene: the Circle glowing, the lightning-lit bulk of the Tree rising up from its wain, the sprawling heaps of the dead ... A subtle pestilence was abroad in Gryylth this night, and the land was waiting anxiously to see what they would do about it.

"My brother ..." Darham glanced at Tireas, then ignored him. This was a decision for a king, not for a magician. "My brother, I would propose something."

"You have my ear always, Darham."

"Do I, Tarwach?" He stepped forward, clumsily easing the loop of the sling that cradled his wounded arm. "It seems that your ear is turned more toward others these days. I feel often that I must beg for your attention like an out-of-favor courtier."

"Darham!" Tarwach half-rose from his seat. "If so. then my apologies. Speak. I listen only to you."

Darham glanced at Karthin. The captain nodded. "I would propose another way, Tarwach. The killing has gone on long enough. The dead lie thick on both sides, and there are many women in both Gryylth and Corrin who will lament the fall of their mates and sons."

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As though he had guessed what Darham was going to say, Tireas opened his mouth to speak. But the king raised his hand. "Your turn will come, sorcerer. Continue, brother.''

"My suggestion is simple. A settlement, now, with generous terms for Gryylth. Regardless of the past, it is a n.o.ble people we have been righting, and far better it would be if we learned to be friends instead of enemies."

Tarwach went white, then flushed. "You would propose that? What of the dead that lie scattered from here to the Great Dike? G.o.ds, man, they have slaughtered three quarters of the phalanxes!"

Darham put his good hand on his hip, stepped forward. He did not like opposing his brother, nor was he at all rea.s.sured by the alteration in Tireas's behavior, but the senselessness of the battle had overwhelmed him. "Three-quarters? And what were we trying to do to them?"

Tarwach spluttered, at a loss for words. Tireas's eyes bored out at Darham. "Shall we abandon our plans now?" The sorcerer intoned the words like a spell. "With the end in sight?"

"There is no end in sight, Tireas," said Darham. "Look at the reality before you. Destroying Mernyl will lead us into further enormities against Gryylth. /ere Corrin so crushed, our people would nurse their wounds until they were ready to turn on their conquerors. We should expect nothing different from Gryylth."

"We can ensure that they can never rise again." The sorcerer was adamant.

"How? By killing them all?" Heedless of Tireas's ire, Darham stepped toward him, the fist of his good arm balled at his side in an effort to keep his pa.s.sion from mastering him. "Could we continue to call ourselves honorable after such an atrocity? What say you?"

Tireas did not flinch. "They have killed our men."

Karthin burst out. "You b.i.t.c.h's whelp! You wiped out four phalanxes yourself when you threw your bolt at the First Wartroop."

The silence was deadly, but the big farmer folded his 356.

arms and stood defiantly. His was the anger of the foot soldier confronted with the grandiose plans of one who had held himself aloof from the common, messy battles of sword and spear. His disdain for the sorcerer was obvious. So recently raised to the captaincy, he could be sent back to the ranks in disgrace, but still he stood, a man of Corrin, as tall and unyielding as the king himself.

Something writhed on Tireas's lap. With quiet convulsions, the moth was quivering back to life. As Darham watched, it turned smooth and slimy, like a slug, and its iridescent skin shone with unclean mottlings as it crawled along the folds of the sorcerer's robe.

Tireas noticed and brushed it off onto the floor with an annoyed flick of his wrist. It hit with a soft plop and inched toward the shadows.

Darham was shaken. This was not Tireas. This was . . . something else.

Tireas stood up. "Aye, hayseed, some of our men perished in my attack. But they knew well that their lives were at risk when they entered the fray.''

The white slug writhed into the darkness.

Karthin seemed as unnerved as Darham. "The First Wartroop . . ." He stumbled over his words. "The First Wartroop still lives."

"Do you thank the G.o.ds for that, hayseed?"

Again, Karthin did not rise to the insult. "I keep my own counsel."

"Maybe you wish to bed the pretty women, and insinuate yourself between the thighs of your enemies. Perhaps you have been unmanned, and now want to make love rather than war."

Tarwach interrupted. "This is a captain of Corrin, Tireas. Save your ire for our enemies."

Tireas's indignation was a little too calculated. "If he defends Gryylth, then he too is an enemy."

"Do you impeach my loyalty to Corrin?" demanded Karthin. The sorcerer snorted and turned away. "By the G.o.ds, I will have an answer, sir!"

In spite of the tension in the air, Tarwach smiled. "Well said, captain. I would utter the same challenge. But I .

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cannot say but that I agree with Tireas's desire regarding Mernyl and the Circle. Bread will be scarce this winter, and it is the doing of Gryylth."

"Dythragor Dragonmaster, rather," said Darham.

' 'Is there a difference?''

"At one time, I would have said that there was no difference. But now ..." The white thing had vanished, but Darham felt its presence. "I think that Dythragor acted on his own. Vorya would never countenance such a cowardly act."

"The deed is done. We must safeguard our own folk."

"Aye, it is done. But Karthin here says that both our peoples can yet live, and I think that the wiser path."

Tarwach gestured to the sorcerer to sit. "Do you think me a fool, brother?" he said. There was no challenge in his voice. Rather, his tone was that of one seeking support for a difficult decision.

