Enchanter: Book Two of the Axis Trilogy

SARA DOUGLASS

Enchanter

Book Two of The Axis Trilogy

Copyright

HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1998

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

www.voyager-books.co.uk

Copyright © Sara Douglass 1996

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780006511076

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2011 ISBN:9780007381364

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The Axis trilogy continues for Lynne, Tim and

Frances, with a nod and a smile for Pachelbel,

whose haunting Canon in D provided the

background for the writing of Enchanter.

Enchanter is the axis, and it remembers Elinor, who died when she and I were far too young.

Courage my Soul, now learn to wield

The weight of thine immortal Shield.

Close on thy Head thy Helmet bright.

Ballance thy Sword against the Fight.

See where an Army, strong as fair,

With silken Banners spreads the air.

Now, if thou bee’st that thing Divine,

In this day’s Combat let it shine:

And shew that Nature wants an Art

To conquer one resolved Heart.

ANDREW MARVELL,

“A Dialogue Between The Resolved Soul, and Created Pleasure”

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

The Prophecy of the Destroyer

Prologue: The Ruins of Gorkenfort

1. Jervois Landing – Arrivals

2. Talon Spike

3. The Wolven

4. Learning the Star Dance

5. The Rebel Army

6. New Responsibilities, Old Friends

7. Dark Man, Dear Man

8. The Brother-Leader Plans

9. The Blood-Red Sun

10. Propositions and Endings

11. “Are You True?” Asketh the Bridge

12. “I Will Lead You Back into Tencendor!”

13. Dinner at the Tired Seagull

14. Through the Mountain Passes

15. Beltide

16. A Parting of Ways

17. The Audience

18. Through the Fortress Ranges

19. The Alaunt

20. Arrival at Sigholt

21. Long Live the King!

22. Azhure’s Dilemma

23. The Enchantress’ Ring

24. The Patrol

25. Star Gate

26. Gorgrael Makes a New Friend

27. The Strike Force Lands

28. The GateKeeper

29. Caelum

30. “Let Fly the Standard!”

31. WolfStar’s Story

32. Winter Approaches

33. Forgotten Vows

34. Parley

35. Carlon and Beyond

36. Gundealga Ford

37. Yuletide

38. The Nursery

39. Skraelings and SkraeBolds

40. “Woe! Woe!”

41. EvenSong’s Memory

42. In the Bleak Mid-Winter …

43. The Skraeling Nest

44. “It is Time to Reforge Tencendor”

45. Bad News

46. Contemplations of a Rag Doll

47. Carlon

48. Axis’ Salutary Lesson

49. Baron Ysgryff’s Surprise

50. The Silent Woman Dream

51. Then it is War, Brother?

52. Battle Eve

53. The Battle of Bedwyr Fort

54. The Aftermath

55. MorningStar

56. One Nors Woman Wins, Another Loses

57. The Chamber of the Moons

58. Transformations

59. Shattered Vows

60. Tencendor on the Shores of Grail Lake

61. Betrayal Confronted

62. Into Spiredore

63. From Out of the Dawning Sun …

64 Azhure (1)

65 Azhure (2)

66 Enchantress

Keep Reading

Glossary

About the Author

By Sara Douglass

About the Publisher

The Prophecy of the Destroyer

A day will come when born will be

Two babes whose blood will tie them.

That born to Wing and Horn will hate

The one they call the StarMan.

Destroyer! rises in the north

And drives his Ghostmen south;

Defenceless lie both flesh and field

Before Gorgrael’s ice.

To meet this threat you must release

The StarMan from his lies,

Revive Tencendor, fast and sure

Forget the ancient war,

For if Plough, Wing and Horn can’t find

The bridge to understanding,

Then will Gorgrael earn his name

And bring Destruction hither.

