scorned those Clarique, sons of his people's old foe. But he gave the Clarique honest due, admiring their courage.
Over the vast Eastern Sea came the ships of the Markuand, their numbers endless. The ships were white, the sails the color of bleached sand or snow, bellied by a wind that should not have blown in that direction during this season. Expecting a favoring breeze, the Clarique had been unprepared and were thrown into disarray. The Markuand reached the island shore and poured from the boats and up the peak, attacking the citadel in force. Their garments were as white as the ships' sails. And there was something more about them to send horror into a soldier's spirit—these Markuand never cried aloud nor gave any sign of pain. Blood turned white clothes to red, yet not one Markuand screamed or uttered any cry. Such desperate silence unnerved the Clarique, as it did Danaer. No Destre-Y would be so craven as to hearten the enemy with howls of pain, even in his death throes. But the Markuand did not even groan or gnash their teeth. It was as if they could feel nothing.
The truth seized Danaer like hurtful bonds— wizardry! This was some magic, and of incredible potency.
Danaer was one with the Clarique, no longer the son of Ryerdon, enemy of those fair-haired islanders. He shared their battle lust and had it turn to disbelief as the Markuand swarms continued to come, a silent wave of white-clad warriors against which no mortal could stand.
Time again sped forward, a sunset as bloody as the scene falling over island and sea. The wizards' images moved into the citadel itself, into the battle post of Thaerl, leader of Clarique's forces. Danaer seemed to be beside him, as an aide might be, and he saw the man defeated by things beyond mortal comprehension.
General Thaerl stumbled back, his courage faltering. He clawed wildly at his body, fending off . . . what? All around him, chaos reigned as his junior officers begged for new orders and received nothing but gibbers from Thaerl. Reinforcements were not sent to critical bastions, defenses were being overrun, utter rout was beginning.
Images within images! And those around Thaerl saw, at last, the fantastic shapes which tormented the doomed general, smoky forms coalescing into demons!
Thaerl and his attendants were assailed by loathsome beings, creatures out of some nameless pit. Their minds were ripped, though no mark appeared upon the men.
In the end, the mighty general of Clarique fled the devils, taking a boat west, leaving his troops leaderless, ripe for slaughter. Then the Markuand overwhelmed citadel and fleet, a white torrent—killing, killing . . .
A sob cut the air and the images dissolved. Ulodovol released Lira Nalu's hand, and Danaer realized her weeping had been the element which broke the enchantment. She lacked Ulodovol's cold demeanor, and the visions had worked upon her far more strongly. It must have been the second time she had endured the horrors in those images.
It was several long moments before Danaer and the officers could absorb the reality of what the wizards had built in the air. After a few false starts, Nurdanth managed to ask, "Those . . . those creatures General
Thaerl saw . . . were they some madness that took him? Or ..."
"Came they from the regions below?" Ulodovol's serenity was maddening. "They were real, my lord, for him. I am uncertain if their power to harm was genuine or illusion. Orlait coped with the Markuand wizard's spells to the limit of his talent. But this alien is ... evil. Beyond Orlait's ability to repel."
Did Danaer but imagine he heard a tinge of condescension in that comment? Was it possible Ulodovol scorned the dead wizard? If that were so, what of the Sarli woman? Would she be as ruthlessly cast out of Ulodovol's wizard web, should her magic prove too weak? Lira stared devotedly at her master, his obedient apprentice.
He did not understand such an attitude. But he was not a sorkra, and these were not