"Nay, Tarwach. But we differ in this matter."

"We do indeed." He rose, went to the flap, watched the Circle for a time. Energy flickered across the monoliths and trilithons. "I intend to give Tireas his way. Mernyl must die, and the Circle must be ours. I see no particularly good arguments against that course." He put his hand to his cut chin for a moment, winced, and considered. "Dythragor and the female Dragonmaster are at large, and nothing prevents the country from rising against us. Do you understand my reasoning?"

"I do. But I do not agree."

" My king," began Tireas.

"Sit down, sir!" said Tarwach.

The sorcerer sat, folded his arms, bent his head. Brooding, powerful, angry, and not quite human, he was a frightening presence in the pavilion. Even Tarwach seemed affected.

"Darham ..." The king's tone was almost pleading. "We have always stood together."

"Forgive me, brother. I cannot do this."

"Will you help subdue Gryylth?"

Silence lengthened. Darham turned away, eyes examining the floor. He sensed Tireas as though a bonfire 358.

burned in the tent and found that he hated what the sorcerer had become. "I will not," he said at last. "I cannot. To do so would be the action of a traitor."

Tireas spoke again. "To refuse to fight is the-"

Tarwach whirled on him, his sword sliding out of its sheath. "You forget yourself, sir. One word more and you will have spoken an insult that can only be avenged in one way." His pa.s.sion had opened the cut in his chin again, and a trickle of blood wound down his throat.

Tireas watched it for a moment, as though disdainful of such overt mortality. "I have the Tree." His voice was calm, a.s.sured, cruel.

"Aye, sorcerer," said Darham. "You have the Tree. And you have the king. And you will have your fill of death this night, and tomorrow, and the next day after that." His words seared the air. "And you will enjoy it, sorcerer, because you have become as bloodthirsty as that thing out there in the wain. I sincerely believe that you would destroy all of Gryylth and Corrin for your satisfaction. Therefore, I will say good-bye."

He turned. Karthin offered his hand. Darham took it, and together they went toward the flap.

"Darham!"

"I will see you in Benardis, brother Tarwach," said Darham without turning around. "You can decide our fates then. We will be waiting for you . . . and for your judgment."

"Darham, please!"

But now the opening of the pavilion framed only the Circle, glowing brightly, and some branches of the Tree that writhed and snaked in the darkness.

"My king?" said Tireas.

Tarwach held his head, weeping, fighting for words. "Go, Tireas," he whispered. "Do what you must."

The sun had set long before, the moon had not yet risen. Only the glow from the Circle saved the night from absolute darkness. The standing stones shone blue, and the interstices of the peristyle were barred with luminescence: the sorcerer of Gryylth still lived.

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"How many have we?" said Vorya. His voice was dull. The surviving soldiers and warriors had gathered about him, but the faces were few, too few.

Marrget spoke. "Thirty, my liege."

"Thirty ..." Vorya sighed bitterly.

They had made a crude sort of camp in the hollow of two hills some distance from the Circle. There, they had eaten what food there was, rested, tended wounds, and watched helplessly as the phalanxes secured the area.

So far, there had been no further attacks on the monument, and Tireas had not attempted to enter. The Tree, in fact, had been taken away, and was not even visible to the Gryylthans. Judging from their actions, the immediate objectives of the men of Corrin seemed to be a comfortable camp and a peaceful night. Tomorrow was soon enough to contemplate the fate of Gryylth.

"I estimate they have about one hundred and fifty," Marrget continued.

"We cannot attack," said Vorya, "save to give ourselves an honorable end in battle."

"I'd hardly call that honorable," said Alouzon.

Dythragor growled under his breath. He was standing off by himself, watching the lack of activity at the Circle. He had jammed a knuckle in his mouth and was in the process of gnawing the skin off. "We've got to get Mer-nyl out of there."

Marrget followed his gaze. "My friend Dythragor," she said softly, ' 'we all owe Mernyl our lives many times over. But we are powerless to repay him.'''

"We've got to get that d.a.m.ned Tree."

Alouzon sighed. The wine she had drunk to wash down the meager meal of bread and cheese now burned in her stomach as though it were vinegar. Neither she nor Dythragor had mentioned the consequences of the destruction of either Tree or Circle to the others. Nor had they mentioned the choice she faced.

Freedom, or the successorship . . . and a chance at the Grail.

Guardian of Gryylth: an escape from helplessness, from powerlessness, from the constant victimization that 360.

had come to characterize her existence since Kent State. Like Solomon Braithwaite, she had drunk her fill of despair, and now she could, if she wanted, flee to Gryylth and become the hub of an entire world.

Her right arm ached from the exertion of swinging five pounds of preternatural sword all day, and though she had washed her hands she still felt the slime of death on them. Deny it though she might, there was little difference between herself and the middle-aged professor. Sil-bakor had spoken of completing the world, but what kind of land, she wondered, would spring from her unconscious? She shuddered at the thought.

And yet ... the Grail . . .

"What about raising the countryside?"

"It was raised days ago," said Marrget. "You saw the result. Those who remain are distant. It would take weeks to gather them. Once Tireas has done with Mernyl, the Tree and the Circle will be united under his control. We are conquered."

"Not if we get that Tree," Dythragor insisted.