StarMan, listen, heed me well,

Your power will destroy you

If you should wield it in the fray

’Ere these prophecies are met:

The Sentinels will walk abroad

’Til power corrupt their hearts;

A child will turn her head and cry

Revealing ancient arts;

A wife will hold in joy at night

The slayer of her husband;

Age-old souls, long in cribs,

Will sing o’er mortal land;

The remade dead, fat with child

Will birth abomination;

A darker power will prove to be

The father of salvation.

Then waters will release bright eyes

To form the Rainbow Sceptre.

StarMan, listen, for I know

That you can wield the sceptre

To bring Gorgrael to his knees

And break the ice asunder.

But even with the power in hand

Your pathway is not sure:

A Traitor from within your camp

Will seek and plot to harm you;

Let not your Lover’s pain distract

For this will mean your death;

Destroyer’s might lies in his hate

Yet you must never follow;

Forgiveness is the thing assured

To save Tencendor’s soul.

Prologue: The Ruins of Gorkenfort

Gorgrael stood in the deserted bedchamber of Gorkenfort Keep, his breath frosting about his tusks in the frigid atmosphere. His bright silver eyes narrowed as he absorbed the lingering memories and emotions of the room. Bending, he scraped a hand across the bed, catching and tearing the bed linen with his hooked claws. Hate and desire, pain and satisfaction lingered here. He snatched a handful of the material to his nostrils, crushing it between his powerful claws. She had been here, had slept here, had laughed and cried here. Gorgrael abruptly arched his body back, his muscles rigid, and shrieked his anger, frustration and desire. He hated and wanted this woman almost as much as he hated and wanted Axis.

Outside the Keep’s walls the Skraelings stilled and fell silent as they heard their master’s voice echo about the frozen wastes. As suddenly as he had given vent to his anger and desire Gorgrael stopped, straightening and relaxing his body. He dropped the fragment of sheet to the floor, and glanced around the ruined chamber. This had been her chamber, hers and that pitiful fool’s, Borneheld. He was of no account; Gorgrael would brush him aside at the first possible opportunity. But the woman … she was the key.

Gorgrael knew the Prophecy almost as well as its maker. He knew that now Axis had escaped to his – their – father he would prove a far more formidable opponent. Enough to counter Gorgrael’s command of the Dark Music? Gorgrael was not sure. Axis was certainly now too strong to be vulnerable to his SkraeBolds. But as the third verse of the Prophecy gave Axis the key to destroy Gorgrael, so it gave Gorgrael the key to destroy Axis. The Prophet had been kind.

The key was the Lover mentioned in the Prophecy. If Gorgrael could destroy her, he would destroy Axis. Axis was vulnerable to nothing but love, and eventually love could prove his destruction.

Gorgrael shrieked again, but this time in glee. It would take time, but eventually he would have her. The traitor was in place. All he needed was the opportunity.

Faraday. Gorgrael had gleaned much from this room. She was the one to whom Timozel had bound himself, she had given Axis the power of the emerald fire that had decimated Gorgrael’s Skraeling force. For that alone she deserved to die. For the fact that Axis loved her Faraday would die slowly. For her alliance with the Mother and with the Trees she would die alone and friendless. Gorgrael dug his claws deep into the mattress and shredded it with a single twist of his powerful arm. This is what he would do to Faraday’s body. After she had begged for her life, pleaded for mercy, screamed as she submitted herself to his will. He would shred her!

Gorgrael’s eyes drifted towards the shattered window. Most of the hamlets and towns of Ichtar lay in ruins. Hsingard, the one-time seat of the Duke of Ichtar, was useless rubble. Tens of thousands of Ichtar’s inhabitants had died. The Skraelings had fed well. But not all had gone according to plan, and satisfaction was still a way off. Axis had escaped, and in doing so had badly damaged Gorgrael’s force.

If Gorgrael had enough Skraelings to occupy Ichtar then he did not have a strong enough force left to harry either Axis or Borneheld. The Duke of Ichtar had managed to flee south with almost five thousand men (and her) and even now approached Jervois Landing. There he would no doubt make his stand by the running waters.

