The Starfollowers of Coramonde Read Free

dine.”
    When they
left, Springbuck called for a council, then thrust aside the addenda for his
latest Restoration Edicts and found himself staring at his sabre Bar, the sword
called Never Blunted, which hung over the mantel.
    Gil
MacDonald, whom he summoned, entered in obvious haste. Unannounced and
unaccompanied, as they both preferred it, the other alien slid into a chair.
The Ku-Mor-Mai contemplated his friend.
    The former
sergeant’s face was clean-shaven, his hair trimmed short. It gave prominence to
the dark smear of powderburn on his cheek, the scar on his forehead. He’d
gotten both in the throne room at Earthfast, when Springbuck had won his crown
by rite of combat.
    “Now what?”
the American asked. He listened to these latest developments, sitting forward
on his straight-backed chair, hoping to hear what he wanted so badly.
    “That’s gotta
be it,” he posited. “Bey’s there, in the north, coming at us with his Druids.”
He hitched himself around eagerly. “How far did they come? We’ll let Bey in far
enough and whap!, the deCourteneys take a crack at him.”
    “You are less
cautious than you once were,” Springbuck observed.
    “Huh? Look, I
never said we shouldn’t watch out. But this is Bey, man, Bey!”
    “And you were
certain he would be in the Dark Rampart range, remember? Before that, it was
the far eastern provinces you wished to search, where he used to have many
supporters—”
    “And he
wasn’t there; I know! This deal though, this is the real item. Hell, the Druids
used to work for Bey; isn’t that what you told me? So why are we spinning our
wheels? When do we move out?”
    “Not yet, in
truth. There are other factors.”
    Gil bristled.
“Yardiff Bey arranged your folks’ deaths, didn’t he? Yeah, and Duskwind’s, and
that of how many others? And he snatched our pal Dunstan, and still has him, am
I right? So what’s gotten into you, saying ‘take a break’?”
    Springbuck
stretched in his cumbersome robes to ease himself and measure his reply.
Slightly shorter than average, with dark tones of skin and hair, he betrayed a
fencer’s sinuosity even when seated. As usual, he’d foregone the crown he
seldom wore outside his Court. The corners of his eyes creased from time to
time; he was nearsighted, part of the reason he liked to parley in his study.
    The Ku-Mor-Mai owed the American a great deal, not the least of which was his life. There was substance to what Gil had said, too. Yardiff Bey was the creator of such
suffering, pain and misery that his capture demanded high priority. And the
sorcerer’s being at large posed a threat to all the Crescent Lands, Coramonde
in particular.
    “Our
situation is less secure now,” he told the other. “My reign is being resisted
in many quarters of the suzerainty. The military units upon which I may depend
are spread in tenuous array. There are those who liked my predecessor far
better than they do me. And there are partisans, irregulars from the late war,
who have no love of the commands of Earthfast. In some areas all authority has
been swept away.”
    Gil
understood, and berated himself for his own hard words, recognizing that his
temper seemed more difficult to curb these days. In Coramonde, men sided with
neighbors or relatives and obeyed their immediate superior, bound by oaths and
honor to their liege, hetman, Legion-Marshal or whomever. Fealty to a remote, central
monarch was less concrete. When local leaders came into contention, it was
difficult for the Ku-Mor-Mai to settle things from the palace-fortress.
Coramonde had known a number of wars arising from such squabbles, when the
Legions had been sent in.
    “There have
been assassinations,” Springbuck continued, “and defiance, unrest throughout
the suzerainty. I will speak to you my secret fear: open revolt is not far
beneath the surface. There have already been armed clashes, little short of
rebellion. And here am I, with my reliable troops taxed to maintain