Neither Gorgrael nor his creatures liked running water. It made music from beauty and peace, not darkness. It tinkled. Gorgrael screamed in frustration and completed his destruction of the bed. He was severely disappointed in his SkraeBolds. Borneheld’s escape had been assisted by their inability to focus the Skraelings’ attention on attacking the Duke’s column as it fled south. While it was true that many Skraelings trembled at the SkraeBolds’ screams and threats of retribution, many others did not. Long had the Skraelings hungered to drive into the pleasant southern lands, long had they resented their icy northern wastes. Now, as the defeat of Gorkenfort opened Ichtar to them, they spread across the province in largely unrestrained and undisciplined glee, a misty, whispery mob that destroyed without thought. The SkraeBolds had found it impossible to rally enough Skraelings to make any serious attempt on Borneheld’s fleeing force, and had to confine themselves to harrying the flanks and rearguard of his column.

Not only were the Skraelings proving harder to control and the SkraeBolds less effectual than he had hoped, Gorgrael also had to admit that his forces had been so weakened by the fury Axis had unleashed on them above Gorkenfort that it would take him months to rebuild an army strong enough and disciplined enough to push further south than Hsingard.

And as the SkraeBolds trembled and wept at the thought of reporting their failures to Gorgrael, so Gorgrael himself began to construct the arguments he would need to convince his mentor that it had been the right time to strike Gorkenfort, it had been the right time to begin his drive into Achar. The Dark Man had cautioned him to wait a year or two more, to wait until his army had been built into a more formidable force and his magic was deeper and darker. But Gorgrael had been tired of waiting. While the Dark Man had taught him all he knew, had taught him the use of the Dark Music and crafted him into the power he was today, Gorgrael feared him as much as he loved him.

His claws twitching nervously, Gorgrael began rehearsing his explanations.

1

Jervois Landing – Arrivals

Ho’Demi sat his shaggy horse and contemplated the impenetrable fog before him. His scouts had reported that the Duke of Ichtar and what remained of his command from Gorkenfort drew close. For all Ho’Demi knew they were but ten paces away.

Ho’Demi shivered. He did not like these southern lands with their damp mists. He yearned for the northern wastes of the Ravensbund with its endless leagues of grinding ice. He yearned to be once more hunting the great icebears with the men and women of his tribe – not these Ghostmen whose very whispers defiled the wind.

However, the northern wastes were denied Ho’Demi and his people. For as far back as tribal memory stretched the Skraeling wraiths had existed. Until the past year they had been neither numerous nor brave, and as long as his people hunted in packs, the Skraelings had not attacked. But now, massed by the unseen yet powerful hand of Gorgrael the Destroyer, the Skraelings had driven them from the Ravensbund, down through Gorken Pass, past Gorkenfort and town – where the Duke of Ichtar had stopped the invasion of Gorgrael’s Ghostmen – and into these southern lands. Ho’Demi had finally stopped his people’s flight here at Jervois Landing. It was here that Borneheld, having somehow escaped the Skraelings, intended to make his stand.

Ho’Demi and his people had always intended to help the Southerners against Gorgrael and his Skraelings; it was part of their heritage. But when he had offered his warriors at Gorkenfort, Borneheld had laughed and said he had no need for Ravensbund assistance. He, Duke of Ichtar, commanded a real army. Well, now the Duke and his real army might not be so slow to accept the help of the Ravensbund warriors.

Ho’Demi had led as many of his people out of the Ravensbund as he could. But the Ravensbund tribes lay scattered across the vast territory of the northern wastes and Ho’Demi had not been able to get word to the majority of the tribes to flee into the southern lands. Only twenty thousand had pitched their sealskin tents about Jervois Landing, a mere twentieth of the Ravensbund population. Ho’Demi shuddered to think of what had happened to those left behind. He hoped they had found a place to hide among the crevices of the ice packs, there to await the day when Gorgrael was defeated by the StarMan. He hoped they had the courage for a long wait.

The Ravensbundmen were a proud and ancient people who had adapted their culture and society to a life spent almost entirely within the ice-bound regions of northern Achar. Few had any contact with the world beyond the River Andakilsa. The King of Achar (whosoever he currently was) might fondly believe that he ruled Ravensbund as he ruled the rest of Achar, but as far as the Ravensbundmen knew or cared, the Achar King had as much control over them as he did over the Forbidden. Ho’Demi was their Chief, and his was the law they obeyed.

But now, for the sake of the Prophecy and because it was the only thing left for him to do, Ho’Demi would put himself under the command of Borneheld. Ravensbundmen had been aware of the Prophecy of the Destroyer for thousands of years, and Ho’Demi knew that, divided, no-one could defeat Gorgrael. Someone had to begin the alliance that would create Tencendor and crush the Destroyer. As the Skraeling threat grew infinitely worse, he had quickly realised this was a sign that the Prophecy had awoken and now walked. Of all the peoples of this land, perhaps the Ravensbundmen were more loyal to the name of the StarMan than most. When he called, then they would rally.

In groups of never less than a thousand, the Ravensbund people had passed by Gorkenfort, many weeks before Axis had arrived. As yet they did not know where the StarMan was; they did not know who he was. Until they found him, until they could declare their loyalty and their spears for him, Ho’Demi had decided they would fight with Borneheld. If he would have them.

Borneheld knew what the bells were the instant their gentle sound reached him through the fog, and he hunched even further beneath his voluminous cloak.

It had been two weeks since they had fled Gorkenfort. As soon as Axis had drawn the Skraelings northwards away from the fort, Borneheld had ordered the gates opened and led his column out through the ruins of Gorkentown. The march south towards Jervois Landing was a desperate trek through icy conditions which hourly weakened his men’s resistance to death. Many had died from the freezing cold or from the physical effort of the march. In the past week even more had died as the Skraelings made nibbling attacks on the rear and flanks of Borneheld’s retreating column. Others deserted. Even those two old brothers who Axis had dragged north with him from the Silent Woman Keep and who had babbled incessantly about musty prophecies had disappeared one night. As far as Borneheld was concerned, the Skraelings could feed all they wanted on those two as on any others not prepared to stay with him.

Unaccountably, the Skraelings had left them alone for a critical five days after their escape from Gorkenfort. They had ridden as hard and as fast as they could – until the horses started to die beneath them – expecting an attack from Gorgrael’s army at any moment. No-one in Borneheld’s company knew that it was because Axis and his command had hurt the Skraelings so grievously in the icy wastes above Gorkenfort that the SkraeBolds had needed to regroup the decimated Skraeling forces.

All Borneheld and his company knew was that they’d had five days’ start on the Skraelings, and that five days was the difference between life and death. When the Skraelings did finally reappear, they did not do so in force, and Borneheld’s column had managed to keep moving further south towards the comparative safety of Jervois Landing. The Skraelings would not push so far south. Surely.

Yet every step they took southwards towards safety increased Borneheld’s bitterness. It hadn’t been his fault that Gorkenfort had fallen. Traitors had undermined his command and betrayed both Ichtar and Achar. Magariz’s actions had confirmed that. His most senior, most trusted commander had chosen to ride with his bastard half-brother rather than fight for Borneheld and the cause of Achar. For thirty years Borneheld’s jealousy of Axis had dominated his life; now bitter resentment twisted his gut. Artor curse him, he thought, I hope he died out there in the frozen wastes. Screaming for me to ride to his rescue, screaming my name as the wraiths chewed the flesh from his bones.

But even that thought could not bring a smile to Borneheld’s cold-chapped face. Now, after the treachery of Gorkenfort, Borneheld trusted few. If Magariz could turn against him, then who else might prove treacherous? Even Jorge and Roland, riding silent and introspective further back in the column, did not enjoy the same depth of trust as they once had. No, Borneheld truly trusted only Gautier and Timozel. Who would have thought that such a young whelp – and an Axe-Wielder to boot – could grow into such a loyal and devoted servant to the Duke of Ichtar? Timozel had clearly demonstrated his worth on this march south, proving that he could harry men into obedience as well as Gautier, and fight with as much courage as Borneheld himself. Now he rode his horse slightly to the left and behind Borneheld, sitting tall and proud in the saddle, the occasional flare of his visionary eyes keeping Borneheld’s own hopes alive.

Artor had graced Timozel with visions, and that meant Artor would eventually grace Borneheld’s cause with victory as well.

Borneheld’s eyes slipped to the horse that followed a few paces behind Timozel’s. His wife, Faraday, clung to the saddle and to Yr, as she had since her horse succumbed to the cold three days ago. Could he trust Faraday? Borneheld frowned under the hood of his cloak. He had thought that she loved him, for had she not whispered words of love and devotion to him night after night, and fled to his arms when Axis had proved incapable of protecting her? But what was it she had murmured to Axis as they said goodbye in the courtyard of Gorkenfort?

Curse her, he swore silently. Her future would be with him, not with Axis. She would provide Ichtar with an heir, not whatever shadowland Axis currently ruled. He would rather see her dead than betray him as Magariz had.

The loss of Gorkenfort and, subsequently, Ichtar had hurt Borneheld to the core of his soul. As a young boy growing up in a loveless household, deserted by his mother, ignored by his father, Borneheld had always had Ichtar. And when his father died and Borneheld became Duke of Ichtar at only fourteen, he finally felt that his life had meaning. Ignored by so many when he was simply the son of Searlas, Borneheld revelled in the power he wielded as the new Duke. Power brought him the attention he craved, the respect he demanded, the command that was his due, and, eventually, the woman that he desired above all others.

Now most of Ichtar was lost to him, and Borneheld felt the loss as keenly as a physical wound. What power would he command as the man who had lost Ichtar? What respect? Even if he could win back Ichtar – and he would – he would still feel vulnerable. He would only feel safe if he commanded ultimate power over all of Achar, if he sat the throne itself. As King, Borneheld would have all the power, the respect and the love he craved. As King, he would surely be able to flush out the traitors about him once and for all. Desperate as he was to get it back, Ichtar was no longer enough for Borneheld.

And didn’t Timozel’s visions indicate that Borneheld would become King? Yes, it was Artor’s wish that he take the throne.

Now, as he approached Jervois Landing, Borneheld reviewed the forces he still commanded. Despite the losses at Gorkentown – all of which had been the fault of either the demon-spawned Axis or that traitor Magariz – he still controlled a powerful force. The original column of five thousand he had led from Gorkenfort had been swelled by the refugees from Ichtar. As sorry as these refugees were now, they could work and some could be trained to fight. There were also troops still stationed in Achar that Borneheld could command. There was still a cohort of five hundred Axe-Wielders guarding the Brother-Leader at the Tower of the Seneschal. All these could be his. And, if those soft chimes meant what he hoped they did, he would also have the Ravensbundmen. Uncouth savages to be sure, but they had both spears and horses. If they could stick an enemy in the gut then they would be useful. Finally, there were the resources of the Corolean Empire to the south of Achar. If that simpering fool of a King, Priam, hadn’t yet thought about arranging a military alliance with the Coroleans then Borneheld would make sure that he soon would.

Suddenly a stationary horseman loomed out of the mist and Borneheld barked an order to halt. He sat for a moment and looked at the inscrutable Ravensbundman’s face. It was even more intricately tattooed in blue and black than most of his race. Dizzying whorls and spirals covered not only his cheeks, but his forehead and chin as well – although, strangely, there was a circular area right in the centre of his forehead that remained naked and untattooed. As with all his race, the savage had tiny chips of blue glass and miniature bells threaded through his myriad greasy black braids. Even his mount – ugly, stunted, yellow-furred nag that it was – had glass and bells woven into its mane and tail. Uncivilised savages. Still, if they could kill they might yet serve a purpose.